Chapter Text
Ilya learnt very early to control his headspace. Being a Little in Russia is not well seen. Being his father’s son and Little was a nightmare.
The two years between being Classified and being drafted were some of the longest on his life.
He took suppressants, of course. And drank and smoke. And had sex.
And then he was in US. He was draft. He had Sveta.
Svetlana was a Neutral, but love him enough to lend a hand.
He managed.
Until Shane come bursting into his life. Or him into Shane’s life.
First, it was just a mindless hook up, something dangerous and forbidden and great.
But then came the feelings. And he swallow them with his headspace and a shot of vodka.
And one day, Shane noticed. Of course he did. Because Shane Hollander has the biggest game IQ in NHL and he’s pretty smart out of the rink.
He was terrified. Being seen meant being rejected.
But Shane didn’t rejected him. He sighed in relief. He held him and rocked him and got him toys and his blankie and his Loonie. He got him cars and blocks and a car seat and a crib.
Suddenly he had a room in Shane’s house and another in his own house and the cottage was child proofed.
First they were a secret and then they were out and Shane accepted him.
No, he didn’t accept him, he loved Ilya. Big and small and tiny and in between.
He made rules and routines and schedules. And every time he suddenly dropped, he took it in stride.
He was patient and loving and respectful and so, so kind.
He was also strict. He forbidden any sort of suppressants, he banned cigarettes and he controlled alcohol.
He was attentive and super tuned with his needs.
Especially when he wasn’t…
“Ilya… Are you ok?”
That was like the tenth time Shane asked something along that line.
“Da…”
“Love, you’re… restless… What’s going on?”
That’s the problem. Ilya doesn’t know. He was restless, fidgeting non-stop.
They had practice and Ilya messed up. Big time. He was slow, sloppy and utterly bad. He could hear his father’s voice insulting him, calling him a useless baby.
No one told him anything, of course. Shane made sure of it.
But he was mad and disappointed and angry.
He felt a weird energy coursing inside him.
He was fuzzy at the edges, but not soft enough to drop. Not clear enough to stay big.
He sit down next to his husband, bouncing his leg.
“Ilya, mon chou…” Shane winced when he growled at the tender name. “Sorry… Ok, not Little, I get it.”
He gives a sharp nod and chews on his cross.
“But maybe you need to drop?” He gently pulls his hand and his cross away from his mouth.
“No… Not… feeling it.”
And that’s the truth. Since they are together, since he begin consistently dropping he has a good hold on his headspaces.
He prides himself on that.
Usually, Littles with younger headspaces have trouble with blurring the lines. He saw Troy sucking his thumb on the locker room or being carried out of rink more than once, while being Big. He knows that Luca finished games with wet pants or played with some sort of “protection” between his tights several times.
He prides himself of his control while Big. No hit on the ice ever sent him to tears. No Play off game made him think about getting a soska on the locker room. No overtime made him hide wet pants.
Today he feels weird and jittery and restless and out of tune with his body.
Shane knows that this was just a matter of time.
Every little experiences a “stuck in between” moment on his life. Ilya is not an exception.
“Mon amour. How about we get ready for bed and cuddle for a bit?”
Ok, that’s acceptable.
Shane hands him a set of pyjamas (just some soft sweatpants and a t-shirt, not jammies, thank you very much) and his hand hoovers for a second on the first drawer of their dresser. The one that holds his supplies.
“Want some protection?” He’s casual, non-chalant, like asking your husband if he wants a diaper is the most normal thing in the world.
“Not baby” He snarls, his voice harsh and cold. Harsher and colder then he ever talks to him.
“Ok, mon amour. That’s ok. Dropping is also ok, yes?” He looks away, busing himself with the sweatpants. “But if you’re ok for now, I can handle your headspace later.”
“No headspace, I’m big!”
“Sure thing, love.” Shane just shrugs it off and gets ready for bed.
Everything seems more settled now. They are watching a movie in bed, just a light romcom, nothing too big or too little. In between.
Shane brought drinks and popcorn to bed, a rare treat. He brought the new cups, with straws. They are both for him, but Shane pretends to like drinking from them. It’s a compromise, he says. They can drink in bed without spilling, it’s nice.
He chews on the straw absent-minded. Shane chooses not to comment.
They are about half way through the movie, when he feels the drink hitting his bladder. A gentle nagging in his lower abdomen, nothing to worry about.
He played games with full bladders all the time. Shane is constantly chiding him about it, every time he rushes through the locker room and releases a desperate torrent on the nearest urinal, his husband leans on the door frame and tells him about infections and weakened sphincters and he knows that he’s biologically more prone to that, he knows that he’s a younger Little, he knows that he needs diapers and pull-ups when in headspace.
But he can’t stop doing it. Pushing his limits while Big, because on the back of his mind he can hear his father calling him weak and baby and pissy pants.
So he ignores his bladder during games and on buses and on planes and on parties and during movies.
Even if he ended up with a small (or not so small) wet spot in his boxers. Even if his husband had notice it and chooses not to mentioned it. Even if his bladder feels tender after it. That’s his last line of control and he intends to keep it.
It’s almost the end of the movie and he can’t pretend much longer. He has an iron grip on his sphincter, but his hand is resting on his tight, aching to hold his crotch, legs crossing and uncrossing under the covers.
Shane looks at him with a raised eyebrow and braces himself. This is looking like a recipe for disaster, but he’ll be there to clean up the mess (literal and metaphorical) and take care of his husband no matter what.
Ilya tries to wait to the end of the movie, he really tries. But when a drop escapes him, he worries. When a small leak hits his boxers, he bolts from the bed.
He almost gets to the bathroom. Almost.
The dam breaks just as he gets to the suite’s door. Urine pours down his legs in a endless stream. His sweatpants are soaked and glistening. A puddle forms around his feet. The hissing seems too loud in the quiet room.
And he feels stuck to the floor. Lost and humiliated and wet and uncomfortable. And horribly still in between.
A sob escapes him, soft and barely there and then Shane is hugging him to his chest.
“Oh, mon chou, that’s ok. Just a little accident, no problem at all.”
Ilya thinks about lying. Pretending that he is Little. That he dropped suddenly and couldn’t hold his pee. But this is Shane. This is his sweet, loving husband that always asks him to be honest. That have seen him emotional and depressed and angry and Little and Big and sick and hurt and accepted and loved him in every shape or form.
So he chokes out. “Not Little.” And holds on to him.
“I know, love. I know. But you are mon chou and mon amour and mon Loulou in every headspace.” He kisses his hair softly. “And having accidents is ok in every headspace, yes?”
“No…” He whines. “I’m Big! Adults don’t piss their pants.”
“Sweetheart, you are a professional athlete.” Shane chuckles. “You know very well that we all ended up games with very damp jock straps at least a few times.”
“Not me…”
“Not ever? Not even in double overtimes?” He shakes his head. “God, baby. Or you have an iron bladder or you don’t drink enough. Once, I leaked so badly that I was drenched. Like everything: boxers, jockstrap, compression leggings, even my socks… And I still released a river when I got to the urinal.”
“Yeah, when you are five!”
“Five?? Love, I was playing for Metros.” He laughs. “I had to research how to clean all that shit and I blow dried the pads…”
“Oh…”
Shane cradles him closer and rocks a bit. “Yes, oh. It happens ok? And I bet that you are in between headspaces, right?” A small nod. “Your body is all over the place. Your hormones are in overdrive. So, it’s ok. We’ll clean up, change and get back in bed. No big deal.”
“No big deal?” He whispers back.
“No big deal, mon chou. Come on. I’ll turn on the shower.”
He pulls him inside, stepping around the puddle.
“Shane…” Gentle and soft. Always.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Bath?”
“Do you want a bath?”
“Da, please?” The way he lisps softly on the l doesn’t escape Shane. He files it for later.
“Of course, love. Want some toys?”
He shakes his head. Shane drops bubbles in the water without asking.
He helps Ilya undress, gentle hands and soft praises and holds his arm until he’s sitting securely under the bubbles.
“I’ll be back in a second, ok?” A small nod.
Shane is as quick as possible. He takes the wet pants to the laundry, mops the floor and gets clean clothes.
Five minutes and he’s kneeling on the bathroom floor. “Ready to come out, love?”
Ilya shrugs. He notices that the wash cloth is still sitting on the shelf. Dry.
“Need some help, mon amour?”
“Please…”
Shane just picks the wash cloth and starts washing him. “Love, can you tell me how old you are?” Gentle, careful, respectful.
“Big…” Not a whine, not a petulant pout. Just honesty. “Stucky…”
“Stucky…” Shane smiles at the wording. “Between headspaces?”
“Da…”
“Do you want help dropping?”
“Need to?”
“Need what, love? Help? Or to drop?”
“Drop…”
“Sweetheart, dropping is always your choice, as long you are safe and healthy.” Shane takes his time washing him, knowing that chaffing is horrible and they have games this week. “I’m never forcing you, but if you need help, I’ll help.”
“I don’t know…”
“That’s ok. What do you know?”
“Hate this…”
“I know, love. But being in between is ok, too.” He holds a towel for him. “How about what do you want?”
“Want?”
“Yes, what do you want to do?”
“Cuddle?”
“We can cuddle. We can always cuddle.” Shane wraps him in the big towel and starts drying him. “But let’s start here, ok? Can I give you some choices and you tell me what you want? And there is no wrong choices, ok?”
“Ok…”
“Do you want protection or not?”
He blushes a furious shade of pink and Shane kisses all over his warm cheeks. “No wrong choices, just tell me…”
“Just in case?”
“Of course.” He’s kneeling and pulling a pull-up up his legs before he has time to overthink. “Ok, now Pjs…”
He’s in clean sweatpants and t-shirt and being pulled to their bed in seconds.
“Blankie and Loonie?” Shane asks.
“Can I?”
“They are yours, baby. You can have them whenever you want” They are all ready between their pillows.
He nods and cuddles his toys.
Shane is turning of the bathroom light off and turning the nightlight on when he talks again.
“Shane…”
“Yes, mon chou…”
“Sippy?”
Shane doesn’t look surprised. Or worried. Or anything. He just smiles, big and warm and up to his eyes. “Milk?”
Ilya nods.
Ten minutes later they are cuddling in bed. Loonie is squished on his elbow. He’s rubbing his blankie on his nose. Milk hits his tongue. Warm and sweet and vanilla-y.
He’s all tucked in, head on Shane’s chest. He’s rubbing up and down his back, from his neck to the small of his back, right above his pull-up. He kisses his curls now and then.
Ilya feels warm and comfortable and protected. He doesn’t know how old he feels. He’s still stuck. He knows that he’ll probably wake up Little. He’ll probably wake up in a wet pull-up, whining for a change. And Papa will be there.
Or maybe he’ll wake Big. Maybe he’ll be wet and embarrassed. And Shane will be there.
He drifts of to sleep not knowing how he feels about this day. But knowing that, in his head, Shane’s voice is louder than his father’s.
He might have been an embarrassment. But now he is Shane’s chou and Shane’s Loulou and Shane’s bèbè. Every day. Everywhere. In every headspace.
And that’s all he wants to be.