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Ilya flopped dejectedly on his bed. His room was bare, and he was surrounded by suitcases. He’d hired a company to pack up the rest of the house, but he had gathered the basics for what he’d need for the first few weeks in Ottawa and a couple weeks at the cottage. A lot of clothes, both professional and casual, for all the interaction he’d have with the owners and other administration for his new team, and a handful of other things he didn’t want the movers handling. God, he was so fucking tired.
Yuna had tried to convince him to stay with them until he found a place he liked, but he hadn’t wanted to impose and Shane hadn’t wanted to risk it. So they compromised and he promised to come to dinner often and stay over a few nights. Shane and his parents wouldn’t be able to come to any of the viewings with him, but they wanted to hear everything about the places he had seen, so he knew there would be debriefs. Shane had made him a list of questions to ask and had only stopped short of a spreadsheet when Ilya reminded him he had bought property before and Shane had approved of it. Liked it, even.
He’d miss his Boston house. The first place that was his. The first place that he had made his own. There was no cruelty in this home. No ghosts around corners. No pieces of him excised and left behind. A lot of sadness, yes, and cold empty nights. And nights he tried to fill with distractions. But none of the scraped raw wounds of his childhood.
And the next place he moved would be his, all over again. A new home. A new country. The last big move, he hoped. The country he hoped to live forever in with the love of his life. And even if they couldn’t call it theirs yet, he wanted his new home to be for them. For their family. Something they could build together. And he knew there would be lonely nights. Many of them. But the space would still be theirs. The pillow next to him would still be Shane’s. His spare lip balm would still be in the other bedside table. His favorite protein powder would sit next to Ilya’s. Proof that he was real. Proof that they were real, together. Even if no one else would recognize it.
And fuck, Ilya had been so overwhelmed by the move and the trade and all the immigration paperwork that he hadn’t let himself think about the cottage. About going back. About peace. About weeks of blissful calm in a place Shane called theirs. In a place that Yuna and David expected to find him. Seeing Shane there for the first time last summer had been a revelation. Had been a precious gift. He was so used to seeing Shane on edge or intensely focused, with joy that only surfaced as a surprise. But at the cottage? There was a calmness, a gentleness, a playfulness that Shane had that Ilya felt blessed to see. The truest parts of the man he loved. And he was welcome there. Wanted there. Part of Shane’s plans. Part of the summer.
The thing was, Ilya didn’t have a place like that at all. His mother’s family had a dacha, but he had only gone as a very young child, and never again after she passed. His father’s home in Moscow was not a place of happy memories, even if it was the only place he had ever shared with his mama. Maybe a few happy memories with Alexei, if he let himself think of that (he didn’t, if he could help it). The nightclubs, the rooftops, the parties with Sveta and Sasha, yes he thought fondly of them. Although he had been so sad and so empty for so long there were still things he cherished. Drunken laughter with Marley after a night out. Gleeful pranks with Connors on endless roadies. Boston welcomed him, embraced him, wormed its way into his heart and his bones, became a part of him. But still, it wasn’t home. It was a house too big for him alone. It was dreams fulfilled but still a void, even after all that. It was warmth, but not safety. Not stability. Not—
No, none of those things were home. None of them were stealing Shane’s worn shirts, the warm smell of his skin as he held Ilya close in their bed, the pleased hum he’d let out when Ilya wrapped his arms around him while he flipped burgers or portioned out protein powder for a smoothie. None of them were the sight of his shampoo in Shane’s shower, their socks mingled in the laundry, his schedule on the calendar on Shane’s fridge. On Yuna’s phone.
Ilya almost couldn’t believe it, that he’d get to have summers like that first one again and again. He’d heard Shane talk about his parent’s cottage when he was a child. How it felt safer and easier than Ottawa. How it felt free. Even after that first brutal season in Montreal, where a whole city was looking at him to fix decades worth of problems, even then he’d found some peace. How he’d lay on the sun-warmed weathered wood of the old dock and read the same battered hockey books he’d been reading since he was a tween. How he and his mom would sip lemonade while his dad fried fish. How they’d gather inside by the fire on stormy days, the far shore obscured by a downpour, and trade articles from magazines that had accumulated over years. How they always made time for a week or two out there, even when hockey was as serious as it could get for a minor. Shane hadn’t had to say it but Ilya could see. That place was in his bones and it was safety. And it was home. And now Ilya was welcome there, too. His ugly ass water shoes by the back door, his comfiest jeans with the rip at the back that Shane wouldn’t let him wear anywhere else in the dresser. His favorite collection of Gogol short stories next to Shane’s boring strategy books. His tea in the cupboard.
First, he’d find a house. He’d have dinner with the Hollanders, he’d meet Boodram and the members of the team that stayed in Ottawa for the summer. He’d sign reams of paperwork and meet with Farah so many times they would both want to scream. He’d text Shane. FaceTime him. Miss him. He had a busy first month of the summer, booked solid with appearances and shoots and meetings with his team, and at the very end, early meetings for their Foundation. But then he’d get to watch Shane bustle around Ilya’s new place, making lists of what he should buy and fix and adjust. And he’d check over what Ilya packed for the cottage and he’d insist upon leaving at an ungodly hour to drive the few hours on a two lane highway lined with beautiful forest and then they’d be home. They’d be together. And then, for a little while, things would be quiet. The air would be cool and fresh and smell of the trees and the lake in a way that Ilya had never experienced anywhere else. The sky would be bright and clear at night and the fucking loons would still scare the shit out of him. They’d have time. Not much, no. But enough. Enough to tide them over. And then everything would be new. New team, new house, new routine. Newly two hours apart.
But until then—
Ilya’s front door opened and keys clattered and shoes thunked and Sveta called out—“Ilyusha! I picked up lunch! It’s your last day here and you will eat with me!”
Ilya hauled himself off the bed and replied, “Coming, Sveta. Christ, warn a man. What if I had plans?”
She made a condescending scoff as bags rustled. “You? Plans? In Boston, without me? Unlikely.”
He rounded the corner into the kitchen and saw her setting out styrofoam containers, cokes already at their seats. “Lobster rolls and chowder to tide you over. God knows what the food is like in Ottawa.”
He grinned and kissed her cheeks, earnest for once, “Thank you.”
She nodded, looking at him intently. He knew he looked tired. Still too skinny from playoffs. Probably in need of a shower, if he was honest. “You’re ready to go,” she said sharply.
He looked up, ready to lie, but she continued, “It’s time.”
“Yeah, I am.”
“And does your Shane know?”
“Know what?”
“How ready you are? How much this has cost you?”
Ilya couldn’t meet her eyes. He knew Shane knew it was big. One of the most unprecedented trades to ever occur. He knew Shane knew what it cost his career. But no, he didn’t think Shane knew what else it had cost. Shane had never had to leave anything behind. He had spent half his time in Montreal before the draft already. Montreal was inevitable, almost, for him, and certainly welcome. He had traveled a lot, sure, but he’d never lived more than a few hours from where he was born. From his parents. He’d never left everything behind. He’d never packed it all up and just. Just gone. So no, Shane didn’t have a clue. But Ilya couldn’t say that.
Sveta knew anyway. She exhaled sharply, “He better fucking figure it out. He better realize how lucky he is to have you.”
Ilya sighed. He had been thinking about the possibility of a trade for a long time and they had spent several evenings discussing it, vodka in hand, even before he went to the cottage. She knew it was the right choice for so many reasons, even without Shane as part of the picture. “Svet—”
“No. I know. I am not here to get sentimental. I will be just fine here without you and you know it. But if you try and leave me behind the same way you’re leaving these rolls. The cannoli. The cider donuts. You are more stupid than you look. I will visit you for your home opener. You will have guest room ready by then, yes?”
Ilya knew better than to force emotions when Sveta was not in the mood. He wasn’t in the mood for them himself, so he lightened the tone. “Of course, big bed, blackout curtains, the good vodka. Everything for you, Svetik.”
“Good,” she said curtly, not thinking of their standing Thursday night takeout and TV night. Her pajamas and silk bonnet in the guest room, her favorite licorice in the cupboard. They had watched so much shit. Gilmore Girls and Antiques Road Show and Buffy. She would make new plans. Ilya would keep busy. They would be fine.
Maybe Ilya didn’t know better, actually. He’d demonstrated a beautiful capacity for stupidity in the last decade. “I’m sorry. I hate to leave you.” He sounded sad, tired.
“You are ready to leave,” she insisted, shaking her head.
“I am. But I don’t like leaving you.”
“Ilyusha, there is nowhere in this world that I will not be without my phone. And you with yours. I may not be down the street anymore. We may not be able to make unwise decisions at the club on a weekly basis anymore, but I will always be here. And you better fucking call me. And you better fucking pick up when I call you.”
Ilya didn’t smile, but his eyes brightened a bit. “Yes,” he said, seriously, and took a bite of his roll so big that he couldn’t be expected to speak for a while. “Yes.”
Ilya stood by the front door surrounded by his bags and dressed for the airport. His phone was clutched in his hand as he watched the car he had called come closer and closer on the little map. He looked around at the dark, empty house. It was so silent and so echoey at the same time. The fridge was unplugged, doors propped open, waiting for a time when someone new would arrive. Art was propped against the walls, ready to be moved or sold. It didn’t feel like his anymore. It was just a place. He was ready, he was packed. It was time. This city would never be the same for him again. He didn’t want to leave, but if he had to stay here another moment he’d claw his own skin off. It was time. The sound of the car pulling up spurred him into motion. He hefted his backpack, looked around one final time, and walked out the door.
Getting back to the cottage had been a fucking ordeal. Shane never wanted to film another goddamn commercial again. If one more artistic director suggested he be shot in a white shirt that some anxious intern then had to dampen with a spray bottle he was going to fucking scream. But that part of the summer was over and he had flown back to Ottawa and picked Ilya up and driven out to the cottage and—
“Shaaaaneeee let’s go swimming,” called Ilya from the bedroom. He was dropping off their bags upstairs while Shane unpacked the groceries.
“You go, I was going to start dinner.”
“Nooo.” Ilya clattered down the stairs, already having lost his shirt and found a stack of towels. “I will cook for you later. Swim first.”
“Ilya—“ Shane started, exasperated, as his boyfriend herded him towards the sliding doors, “It will be cold and I haven’t put on waterproof sunscreen and—"
“Is not for long,” Ilya insisted, nudging Shane outside, “just—what did Yuna call it? A dip?”
“Yes,” Shane sighed, “A dip. Fine. Fine. A quick dip. But let me get my trunks.”
Ilya had already shimmied out of his sweats and gave Shane an appraising look. “No need.”
Finally Shane smiled, unable to help it. He loved how much Ilya loved it here. How he was buzzing with an energy that Shane hadn’t seen in a while. Fuck it. Skinny dipping it was. “Race you,” he said, already running towards the dock.
“Hey!” Ilya called in protest, right on his heels.
The water was fucking freezing and neither of them gave a damn.