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Ilya finds Shane deep in the hallway closet. He’s half-buried beneath a swath of winter coats, with only his socked feet and sweatpant-clad calves visible.
“You know,” Ilya drawls gleefully. “There’s a very easy joke to be made here. You are practically begging me to make this joke, and I think I deserve a reward for not making it.”
“And if you hadn’t acknowledged the joke at all, maybe I would have,” Shane replies, voice flat and muffled. He shuffles backwards before standing, having emerged from the closet with a small, plastic storage box. His cheeks are slightly rosy, his hair mussed and rumpled. If they weren’t currently at Yuna and David’s with the two of them only a room away, Ilya would’ve already pounced on him. Instead Ilya just reaches up and straightens Shane’s hair— still just as obsessed with the longer length as he was when Shane first started growing it out.
Shane smiles, one that’s small but devastatingly fond. Ilya smiles in turn, then glances back down at the box his husband just procured. Before he can question what it is, Shane asks him, “Aren’t you supposed to be helping Dad with the tortellini?”
“We’ve finished already, because I am an expert tortellini maker,” Ilya lies, grin widening. In actuality, the majority of his were overstuffed and slightly misshapen, but David simply smiled at him in a genuinely pleased and encouraging way— just another smile that Ilya savors to an embarrassing degree. It was a smile that certainly made him feel like an expert chef. “Dinner should be ready soon. Now, why are you sneaking around in closets when we famously haven’t done so for over a year?”
Shane rolls his eyes. “I’m not sneaking,” he says in a tone that implies he most certainly was sneaking. “I was just… looking for something.”
Ilya really had been joking, but now he sees the undercurrent of anxiety that’s starting to fester within his husband. “You were looking for something?” Ilya gently prods. Shane huffs and gestures towards the box, now tucked snugly underneath his arm.
“I was, and I found it. You said dinner was almost ready? Does Dad need help with anything else?”
“Shane. Is there a reason you’re hiding this box from me?” Ilya asks, bluntly but not unkind. It’s often the best method for communicating with Shane, he’s come to learn. He knows that Shane is entitled to his privacy, but it’s not like Shane to be visibly nervous over a physical object— one that isn’t a sex toy at least, and Shane hasn’t been shameful about such things in years. Whatever it is, Ilya just wants Shane to know he doesn’t have to hide.
Shane meets his eyes, and sighs. He opens the box and reveals a stack of slim DVD cases. “They’re old home movies. Harris wants to make a sort of then and now video, now that he has highlights of me actually playing in a Centaurs jersey. So, I told him I’d get him some old footage from my Peewee games.”
“Peewee games? You have them? On tape?” Ilya asks, his own smile returning. Shane huffs.
“Yes. We converted them to DVDs a few years ago. Which is why I didn’t want to tell you, because— ”
“Of course I want to watch them!” Ilya exclaims, both delighted at the prospect of seeing such tapes and relieved that Shane’s anxiety isn’t stemming from anything serious. No, this is merely rooted in childhood embarrassment, one that Ilya cannot even begin to comprehend— Ilya doesn’t think there’s a world in which Shane on the ice could be considered anything close to embarrassing.
While Shane may be acting completely ridiculous, it doesn’t change the fact that Ilya delights in embarrassing his husband— something Ilya’s husband was well aware of far before they said their vows.
“Ilya, you don’t actually want to watch these, I promise. They’re just boring old kiddy games.”
Ilya blinks. “Shane. Are you trying to tell me that I will not like something because it is ‘boring’? I think we have plenty of evidence that this is simply not true, no?”
Shane fixes him with his most withering glare. “Well, if I’m calling something boring, imagine how boring it actually is.”
“I know you are trying to trick me, Hollander,” Ilya states, raising a single brow. “But you will not deny me my right as your husband to see baby Shane in his tiny little skates.”
Shane’s eyes just narrow further. “Aren’t we supposed to be watching the new Survivor episode with my parents after dinner?”
“Fuck Survivor,” Ilya spits. Shane gapes in genuine shock at his words.
Ilya rolls his eyes. “Okay, no, I did not mean that. You see what you are doing to me, Shane?”
Shane doesn’t respond to that, he merely just returns to his scowling.
Ilya knows this is a type of standoff he isn’t going to win. Instead, he steps forward and gathers his husband in a loose embrace, leaning in close enough that their eyes are mere centimeters apart. Ilya exaggerates his pout as much as he possibly can, eyebrows creasing as he juts out his bottom lip. Already seeing signs of fissure, Ilya shamelessly swallows his pride and delivers a guaranteed devastating blow.
“Please, sweetheart?” he murmurs. “Please, can we watch baby Shane in his tiny skates?”
Shane flushes bright-red, and lasts all of five seconds before he rolls his eyes, shoving at Ilya. “Fine, we can watch them after dinner. Just— stop fucking looking at me like that. And do not use that voice in my parents’ house ever again!”
Immediately Ilya drops his pout, feeling himself grin wildly as he leans back in and presses an obnoxious kiss to Shane’s cheek. “Thank you, ”
--------
About an hour later, with Ilya’s stomach now pleasantly full of tortellini and cheesecake, he curls up with his husband on the loveseat as David pops in the first DVD, before joining his wife on the couch. Anya is asleep on her bed by the fireplace, blissfully content after being spoiled silly with treats by her grandparents.
Ilya bites back a laugh as he watches Shane track his father’s movements, before fixing both his parents with a look of absolute betrayal. His last line of defense, which had been an utterly fool’s hope to begin with. As if Shane’s lovely parents wouldn’t want to watch old videos of their son that they themselves filmed.
David fiddles with the remote for a moment before navigating the menu and clicking play. Immediately the TV is filled with shaky footage of an ice rink, echoey chatter emitting from the speakers.
“Is it working? They’re about to drop the puck!” he hears over the crowd, the voice obviously belonging to Yuna.
“I think so,” says a David from over twenty years ago, judging by the date stamped in the corner of the film. He rapidly zooms in, camera still obviously shaky but smoothing out enough that Ilya can make out the figures gathered at center ice. Ilya isn’t the best at determining the age of children just by looking at them, but from what Yuna said earlier, this is an old Mites game and all the kids on the ice should be around eight years old.
The camera then swings rapidly, before finally focusing on the two players taking the face-off. Despite the grainy quality of the footage, as well as the helmet cage obscuring his face, Ilya immediately recognizes which one is Shane. It’s the way he carries himself on the ice, the posture that he holds— it was as natural to him then as it is now, and it’s something Ilya has spent more than a decade becoming deeply familiar with.
Ilya watches as the puck is dropped, watches as Shane easily wins it, watches as he goes flying down the ice with David struggling to keep him steadily in frame. There’s just nothing like watching Shane play, and Ilya quickly realizes that remains true even for this tiny version of his husband. It’s obvious how outclassed the other kids are, how easily Shane maneuvers around the opposing defenders.
What’s more, is that Ilya quickly picks up on how Shane is holding back. Not against the other team, Ilya knows him far better than that, but holding back with his own team, forcing himself to play at their level. He’s sure it was frustrating for him at the time, just as it was frustrating for Ilya— he knows how it feels to land precise, stick-to-tape passes to his teammates and not have it returned in kind. But Shane, of course, doesn’t let that frustration rule him. It’s what makes him such a great player. Instead of trying in vain to become a one-man-army on the ice, he plays to the strengths of his team. He reads the rink, and he adapts.
Ilya quickly sees the similarities in play between his past and present husband— it’s like seeing a proof of concept, one that’s been tried and perfected through years of dedication and determination.
Ilya can’t help but smile to himself, absurdly proud of Shane while also feeling absurdly grateful that Ilya himself is the only player who can truly keep up with Shane on the ice, that they can keep up with each other.
Less than two minutes in and Shane has already scored his first goal. Ilya can’t see the expressions on any of the children, but he can easily envision the wide-eyes and gaped maws they must be wearing, can practically hear their groans of frustration as they begin to realize who, exactly, they’re dealing with.
Ilya looks over to Shane with a wide grin, only to see Shane frowning at the TV, biting at his lip. This is another expression that Ilya is intimately familiar with, though usually it’s aimed at an iPad. Ilya huffs out a laugh.
“Shane. Please tell me you are not critiquing your playmaking from twenty years ago.”
Shane flushes, glancing over at Ilya before rolling his eyes, knocking at Ilya’s shoulder with his own.
“Why do you think he was so excited when we got a camcorder?” David chuckles, and Shane groans.
“I’m not critiquing, I’m just… if you’re going to make me watch these, I’m going to notice what I could’ve done differently.”
“Of course you know now that you could’ve done things differently. That is not the point of watching this. The point is to coo over how cute you looked while destroying all those poor, poor children who never stood a chance.”
Shane snorts, shaking his head, but Ilya still catches that preening little smile curling across his lips.
--------
Most of the DVDs are of various games, which Ilya is delighted by, but he’s surprised to find himself even more delighted by the few he finds that aren’t. He pulls one out labeled York - 2000 and holds it up towards Yuna and away from Shane. “What’s this one?”
“Oh!” Yuna says brightly. “I’d completely forgotten we’d brought the camera on that trip.”
“What trip?” Shane asks warily, eyeing his mother as she snatches the DVD from Ilya’s hand and moves to swap the disks out of the player.
“Do you remember when we went to Maine with David’s cousins and their kids?” Yuna asks. Ilya looks over and watches as Shane’s eyes widen.
“Most of them live out near Vancouver now, so we rarely see them anymore,” David explains while Shane shakes his head.
“Maybe we shouldn’t watch— ”
“Nonsense,” Yuna says as she hits play. Shane sags further into Ilya, begrudgingly accepting his fate.
Stark-blue water fills the screen, accompanied by the sound of crashing waves and laughing children. The camera zooms out before it pans over, revealing various families milling about a beach, laid out on towels or playing in the water. The camera zooms out further to reveal a very grumpy nine-year-old Shane sitting on his own towel in the shade of a large umbrella. He’s the perfect picture of petulance— arms crossed, face adorably scrunched up, eyes glaring at the picturesque ocean in front of him.
Shane smacks his thigh, before making the exact same expression his younger self is currently making on the TV. Ilya’s grin widens with pure glee.
“This is why I didn’t want to watch this one,” Shane mutters. “I remember how upset I was the whole time.”
Before Ilya can ask why, exactly, Shane was so upset about being on a beautiful beach, especially when he loves the lake at the cottage so much, Yuna fills him in. “I remember now— he was very unhappy that we didn’t let him bring his hockey stick on the trip.”
“We were there for a week, was probably the longest he’d gone without touching a hockey stick since he could properly hold one,” David says with fond amusement. “He was especially upset since he’d just made the travel team.”
“I almost caved and let him bring it,” Yuna huffs, shaking her head with a smile. “I probably would’ve too, if it wasn’t so expensive to check an additional bag.”
Beside him, Shane continues to stew both out of embarrassment and, what Ilya now suspects, is longing over the precious few days of stick-handling practice he missed out on twenty years ago.
Ilya looks back to the TV and sees another shot of the ocean, the camera zooming in on a lighthouse in the distance. From behind the camera, David prattles on a bit about how lucky they’ve gotten with the weather during the trip. He zooms the camera back out, panning again to Shane who’s still glowering over the horizon.
Ilya hears David ask him if he wants to go play in the ocean with the other kids. Shane says no. He asks if he wants to go build sand castles, and again David is met with a shake of the head. David asks him if he wants his book, and after a moment of hesitation, Shane gives a small nod. The camera shakes a bit, David likely digging through a bag, before handing to Shane what appears to be…
An age-appropriate book about hockey strategy.
Ilya can’t help it. He throws his head back in a mad fit of giggles. “Oh my god, Hollander,” he manages to snort out. His husband is so horribly predictable and Ilya is so horribly in love with him.
“Alright, enough, we’re not watching this anymore,” Shane snaps, moving to get up from the couch and presumably steal the remote from Yuna, or just rip the cord out of the television completely. Before he can, Ilya wraps his arms around Shane’s waist, hauling him back into his seat and snuggling into him.
“Ah, no, absolutely not, you promised me baby Shane!” Ilya whines. Shane crosses his arms and huffs, but makes no move to shove away the arm Ilya has wrapped firmly around his back.
“I promised we’d watch some old games, not watch me be a brat on the beach!”
“You weren’t being a brat,” Yuna chides, before tilting her head in consideration. “ …You were a bit upset, sure, but I still remember us having fun on that trip.”
As if to prove her point, the video cuts to a completely new scene, this time of Shane on a quiet street, one lined with sandy, seashell driveways and squat, wood-shingled houses. His hand is outstretched, the look on his face openly hopeful and curious. The hope only rises when a tabby cat slowly walks into frame, taking a hesitant sniff at Shane’s hand. A beat passes before the cat makes their judgement, butting their head into Shane’s hand. His expression breaks out into a wide, toothy smile as he begins to pet the tabby with gentle, reverent care. Ilya’s heart positively melts at the display.
Yuna coos over the footage herself before fast-forwarding through more lighthouse footage, stopping when Shane again appears onscreen. He’s beaming at the camera now, holding a cone of soft-serve vanilla ice cream that’s covered in rainbow sprinkles.
The sight is, of course, completely adorable. However, seeing this version of Shane who excitedly eats a treat without a single worry… it makes Ilya ache. He knows it’s been better for Shane lately, what with him having started his own therapy during his first year with the Centaurs, and Ilya is so utterly proud of him. He knows what a struggle it’s been, but he’s so glad that Shane’s been able to gain back some of that childlike joy when it comes to his food, where he’s not obsessing over every single macro. He’s found a balance now, fueling his body appropriately for their sport while still allowing himself some treats, such as the cheesecake they both shared earlier.
Ilya doesn’t comment, but something must still give him away— he feels a gentle hand on his face guiding him to meet Shane’s knowing eyes, before he’s pulled into a chaste kiss. Ilya can’t help but smile into it.
--------
“Oh, we have to watch this one, this is perfect,” Yuna says from where she’s thumbing through the DVD cases. She pulls one out of the stack and hands it over to Ilya. Christmas - 1996 is all it says.
Shane frowns, but otherwise doesn’t object. “I don’t remember this one, not anything specific.”
“You’ll see,” Yuna replies, a teasing glint in her eyes. Ilya gets up from the couch to swap out the DVDs, and when he returns to his seat he sees how Shane’s frown has turned to something more of a grimace. Ilya ruffles his hair.
Shane’s nose scrunches further, but he leans into the touch. Ilya settles further into the couch, pleased.
Once Yuna hits play, the TV is filled with a blurry cacophony of colors. It takes a minute for the shot to focus, revealing a Christmas tree that’s twined with twinkling lights and glittering ornaments. The camera pans over, revealing the presents stacked below along with a five-year-old Shane, sitting patiently beside them.
“Okay, go ahead,” David says from behind the camera. He zooms out to reveal Yuna sitting next to Shane, who grabs a fairly large wrapped box and places it in front of her son
“Open this one first, Shane.”
Shane does— and just as Ilya has always witnessed him do, he doesn’t start tearing haphazardly but rather, he carefully pulls back the tape at each corner, unwrapping it precisely and carefully.
Ilya sees the exact moment that Shane realizes what exactly is in the box. His smile is wide and toothy, eyes shining huge and delighted.
“This is so cool! Thank you Mommy, thank you Daddy!” he exclaims, carefully setting the paper aside before he goes back to fawning over the box.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” Yuna says warmly, moving to ruffle Shane’s hair just as Ilya had done moments ago.
“You’re welcome kiddo! Show the camera what you got!”
Five-year-old Shane does, proudly holding up his box as much as his little arms can. “It’s a hockey net, for the driveway!”
Ilya lies. He can practically feel Shane rolling his eyes at him in response.
Ilya watches as David focuses the camera on Yuna, urging her to open one of her gifts. She does, unwrapping a flat box to reveal a large frame containing multiple professionally matted family photos. The camera quality is too poor to clearly make out each photo, but Ilya has seen this frame before as it’s currently mounted over the Hollander’s fireplace. It’s mostly photos of Shane, Yuna, and David, but it contains a few various extended family members that Shane had pointed out to him, including Yuna’s late parents
On the television, Yuna takes her time examining the frame, smiling fondly the entire time. She then thanks David for her present, her voice quivering just slightly.
The screen blurs as the camera is passed off to Yuna, focusing again on David as he opens one of his gifts, ripping open the packaging to reveal—
“Mom, what the fuck?” Shane blurts out beside him, barking out a laugh. “You got him a calculator for Christmas?”
“It’s what he wanted!” Yuna huffs, gesturing towards the TV. “Look how happy he is!”
The David on camera does seem genuinely pleased, thanking Yuna profusely as he gushes over some of the calculator’s distinctive features.
“It’s a great calculator! I still use it to this day,” David says with a toothy grin, before leaning over and pressing a kiss to his wife’s cheek.
Shane shakes his head, but Ilya looks over to see him smiling just as fondly.
Ilya turns back towards the TV and watches as Shane opens a handful of stocking stuffers— hockey trading cards, stick tape, new socks, a small pile of various candies— before the Yuna onscreen hands him a final box.
“Alright, Shaney, this is the big one!” David says enthusiastically behind the camera.
“Shaney,” Ilya says to himself, slowly and reverently. Shane leans over and groans into his shoulder.
Five-year-old Shane’s eyes light up as he takes the box from his mother, once again meticulously peeling back the wrapping paper. He sets it aside, opens the box, and—
He absolutely shrieks as he pulls out a child-sized Centaurs jersey, the colors the same but the logo is one they haven’t used for over a decade. He holds it up and stares at it with his wide, brown eyes, mouth hanging open in pure wonderment.
“A Fortin jersey?! This is so cool, he’s been so good this year, too, he’s already scored 41 points this season and it’s only December, last year he was only at 28 points at the end of December— ”
The camera shakes with what can only be David’s laughter as his son prattles on, reciting a series of detailed stats about this retired Centaurs player Ilya has never heard of. The Yuna on TV nods along, a smile playing on her lips. She waits patiently for him to finish, waiting until the stream of statistics stops and dissolves into a profuse, “Thank you, thank you Mama! Thank you Daddy! Can I put it on now?”
“Of course you can, Shaney, but first! I think there might be one more thing in there,” Yuna says, nudging said box back towards him.
“Gotta have somewhere to wear that jersey, right?” David says.
Shane freezes, eyes growing impossibly wider as he drops the jersey, fumbling with the box and pulling out an envelope. He opens it slowly, his tiny little hand carefully reaching in and pulling out three tickets.
“Centaurs versus the Voyageurs!” Yuna says, pointing at the tickets. “January 13th! Just a couple weeks away.”
Shane blinks rapidly, looking at Yuna, then the tickets, then back towards Yuna. “We’re going? To the game? We’re really going?”
“Sure are, buddy!” David says. “Your first NHL game!”
Ever so gently, Shane sets the tickets back into the box. He then abruptly bursts into tears and throws himself into his mother’s arms, Yuna laughing as she catches him.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Shane sobs, his words muffled and barely audible. “I can’t wait, I can’t believe we get to go! Thank you, thank you— ”
Ilya reaches up and touches his own cheek, finding them similarly wet.
And—
He watches. Watches as Shane sobs from inconsolable joy, watches as Yuna wraps her tiny little son into her arms and squeezes him tight. Watches while his heart beats a staccato of contradiction within his chest— the elation of seeing this version of Shane who’s so openly happy and so fiercely loved, twined with the despondency of seeing a mother’s love for her tiny little son, a mother who is still within arms reach. A mother whose hugs aren’t lost to the fog of aging memories— the imprint of love is still there, of course, but the exact feel of her arms around him… that’s not something he’s sure he can fully recall.
He doesn’t even remember the last time she hugged him, the last time she bent down and pressed her lips to his forehead as she often loved to do, something Ilya pretended to be embarrassed about but always loved just as much. He thinks it was the morning before she died, before Ilya left for school. But he doesn’t remember.
At the time, it hadn’t seemed particularly significant. It seemed like every other morning.
But as much as it hurts, he can’t look away— he doesn’t want to look away. Doesn’t want to miss a second of the love of his life being so deeply cherished.
“Hey,” his love says beside him, twenty years later and still so deeply cherished. Ilya looks over and meets Shane’s eyes. Feels as Shane takes his hand between his own, squeezing it once. “We can stop watching, if you want.”
Ilya’s hand squeezes back. Part of him wants to tease Shane, say something about not letting Shane win and turn off the video like he’s wanted to from the beginning. But Shane is looking at him so earnestly, and Ilya knows his offer is not one made out of personal pride, but out of concern.
Ilya smiles, shakes his head. “No. No, I want to keep watching,” he says, and means it.
Shane holds his gaze for a beat longer before nodding, lips quirking up just slightly. He lets go of Ilya’s hand in favor of wrapping his arms around Ilya’s bicep, snuggling further into his side.
“Okay. Then we’ll keep watching.”
--------
Ilya gives Anya one final kiss to the top of her perfect little head, leaving her to curl up at the foot of their bed before settling himself into the covers.
He smiles, remembering when his husband first insisted that Anya had to sleep in her own bed— which lasted all of three days before he caved to both Anya’s and his whining.
His husband, who is already in bed himself, reading glasses perched on his nose as he skims over an email on his phone. All these years later and those damned glasses haven’t gotten any less seductive. He wonders if they’ll have to kick Anya out of their bed after all, the poor girl.
Ilya’s hand is sliding its way towards Shane’s thigh when he sets his phone down, turning towards Ilya and asking, “Hey. Are you okay?”
Ilya blinks, retracting his hand. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Shane carefully holds his gaze, his big brown eyes practically shimmering behind his frames. “It’s just… the last tape we watched. It seemed like it maybe, er. Upset you a bit?”
“Why would I be upset?” Ilya says with a smirk. “If anything, you’re the one who’s going to be upset when Harris posts the video of you opening up that jersey.”
“I am not sending him that,” Shane says with a huff. Which Ilya knows, of course— but it doesn’t change the fact that while Shane was getting Anya settled in the car, he’d asked Yuna if he could borrow that Christmas DVD, to which she happily agreed. He’s positive he can come up with some sort of bet his competition-obsessed husband won’t be able to resist, to which Ilya’s prize when he inevitably wins will be allowing Harris to post that adorable clip.
“I’m being serious, Ilya,” Shane says, pulling Ilya from his thoughts. And he is being serious, Ilya notices, evident in his firm posture, the enunciation of his words. Ilya straightens up himself, giving Shane his full, proper attention.
“I think… I think that maybe I was too wrapped up in being embarrassed, that I didn’t think about how you’d feel about them. The home movies”
“Shane… ” Ilya starts, something unpleasant and caged beginning to gnaw from within his chest. Shane shakes his head.
“Listen. I think maybe I forget sometimes how… differently, we grew up? And that I really shouldn’t be embarrassed about things like family vacations and Christmas presents, not when I have so many great memories there. And… look. I’m not trying to tell you how to feel or anything, but if you are feeling upset— or sad, or anything— that’s okay. And we can talk about it. If you want.”
Ilya stares at a loose thread on their duvet, chewing at the inside of his cheek. He’s not sure how long he’s quiet for, before he bites out, “So, what, is your name Galina now?”
Shane doesn’t reply to that. When Ilya glances back, he just finds Shane looking patiently towards him with those goddamned eyes.
(The eyes are windows to a person’s soul one of Marlow’s girlfriends had said once. She was always speaking like she was forever trapped in some tragic poem, and Ilya had internally scoffed at the time… but eventually he came to realize how true that really is, when it comes to his Shane.)
Ilya bristles, fighting against his initial reaction that this is pity. His face heats, the ugly, cloying feeling of it itching at his skin.
But he tells himself to breathe, accepting the feeling but ultimately letting it pass— because he knows Shane, and he knows that’s not what this is.
He thinks back to the videos. Thinks about how patient David was with Shane on the beach, how kind he was. Two things that, for the majority of his life, he didn’t think were possible traits for a father to possess. Ilya thinks about Yuna, how lovingly she had held five-year-old Shane when he was crying in thanks over his present, just as lovingly as she stills holds him— as she still can hold him. Thinks of all the photos of Shane that adorn the Hollanders’ walls, how Shane’s childhood bedroom still exists in their home, almost entirely untouched. How there’s space for him there, carved out and permanent.
Ilya also thinks about deflecting. Thinks about shrugging Shane off, insisting that he’s fine, laying on another stupid joke. A few years ago, he most certainly would’ve done so, desperate to keep that feral, ravenous thing in his chest deep and buried and untouched.
But he knows better now. Knows himself better, knows Shane better. And Shane is being so utterly brave for him right now.
“I think… I think that I am so happy you have had so much love,” Ilya says, the honesty of it bone-deep. “I also think that we have struggled in different ways— ”
“Ilya,” Shane scoffs. “That’s not even comparable to— ”
“Shane. I know how my own childhood was. And it’s a different thing, yes. But I also know it was not easy for you to grow up gay and Asian in hockey. I have seen this with my own eyes.” Autistic as well, he tacks on mentally. But that’s still something they’ve only both recently given name to, something Shane still has a wound-up ball of complex feelings about, and now isn’t the time.
Shane makes something of a sour expression, clearly biting his tongue, but he nods and lets Ilya continue.
“I am so happy that you’ve had this love. I’m happy that you still have it, and I am so thankful that I get to be a part of it.”
The Hollanders walls are adorned with countless photos of Shane, yes, but now there are photos of Ilya hung right beside him. How they’ve invited him over again and again, both with and without Shane, a space made for him not just as Shane’s partner, but as their son.
How they’ve both attended multiple of his NHL games when his father never once bothered. How his mother never once could.
How sometimes he cannot bring himself to hug Yuna goodbye, lest the feeling of a mother’s arms around him drive him completely to tears.
“ …But, yes. It does make me sad. My father… he was how he was, and I foolishly hoped that maybe, eventually, he would change. But he never did, and now he never will. It is hard to be reminded that I will never hold my mama like that again. That I do not have any videos of such things in my childhood— no video of my games, or New Years celebrations. Only a few photos.”
(Three, to be exact, the only three he could find and save before his father apparently destroyed the rest. One of him and his mama on his seventh birthday, pastry crumbs still on his mouth, her eyes bright and warm, crinkled with joy. One of her and him out on a frozen pond, both laced up in skates, her hand in his— he thinks he was about five at the time. The third is a professional portrait of her, striking in all her beauty, taken a year before Ilya was born.
Three photos, and the cross resting atop his sternum. As far as physical objects go, there’s none that he treasures more.)
Ilya reaches over and takes one of Shane’s hands within his own, reverently running his thumbs over his knuckles. “But please, Shane. I do not want you to hide from me, okay? Never hide your happiness from me. I want to share those memories with you, even if I maybe don’t have my own to share. It does not make me mad, just… just sad, sometimes, for… well.”
For that little boy standing atop a frozen lake, holding his mother’s hand. Ilya cannot bear to voice such a thing aloud, face heating in humiliation over simply thinking the words… but the look in Shane’s eye tells him he probably understands regardless.
“It wasn’t all bad,” Ilya continues, as it’s imperative that Shane understand this, too. He thinks of him laughing after stuffing himself silly with birthday pastries. Remembers the love and care in which his mother taught him how to skate, how encouraging she was no matter how many times he fell. “I remember the laughter. I remember her joy. Our joy, me and my mama. And I will always have that with me.
“But, yes. It is hard sometimes, seeing people have what you wish you had. Or what you used to have, and wish you still did. I see these things, and I want to only feel happy, for you, for your family… but it is not the only thing I feel.”
It feels like such an ugly thing to admit, this type of envy that feels gross to even acknowledge. It exposes such a tender wound, one that has since scarred over but has never fully healed. One that he knows never will fully heal.
But when Ilya hesitantly looks up at Shane, he finds nothing resembling disgust. There’s sadness, yes, but mostly there’s just an unfathomable amount of love.
“Thank you for telling me, Ilyushka,” Shane says, his voice heavy and thick. “And you can always tell me, okay? Even if you think it might be upsetting, or you think I might not want to know, I’m telling you that I do want to know. I want to carry it with you too, if I can. The good and the bad.”
And at that—
Ilya finds himself falling into his husband’s arms, burying his wet eyes into the crook of his husband’s neck. He doesn’t sob, he doesn’t shake with it— he merely lets himself be held, lets his tears fall freely.
Because only now that Shane has said it, does he realize how much he needed to hear it. He is afraid to mention these things, worried he’ll somehow taint Shane with this awful sadness that sometimes threatens to break him. That he feels ridiculous to feel so sad over something that also makes him so, so happy.
He doesn’t have any words left within him, not in English nor Russian. He just nods and nods into his husband’s shoulder, and lets the wonderful feeling of Shane’s arms pressed around him lull him into a deep sleep.
--------
It’s two weeks later when Shane approaches him.
Their regular season has gotten off to a fantastic start— they’ve won five out of their first six games with their only loss being to Carolina, who just barely squeaked out a victory in overtime.
Ilya would never risk saying so out loud, but he knows this is their year. He can practically feel himself heaving the cup into the air once more.
But for now, he and Shane have just finished a grueling but satisfying practice, the two of them showered and dressed in well-worn sweats, seated on the couch together as they queue up the Boston versus Toronto game from the night prior.
Or at least Ilya is about to pull up the game, but before he can, Shane’s hand finds his own. Ilya looks towards him, and the expression he’s wearing makes Ilya completely abandon his quest for the remote, turning to fully face his husband.
“Sweetheart? Is everything alright?”
Shane blinks, his look of pure focus breaking way into something softer, something that positively warms Ilya’s chest.
“Yeah, everything’s okay. I just wanted to talk to you about something.”
Ilya nods, encouraging Shane to continue. He watches curiously as Shane pulls out his iPad, resting it on his knees as he opens his email.
“So after we talked the other week, after we watched those home movies? Well, it got me thinking, especially what you said about not having any old videos of your own. I know that home movies are one thing, but… you mentioned not having any footage of your old youth games, either.”
“ …Yes?” Ilya prods, unsure as to where Shane is going with this.
“Well, I thought that maybe some of that footage, at least, might exist?”
Ilya frowns. His World Juniors games were televised, of course, along with some of the more prominent games he played in his late teens being broadcast locally in Russia— but games from when he was a little kid, like the Mites-level games Shane had shown him? He’s certain those games were never broadcast.
But Shane is practically vibrating out of his skin, clearly eager to show Ilya whatever it is he’s pulling up in his email. “You think it might exist?” Ilya repeats, and Shane nods eagerly.
“Yeah, I thought that other kids might’ve had parents who recorded those games. And I figure you’re famous enough where if I were to ask around on some forums, I might find someone who remembers being on a team with you, and who still might have some of that footage that they’d be willing to share.”
Ilya hums. The odds seem… astronomically small to him— that such footage would’ve existed at all, that it would still exist today, that such a person would both be browsing the same internet hockey forums as Shane and be willing to share such footage.
Obviously he knows that not everyone in Russia is homophobic— his country of origin is full of all walks of life, full of so many beautifully compassionate people. But he also knows what the Russian media has said about him since he came out, despite Shane’s best efforts to keep him from searching up such things. They’ve called him a disgrace, a traitor, a sissy— every slur in the book for a queer man.
That to say, he understands why some Russians might not want to be associated with him, why they might not want to reveal themselves as being previously associated with him, even anonymously. Even if they themselves might not be homophobic, he very much understands the need for self protection.
So the odds that not only does this footage exist, but Shane somehow managed to get his hands on some of it…
Despite this, as soon as Ilya realizes what Shane is hinting at, hope immediately begins to bloom within him. Because if Shane is even bringing this up at all, then surely—
Something in his face must give him away, giving heed to his unvoiced thoughts. Shane smiles at him a bit sheepishly, handing over the iPad. “I… maybe went a little bit crazy, posting in every forum I could think of. Reddit, of course, but I also found some more niche ones. Got made fun of for my clumsy cyrillic spelling more than once,” Shane admits, huffing out a laugh.
Ilya cannot even bring himself to poke fun, as he’s too busy staring at the unlisted YouTube video Shane has pulled up. The thumbnail is grainy and blurry, but even so, Ilya knows that rink. Even all these years later, he’s intimately familiar with the picture of it.
“But! I finally got a real response, someone named Leonid. He said he was on a team with you for three or four years.” Ilya racks his brain, but he has no specific memories of a Leonid. He played with such a rotating cast of players in his youth, that most of them have become nameless and faceless.
“He stopped playing when he hit his teens,” Shane continues. “Moved to Amsterdam for college and stayed; but said he’s casually kept up with the NHL and your career, said that he— ”
“Shane,” Ilya interrupts gently, looking up towards him. “This is an old game of mine? Right here?”
His husband’s smile turns blinding. “Yeah, it is. Leonid said you were all probably around six years old, here.”
Ilya can’t contain a smile of his own, turning back towards the iPad. He’s never particularly thought much about these old games, never had any real desire to look back on them. But now that he has one in front of him— a piece of his childhood from when everything still seemed so hopeful and bright, from when even if his team lost, he knew he’d be returning home to his mama’s warm praise and her homemade pelmeni— he realizes how wonderful it is to have such a video, how immediately he cherishes it. How deeply he cherishes his husband, his incredibly determined husband who scoured the internet just on the slim off-chance he might be able to find such a thing for Ilya.
“And,” Shane continues, his tone turning more tepid, more cautious. “I don’t want to get your hopes up or anything, but I’m almost positive, well…”
He reaches over, scrubbing ahead to a seemingly specific timestamp on the video before pressing play.
“Shane, what— ”
“Shh, just listen,” Shane insists, turning up the volume on the iPad. Ilya watches intently, able to recognize himself quickly despite the low-quality of the video. Tinny audio fills their living room, the echoed mumbling of the crowd and the oh-so familiar sound of sticks on ice. He watches himself as he maneuvers quickly past a lone defender— even then he was the fastest skater amongst his peers. He watches as he makes his final strides towards the goal, letting the puck rip and watching it fly through the air, past the goalie’s blocker side and cleanly into the net.
He grins fondly, about to ask Shane what’s so special about this particular goal, when—
Even with the grainy audio, even through the cheer of the crowd around her, even after all these years, Ilya knows he’d recognize that voice absolutely anywhere. It’s a voice he never imagined he’d ever hear again, unable to let himself entertain such seemingly delusional hope.
But it’s her, it’s her, it’s—
“Mama,” Ilya chokes out, blinking rapidly through his increasingly blurry vision. “It’s her voice, Shane, she— I never thought— ”
Shane takes Ilya’s hand firmly within his own. “The camera never pans over, it doesn’t show anyone in the crowd,” he says to Ilya, his voice tinged with regret. “But you can hear her a few more times throughout the game. Always cheering for you. I wanted you to hear for yourself first, just in case I was wrong.”
“You weren’t wrong,” Ilya says, the tears falling freely now. “It’s her, it’s my mama, Shane, I can’t believe— ”
Carefully, Shane takes the iPad and sets it aside, before pulling Ilya into his arms and cradling him close. He can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed with how much he’s been crying into Shane’s shoulder over the past few weeks— simply too overcome with having a recording of his mother’s voice, something permanent and real, audio of her cheering for him, that he can listen to whenever he wishes—
It’s huge, wracking sobs this time, echoing and shaking from his very core. Six simple words and they’ve cracked him open completely, leaving him raw and tender— but they’ve also stitched him anew. It’s a scar that may never fully heal, but those six words are like a balm he never dreamed he could have.
“Thank you,” he weeps into Shane’s shoulder, snotty and gross but Shane just holds him tighter. “Thank you, thank you, I love you, ”
“You’re so welcome,” Shane says, his own voice wet and shaky. “You’re so welcome, Ilyushka, I’m so happy I could find this for you.”
Ilya continues his muttered thank you’s, repeating the words until they turn to hiccups, then to steady breaths.
“Every day I wish you could meet her,” Ilya says, once he’s able to properly gather his words. “But I’m so thankful you have at least gotten to see her. And now, I am so thankful you’ve been able to hear her.”
“I am, too,” Shane says, moving to press a soft kiss atop Ilya’s forehead.
-------
Two videos are later posted to OttawaCentaurs on Instagram:
One shows a five-year-old Shane Hollander carefully opening a Christmas present, becoming absolutely ecstatic as he reveals a child-sized Centaurs jersey, holding it up to the camera and beaming with joy. The video cuts to thirty-one-year-old Shane Hollander, smiling warmly as he’s presented with his newly-minted Centaurs jersey. The video then proceeds with a back-and-forth montage, cutting between Shane’s old childhood games and highlights of his first season with the Centaurs.
The caption reads: One year later, and we’re still so excited to have Ottawa’s Hometown Hero, back where he belongs!
The second video shows a six-year-old Ilya Rozanov, barrelling down the ice, letting loose a devastating slapshot off of a teammate’s pass. The puck lands deep in the net, to which Ilya pumps his fist into the air in celebration. The video audio is raised, highlighting a woman in the crowd shouting,
The video then cuts to the Canadian Tire Centre, displaying a very similar scene: Ilya scoring another beautiful goal off of a clean assist. He celebrates in similar fashion, only to quickly be mobbed by his teammates. It then cuts to Yuna and David Hollander, both of them wearing custom Hollander-Rozanov Centaurs jerseys.
“Yes, Ilya!” Yuna screams, just as David shouts, “Way to go, son!”
The video then returns to the rink, of which we see a close-up of Ilya skating back to the bench. As he does, Shane leans over and presses a kiss to the side of his helmet, before he takes to the ice himself.
The caption reads: Always happy to hear our Captain’s family celebrating alongside him.