Archive of Our Own

The air is thick and wet, warm in a way that Ilya can almost swallow. Alcohol and sweat and smoke waft around him, coaxing higher and higher and making the lights diffuse at the edges. It’s hard to breathe here, it makes his lungs work harder than they should, but Ilya feels blessed with the reminder that he’s alive. He’s still living. His heart hasn’t given out on him yet.

Ilya tightens his arm around the blonde against him, she smells sweet like cherries, with an undercurrent of clean sweat. He drags his lips across the back of her neck. The curve of her hip fits perfectly in his hand, her firm ass attempting to coax a reaction from him. He grinds closer, pulling her fully into his chest.

His eyes are for Shane. Or Shane is for his eyes alone. His terrifyingly blank face and the white t-shirt covering his body; the body Ilya wants in his arms, against his body, curves in stark contrast to the woman gyrating into his cock. If Ilya concentrates hard enough, he can smell the clean, cotton scent of him, hear the sweet noises he makes, the warmth of his soft, golden skin.

But that isn’t for Ilya. Shane isn’t for Ilya anymore, he made that crystal clear when he rushed out of Ilya’s house and his life. It was clear when Ilya was left alone on his couch, the taste of tuna on his tongue. It was clear tonight, when Shane looked at him with those eyes that were once so readable to Ilya.

Shane made it clear when he stepped out with Rose fucking Landry, their hands clasped tight, matching smiles and bright eyes.

It was clear who she belonged to, with Hollander sewn across her back, or who Shane belonged to. Who he no longer belonged to.

The pink lighting changes as the song ends and, in their place, purple lights flash above. Another song begins, tempo picking up. The woman turns in his arms and slips her tongue between his lips.

He finally breaks Shane’s gaze and lets his eyes close, filling his senses with her and her alone. Her lips are glossy and taste like fruit, so unlike Shane’s, it’s a blessing. Her hands rake up his chest, trailing over the material before hooking between the open buttons. Sharp nails, like claws, false and cat-like. He tries to push away the sensation of blunt nails in his back, the scratches left there when it was particularly good; red crescent moons in his skin that the boys would inevitably notice. How they would laugh about the animal Ilya has in Montreal. Had in Montreal.

If only they knew.

Ilya reaches up and pushes his fingers into her hair, long hair, long hair tangled and pushed up and congealed in hairspray. Different is good.

He pulls away and, when he looks over, Shane is nowhere to be seen.

The woman leans in closer, her lips at his ear, “you wanna get out of here?”

Ilya would normally, but it’s still early and he needs something more. He wants more drinks, more music, more dancing. He doesn’t want to leave with a woman when he still has this itch under his skin.

“Later,” he mumbles. He turns to leave, but she grabs his arm and her claws catch on his skin. Different.

“My name is Jane, by the way.”

Of course it is, because his life is a joke. Or a living nightmare.

His stomach twists because it’s not his Jane, it’s not the one who makes him feel giddy and brokenhearted in a moment’s notice. It’s not the Jane that he’s already lost.

“Ilya,” he nods, pulling away, “I’ll see you later.”

Ilya sees Marlow and Connors at the bar, a group of beautiful women swarming them like flies on shit. Ilya stands on the outskirts and taps the bar for another beer.

“Jeez, Roz, you seen Hollander?” Marlow snorts, sidling up to him.

Ilya’s chest clenches.

“Hollander is here?” He hopes the attempt at neutrality works.

“Yeah, I didn’t think he was such a fucking animal!”

Ilya frowns, because what the fuck does he mean? As if Marly hadn’t unwittingly called Shane an animal in different circumstances. The animal in Montreal.

“Animal?” He takes a large gulp of beer.

Marlow nods to the other side of the bar. When Ilya’s eyes follow the path, he can see Shane halfway through a line of shots, knocking back one, then two, accompanied by girls who look at him with stars in their eyes. Their arms are around him, grabbing shots from the bar, pawing at him like he is theirs. Like he wasn’t Ilya’s. Like he isn’t Rose Landry’s.

Ilya frowns, “he drink a lot?”

Marlow just laughs, something loud and carefree.

“He ordered like 15 vodka shots fpr us, got me and a few others to join. He’s slammed at least like four so far.”

A curvy tattooed brunette quickly takes Marley’s focus, and suddenly Ilya is alone, watching Shane pound another shot.

His legs pull him towards Shane before his brain registers that this is a terrible idea. When he reaches Shane, he elbows his way through the women with their entitled hands and red-rimmed smiles. There’s a line of empty glasses - with just two shots left - and Shane’s body isn’t loose, he’s radiating anxiety like a physical force.

“Having fun?”

When Shane turns, he has a sweat-sick sheen to his face, and his eyes take a second to focus.

“Tons.”

Shane reaches out for one of the last shots and knocks it back with a grimace. He slams the glass down with a satisfied grunt before reaching for the last one. But Ilya is sober and quicker, so he grabs it and knocks it back himself.

“Hey, fuck you,” Shane slams a palm into his chest, “that was mine!” There’s no real fire in his voice. His palm stays on Ilya’s chest, his head falling to stare at where they’re touching. Shane’s hand trails down his stomach, palm heavy and fingers light.

“Shane,” Ilya whispers, “you don’t want this.”

Only then does Shane pull away with a jerk, he looks up and his eyes are wet.

“You don’t know what,” he struggles through the words, his voice gruffer than normal, “I want… ”

Shane looks tired, blank, lost. His head rocks forward.

“I want -” He gasps in a stuttered, struggling breath and lets it out too quickly.

Ilya hopes the hand on his shoulder is comforting, but Shane stumbles away, staring at the floor, his shoulders high and tense. He rushes towards the bathroom. Ilya lets him. He’s not going to follow.

The bartender finally pushes a beer towards him and saunters away with a wink. He can’t deal with any of that right now. Writhing bodies press against his back, forcing him into the bar. He flinches away, uses his larger body to part them before he turns, making his way back onto the dancefloor.

Through the flashing lights, his eyes find a table near the dancefloor; Rose Landry and her friend, chatting and smiling and sunny like her boyfriend isn’t falling apart nearby. She seems lost in her conversation, bright and fun, surely sharing some gossip with the friend.

The friend who attempted to engage with him - Ilya knew exactly what that look meant - who breathed down Shane’s neck, and pressed his chest to Shane’s back, and nuzzled his face into Shane’s hair. And Shane let it happen. He let this man into his space like he didn’t notice or didn’t care. Like he wasn’t fully fucking terrified to be seen to even know Ilya outside of the rink, like he didn’t look over his shoulder or jump at every noise or fear every shadow when it was Ilya against his back.

Maybe it was Ilya he was afraid of. Maybe Ilya was the monster under Shane’s bed. Maybe it really was over.

Ilya nurses his beer, his eyes flicking between Rose Landry and the bathroom, waiting for Shane to reappear. Waiting for him to make his way back to his girlfriend so she can nurse him through his inevitable hangover.

But as the minutes tick by, Ilya feels dread radiate from his stomach and directly into his limbs. Shane has been gone for five minutes, maybe more - not accounting for the time he spent staring at Ilya or drowning himself at the bar - and Rose Landry is starting to look around, checking for her boyfriend. She turns to speak to the friend, but Ilya doesn’t want either of them to find Shane. He’ll have to do it himself.

Ilya knocks back the last of his beer and storms through the full bar, the crowd having grown since Shane disappeared.

There isn’t a queue for the bathroom, but when he gets inside, he sees a few guys at the urinals. The cubicles are empty. Shane is not there.

Ilya rushes back out and scans the club - it’s what he does best, assessing, analysing, reading the play - his eyes taking in the dark and jarring lights in the busy room. The lights make it harder to see into the recesses, to see a flash of short dark hair, the military-precise posture. He moves back to where he found Shane before, the quieter side of the bar. Marlow spots him and beckons him closer. He looks concerned.

“Hey, man, you seen Hollander?”

Ilya freezes, “no, what now?”

Marlow wraps an arm around his shoulder and brings him further around the bar, there’s a dark corner near an emergency exit. Shane is standing in the corner, but his body is bent fully in half, hands on his knees, his head shaking and breathing heavy.

“He’s in a bad way, Roz. I tried to talk to him, but -” He just waves a hand that way. Ilya fucking loves Marlow. He may be a big, obnoxious oaf, but he has a heart of gold, especially when other players would be far less kind to a rival.

“You are a good man,” Ilya mumbles, hoping there isn’t too much sincerity in his voice.

Marlow scoffs, “jeez, you drunk too?”

Ilya can’t seem to take his eyes off Shane.

“I fucking wish, Marley,” he glances up, “I will try to get him home.”

Marlow’s eyebrows raise, “just don’t kill him, yeah?”

Ilya attempts a smile, “cannot promise.”

Marlow slaps him on the shoulder as he moves away, “you’re a big softy, Roz!” Ilya turns back and attempts a grin.

“Got to make sure rival is healthy enough to beat him!”

Marlow snorts and turns, walking back towards the gaggle of women waiting for him.

Ilya approaches Shane slowly, like a spooked animal in the glare of headlights. Shane hasn’t moved from his position, he’s rubbing his hands up and down his thighs in a repeated motion.

“Hollander,” Ilya grumbles.

Shane pops up like he’s been caught doing something illicit and stumbles back a few inches into the wall. He looks terrible. His face is ghostly white, lips bitten red, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He doesn’t seem to be able to respond verbally.

Ilya leans in and tries to catch his eye.

“I take you home, yes?”

Shane grimaces, his hand coming up to clench in Ilya’s shirt.

“I - Rose…”

Ilya tries to breathe through the feeling of his chest caving in. He’s done it before. He’ll do it again. Shane is oblivious to the workings of Ilya’s shattered heart and he doesn’t expect him to understand now.

“Fine, I can take you to Rose.”

Shane’s other hand reaches up to tug at Ilya’s shoulder, shaking his head.

“No! She can’t - I can’t - Ilya -”

His name in Shane’s mouth makes something inside him crack. It's the second time he’s heard it and it is no less devastating. It might be worse because Shane’s voice is small and scared. Ilya should leave him here, really. He should throw Shane at Rose Landry - let her deal with this - and go find Jane to have a fun night and a guilt-free morning. But Ilya’s never done what he should.

“Okay, okay,” he clenches one hand around Shane’s in his shirt, and wraps his other arm around his back. Ilya guides Shane to the emergency exit and slams into the handle with his hip, thankful for the lack of an alarm, until they’re in a back alley.

The cold air hits with an icy glare; it smells like smoke and dumpster and piss. It’s honest and jarring. A white light buzzes overhead. The alley is blissfully empty, the quiet almost an assault on his ears when the door slams shut behind them.

Shane’s sweating through his t-shirt, Ilya can feel it through his sleeve. Ilya pushes Shane into the brick wall and holds his shoulders.

“Can you get home?”

Shane finally meets his eyes, his head wobbling on his neck. His lip quivers, eyes tracing over Ilya’s face. He nods.

“I - I don’t know.”

Ilya sighs. If Shane was a little more sober, a little less sad, he’d let him go home by himself. As it is, he will not be the reason for a headline tomorrow morning Montreal Metros Captain Shane Hollander Found Dead from Alcohol Poisoning.

“Give me your phone.”

Shane would probably look surprised if he wasn’t so drunk, but his pupils are already blown wide and his head bobs on his neck.

“What?”

“Your phone,” Ilya does not ask. "Give."

Shane unlocks it with some clumsiness. Ilya keeps his hand on Shane’s shoulder, keeping him pressed against the bricks.

“I will tell Rose you are sick, must leave. Will talk tomorrow.”

When he looks up, Shane is staring at his face with confusion and something else. Ilya can’t seem to read that face the way he used to. He slips Shane’s phone back into his pocket.

“I’ll take you home and leave, yes? For safety.”

Shane bristles, pulling his shoulders away from Ilya’s grip. Or attempting to, at least.

“I can take care of myself,” Shane mutters, his face vulnerable. The attempt at anger makes him look even younger.

“I know.”

Shane nods slowly, his eyes trailing from the ground, up Ilya’s body and to his face, tears hanging desperately to his lower lashes.

“Okay.”

They leave the alleyway, and when Shane stumbles, Ilya catches him.

“You want Uber?” Ilya wonders how far they’ll get to Shane’s apartment with him stumbling like Bambi. His apartment is at least a 20-minute walk from here at a good speed.

“No, s’like five minutes.”

Shane hiccups and turns left, bypassing a pile of dog shit at the corner of the alley.

“What about place where we -?”

Shane snorts, but Ilya doesn’t detect any humour in it. The road is not as busy as he had feared; a few younger people in thick coats, a group of young women across the street with their arms wrapped around themselves, shielding from the perpetual Montreal wind.

“S’rented now - some professional couple. Was secret. Secret place.”

Ilya tries to decipher the broken, drunk-mumbled words before his steps falter. Of course. A secret hideaway for their illicit affair; something that had to be hidden and shameful and something that made Shane buy a whole fucking building to keep Ilya in the shadows.

They’ll never be plastered across newspapers or lauded in comment sections. Because it’s dirty and disgusting, Ilya is dirty and disgusting, something to be ashamed of, someone to be sequestered away. Shane won’t hold his hand in front of paparazzi or be pictured at a birthday dinner, smiling at Ilya like he can’t help himself.

Ilya really should’ve left him there and fucked off.

But Shane is still using the dirty brick walls to support himself as he attempts to walk like a normal person and successfully fails.

Ilya knew Shane was afraid, scared of being found out. But Ilya is the one with everything to lose; his family, his visa, his fucking country. Ilya could be excommunicated, or forced to return for nefarious purposes, anything to make an example of the queer Russian captain. The target on his back more dangerous for being successful.

They walk in silence, Ilya hating himself - and Shane - more and more by the minute. Ilya has never let someone make him feel so terrible about himself; someone whose opinion actually matters. The words of his family hit like a dull blade, familiar and painful. But Shane, Shane leaving, fleeing, running away from Ilya, that hit like a truck, that left Ilya feeling like his bones were broken and his organs burst. He hasn’t had a tuna melt since.

Shane stops abruptly outside a large door, his clumsy fingers plodding over the keypad. It beeps red before Shane mutters something unintelligible to himself. Ilya pushes him out of the way, with Shane fighting him along the way.

“Hollander, give me fucking code!”

He stands with his fingers primed on the numbers and turns to look at Shane’s face, it’s blank and he’s staring at the hollow of Ilya’s neck. He looks like he would rather melt into the wall than speak.

“Hollander!”

Shane winces, doesn’t meet his eyes.

“1410.”

Ilya’s chest does something complicated, warm and painful and devastating, tingles rushing up his back. He doesn’t comment. He doesn’t want to think about what that could mean. That Shane’s home in Montreal has Ilya’s mark on it, even if he’s never stepped inside. He pushes the numbers in and the keypad beeps green, the door unlocking automatically.

Ilya opens the door and ushers Shane inside, who looks like he’s fading by the minute. Past the security door is another door that Shane unlocks with two keys. Maybe overkill, maybe not. Ilya hasn’t thought much about security like that.

The house is spotless, but more lived in than the apartment. It’s obvious to Ilya now why. Why the other place had no personal pictures and felt like a particularly upscale corporate suite.

Shane’s house is painted in blues and greens, calming washes of colour over the walls. It’s not huge, but it's definitely large for one person. The dark floors shine and the walls have a personal touch.

Shane kicks off his shoes, stumbling when he attempts to line them up. Ilya kicks his off for good measure. He refuses to tidy them away - he deserves to leave a mark - another mark - wants Shane to know that Ilya was here.

But then Shane is turning, wrapping his arms around his chest like he’s hugging himself, his eyes stuck permanently on the floor. He stumbles slightly, knocking into the sideboard.

“You can go now.”

Ilya wishes it didn’t hurt as much as it does.

“I wanted to make sure -”

“I’m not fucking you.”

Okay. Fuck him, fuck fucking Shane Hollander and his perfect fucking girlfriend and his perfect fucking life and his perfect fucking house.

“Oh fuck you, Hollander!” His voice comes out higher and angrier than he wanted it to, and Shane flinches. Good. Shane shouldn’t have this effect on him. This thing has been over for months and it hurts as much as it did when Shane walked out on him. “Why didn’t you want Rose Landry to bring you home? Or her friend who was all over you? Didn’t look secret then!”

“I don’t - I didn’t -”

Shane has his hands to his face now and he’s hyperventilating. Of course, a morsel of truth and Hollander descends into a panic attack.

“You didn’t what, Hollander? Because all I know is you left and got a girlfriend and now you look like you are going to explode! So what?”

He’s heaving, back shaking, and Ilya fights the urge to reach out, to caress him with soothing hands, to speak gently into his hair. He watches with a pain in his chest and just a touch of satisfaction.

“I’m not like -”

“Not like what? Not like fucking WHAT?”

Shane stands suddenly, tears on his cheeks, he’s shaking so hard it’s like his skin is crawling, his breath quick and shallow, his hands come up to his chest and then his neck.

Concern overtakes Ilya’s anger, Shane looks like he might actually pass out.

“YOU! I’m not - you, I can’t -” his hands come up to his face and he’s making this long groaning noise like a dying bear, his face creased, eyes clenched shut.

Shane turns and runs, his hands plastered to his mouth. A door swings open further inside the house. Almost immediately, he’s heaving, puking, the sounds coming out of him unnatural and coming from the depths of his soul.

Ilya follows the path Shane took, quickly tracing his footsteps. When he turns into the door, Shane is bent over, puking whatever is inside, expelling the vodka from his body. But he’s also crying.

Ilya hates himself for how it makes him ache. He moves closer and is about to put a hand on Shane’s back when he thinks better of it.

“Hollander,” Shane shakes his head, his back heaving, “Hollander, you have to breathe.”

“I-I can’t,” he cries, “I can’t. I hate this,” Shane whispers, his tears falling into the bowl. When it seems like he’s stopped for the moment, Ilya closes the lid and flushes. He tears some toilet paper off the roll and hands it to Shane, who scrubs at his face.

He looks so young like this, broken. Like there’s nothing of the competitive hockey player left, just a sad, drunk boy.

The bathroom is white and dark grey and smells like amber and vomit. The bright light is on overhead, stark against the shiny tiles. The mirror has a button that Ilya presses before turning off the overhead light. It’s softer now, seems quieter, like the light had a presence of its own.

Shane drops back against the wall, butt-first, trying to get his ragged breathing under control. He slides to the floor, hugs his knees up to his chest, pushing his forehead painfully into the bone.

“Fuck, fuck,” he begins whispering into his knees, rocking for a few seconds before he leans back and promptly hits his head against the wall.

What the fuck.

“Stop!” Ilya whispers. Shane’s face is scrunched up and tight, creased in pain. He slams his head again. “Shane, stop!”

Ilya crouches beside him and, fearing touch will send him over the edge, puts his hand between Shane’s head and the wall. Shane slams again and the bones in Ilya’s hands rattle. But when his head doesn’t meet the wall, Shane leans forward, tugging sharply at his hair. His fingers are tangled and tight in the strands, his back bowed.

“Nooooooo no no noooo,” he’s groaning. Ilya’s heart is in his throat. Images flash in his mind. What if he has to call an ambulance? Or, worse yet, fucking Rose Landry? Ilya isn’t cut out for this, he’s never seen Shane like this, never really seen anyone like this.

Ilya turns and kneels in front of Shane, slowly reaching up to unwind his fingers from his hair. But Shane clings tighter, rocking deeper, shaking his head. Ilya tries to fight with Shane’s hands, but they’re stuck desperately in his hair. He looks like he’ll rip it out at any minute.

Shane turns suddenly, barely lifting the toilet lid to vomit once again. It’s sudden and harsh and looks like it’s nothing but bile.

When he’s finished, Shane rests his cheek on the toilet seat. Ilya knows for certain it’s something he would never do if he was sober. His eyes are wet and bloodshot and unfocused. Ilya hands him more toilet paper, in the absence of knowing what else to do. Shane scrubs at his tired eyes and his puffy mouth, blowing his nose like a child.

A phone beeps. It’s not Ilya’s. It beeps once, twice, three more times.

Shane slowly reaches down and pulls it out of his pocket, his bleary eyes attempting to focus on the screen. He sits back up against the wall, both of his hands cradling the phone. He blinks a few times and tries to read.

Ilya knows who it’s going to be, knows it’s Rose fucking Landry and her concerned words and pretty eyes and her soft curves wrapped in silver. Ilya can’t look away from Shane’s face as he takes in the messages.

His lip quivers, tears filling his eyes.

“I don’t even want -”

“You don’t want what?” Shane’s head rolls back against the wall, but his eyes are open and staring at the ceiling.

“Hollander.”

Shane’s head rolls back and forth, before he sniffles. Ilya cannot sit here and decipher this like the fucking Enigma code.

“She’s so good and, and nice, and I don’t even want… it. Her.”

His whole body goes cold. Or hot. He can’t really parse out the feelings in his body. His legs tingle where he sits, like he’s been crouched in the wrong position for too long.

Shane slams his head again before Ilya pulls him forward, “no!”

But Shane is pushing him away, fighting against his hold, his face angry and terrified.

“Stop! Don’t - touch me! I can’t… fuck!”

Ilya stumbles back onto his butt, crawling backwards away along clean white tiles. His sweaty palms slip before he’s flush against the bathtub.

Shane's face is panicked, his eyes wide with alarm. He looks like a cornered animal.

“She should be perfect!” He cries, voice building in volume, “she should be it!”

Ilya ignores the pain in his chest, he has to, with Shane on a knife’s edge…

“If I can’t,” he whimpers like the realisation has hit him without warning, “with her, I can’t… I can’t. She’s, she’s supposed to be perfect. She is… perfect. And I’m -”

Ilya’s brain unhelpfully supplies perfect. Even with Shane sweaty and desperate and smelling of vodka sweat and vomit. He’s perfect and Ilya’s broken, useless heart will always belong to him.

Shane pushes his face into his knees, wrapping his arms around them.

Silence stretches out; Shane’s home is quiet, silent in a way that feels orchestrated. No ticking clock nearby or washing machine spinning out or floorboards settling. It’s silent in the way that Shane has made it silent. Ilya sits with his legs stretched in front of him, wiggling his toes from the pins and needles that had perched in his feet.

The light from the mirror casts a white-blue shadow over Shane’s face, making his undereyes look black and his lips purple. His lip quivers when he inhales a sharp breath -

“I wish I’d never met you.”

Ilya’s had enough. He will not be a punching bag for another person. He stands up, legs wobbly but managing to hold his weight. He isn’t desperate enough for Shane fucking Hollander’s attention that he’ll stay here to listen to this shit.

“We’re done here,” Ilya says with a finality he can’t feel, but tries to believe anyway.

As much as Shane doesn’t like to believe it, Ilya is human, painfully human and lazy and sad and broken and probably depressed, but that one’s not a Shane issue, it’s an Ilya issue. He’s lonely and wholly alone and wishes his life could have been something different. But he’s a multi-millionaire so he isn’t going to complain, doesn’t think anyone would want to hear it. He’s a millionaire and he’s physically healthy and he can support his family and that’s it. That’s all he is.

Ilya brushes off his jeans, righting his shirt. He’s going to leave this bathroom and this building and never think of Hollander again. Not even in the all-encompassing darkness of a Boston night when he hopes to be anyone else. He goes to the door.

Shane sniffles and his voice breaks, softer than before.

“Never would’ve known how it felt.”

Ilya’s step falters. He wants an answer but fuck if he wants to ask the question.

“How what felt?”

“I would’ve been fine…” a dry, thick click in his throat, “not knowing, not knowing what I was missing… what it could feel like.”

Ilya closes his eyes, tries to take in some long, slow, calming breaths.

How it felt between them. How their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces, how nothing else could compare, how they seemed inevitable.

Ilya turns and slides to sit beside Shane, their backs sharing the wall. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t think he can say anything that would make this better. He can’t tell Shane that he feels it too, has always felt it.

“I tried,” Shane’s breath comes out all patchy and wrong, heaving in these tiny broken breaths like he can’t fill his lungs, “I try so hard and I - I can’t help it.”

Ilya turns his head and sees the large tears caught desperately to Shane’s eyelashes.

“I thought -” he sucks in a rabid breath, “I thought I could be like you.”

Ilya doesn’t know why Shane Hollander would want to be anything like him. The Canadian golden boy and the Russian menace. The contrast works so beautifully for their pathetic rivalry.

“I - I thought I could be - this,” gesturing between their bodies, “but... but be with women too.”

Fuck.

“Hollander.”

Shane’s pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, face grey and haunted.

“I try so hard all the time… Everything everything I do is for - for hockey. I can’t, I can’t be this. My mom, the team, the league - they, they expect so much and I can’t, I can’t do it. I can’t do it all the time, Ilya, I can’t do it. I can’t be this and be what they want, I can’t.”

Ilya presses a hand to the back of Shane’s neck, steadying, comforting. At least he hopes.

The discomfort settles in his throat, behind his ribs, in his gut.

Shane turns then, pushes himself into Ilya’s space, against his chest and his neck and his shoulder. Shane is rattling like he’s freezing, keening softly as he cries.

“It’s too hard.”

Ilya lets his head fall back against the wall, his arms coming up around Shane of their own accord. He hadn’t ever really thought that Shane might be gay, like fully gay. He had assumed that Shane’s experience with women was pretty extensive - not as extensive as his own, though not many people’s are - he didn’t expect this.

Ilya’s never been ashamed of his desires, he likes to fuck, he likes people. People are hot and he likes to make them feel good. Even if some of it is more secretive than others.

Ilya’s terrified of the repercussions, of course, of his family, his country, his Visa.

But Shane seems like he’s held together by discipline and structure. In eight years, he’s never put a foot wrong; press-approved answers and dogged sportsmanship and the constant comparsions to other elite athletes of colour. He didn’t think of the contracts and the expectations and the fear of one fuck up bringing the whole house of cards tumbling down. Of already being different and compounding that by being different in a way that hockey doesn’t allow.

“I think - I’m gay,” Shane’s voice cracks, torn apart.

He sounds so devastated that Ilya doesn’t really know what to do with it.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Who else am I going to tell,” Shane sniffles. It’s not a question, just a statement of fact.

Ilya nods, tightening his grasp. Silence stretches between them, between one minute and the next.

“I don’t know what to do,” Shane whispers, the words pushing out with force, his face swimming into Ilya’s eyeline, “What am I supposed to do?”

He reaches a hand up to smudge away the one tear Shane has allowed to drop.

“I don’t know.”

Shane’s eyelids drop, his head slowly nodding, before his head drops to Ilya’s shoulder. It’s like he’s finally given up.

“I can’t… be with her anymore.”

Ilya desperately wants to celebrate. He wants this to be a better occasion, something happier. He doesn’t want this mess to be the moment Shane realises his true feelings, even if they aren’t about Ilya.

His body is softer like this, the tension eased out from his bones, warmer than before. His voice is tired when he whispers.

“I have to break up with her.”

Ilya understood that already, but hearing the definitive, if broken, way Shane says it makes his heart thump uncomfortably. It’s relief and anticipation and concern and some kind of desperation. Ilya knows what he wants this to mean, but Shane’s upset and distress dampens it.

Shane had just wished they never met. The statement hits Ilya like a slap, the same way it did just minutes ago.

“You should sleep,” Ilya says, because it’s safer than anything else.

Shane nods, his sweaty hair brushing Ilya’s collarbone, but he doesn’t move.

“I’m gross.”

Objectively, it’s true. Shane smells like distress and the club.

“You drank a lot of vodka.”

Shane makes a little cracked noise, his voice barely there.

“Wanted to taste like you.”

Ilya can’t decide where that information goes; if he files it away for later, for more, if he folds it away behind his ribs or lets it spread over his skin like a balm. It’s too much right now. He doesn’t know if Shane even meant for him to hear it.

“You should shower. I will bring water.”

Ilya dislodges himself from Shane’s grasp and tugs him to stand. There’s a stillness that wraps around them when they’re face to face, mere inches apart. Ilya leaves the bathroom first.

He finds the kitchen easily, rifling through the refrigerator for water and grabs a ginger ale he spots there too. Ginger ale is good for an upset stomach. He doesn’t mean to snoop, but he’s looking for Tylenol or something similar when he sees a calendar, tacked up on the inside of a cupboard.

It’s an ordinary calendar, some Canada wilderness photography thing - courtesy of the Treasury Board of Canada, it says - and it’s marked with game dates, NHL game gates, meetings, events. They’re all colour coordinated. Though only the Montreal-Boston games are different. Written in black pen. All other Montreal fixtures in blue pen. It’s subtle enough that he is sure Shane didn’t expect someone to notice. But Ilya does. Ilya can’t help but notice everything about Shane Hollander.

Shane’s year is planned out with Ilya being the only colour change in his life. He tries to refuse to believe it means something, but his heart won’t allow it.

He grabs Tylenol from a fully stocked medicine stash one cupboard over and brings his findings to the bedroom. He can hear the shower from the ensuite.

The bedroom has deep blue walls and a pale wooden floor, a fluffy grey rug in the middle of the room. The bed is big, huge, large enough for six people to sleep relatively comfortably. The only light source is a bedside lamp and an orange salt lamp in the opposite corner. It’s warm and inviting. Ilya could sleep well here, the rest of a deep sleep where he could wake up sated and unremembering of the dreams that might have crossed his unconscious mind.

The shower turns off and there’s some rustling, before the buzzing of an electric toothbrush. That’s probably a good idea. Ilya turns and sees some pictures placed carefully on a table by the window. Shane with his parents, an official team picture of the Metros and… a picture of -

The bathroom door opens and Ilya turns, seeing Shane with wet hair and a threadbare t-shirt that looks years old, sweats and bare feet. He looks so soft.

Goddamn Ilya’s complicated heart.

He still looks sad and a little glassy-eyed. Shocked when he sees Ilya.

“You’re still here?” There’s hope in his tone.

“I wait to say goodbye.”

Shane stares at him for a minute, his eyes tracking over Ilya’s face; Ilya purposely doesn’t turn away, wants to let him. He approaches Ilya on tentative feet, before Ilya turns to the pictures. Picks up one.

“Where did you get this?”

When Ilya glances back, Shane’s cheeks are a pink stain on his pale skin, his lips rolled between his teeth; Ilya isn’t sure if he’s trying to hide a smile or a grimace.

The International Prospect Cup between Russia and Canada, the first year they played. The two teams on the ice, in full gear, smiles on Canada’s faces, Russian faces stoic and assessing. Ilya couldn’t even pick himself out of the line-up.

Shane stares at the picture, looking like he’s unsure what to say.

“I asked my mom - she can do anything… I said, y’know, it was the first Prospect Cup and I wanted… wanted to remember, to have something to remember…”

Shane has a picture of Ilya in his bedroom, beside his teammates and his family. One more private way Ilya could be in his home and he might never have known.

Ilya can’t help it.

“When we first met?”

Shane’s face and body still all at once. It’s a while before he responds, the word on a breath.

“Yeah.”

Shane turns away and Ilya puts the picture back down, before looking back and seeing Shane slide under the pristine white bedcovers. The duvet and blankets look heavy and luxurious, probably necessary to stave off the Montreal chill. He looks impossibly small.

Those huge brown eyes glance around the room like they’re trying to look at it from a stranger’s perspective before they land back on Ilya.

Shane scooches over a little like he’s making room. Ilya’s limbs feel heavy from exhaustion and the night’s emotions.

Ilya keeps eye contact, waiting to see if Shane will say no. He doesn’t. Just silently watches Ilya cross the room. He sits on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, making it clear he doesn’t expect anything.

Anything good.

He’s not under any illusion that, just because drunk and sad Shane wants to break up with Rose Landry, it means anything for him. For them.

The silence is weighted, heavy, like the air is waiting for someone to break.

Ilya turns to face in Shane’s direction just as Shane speaks.

“Thank you… for helping me.”

Ilya looks up, but Shane’s eyes are trained on the bedspread like there’s something interesting on the blank canvas.

“I’ll always help you, Hollander.”

His throat sounds dry when he swallows, but his voice is gentle when he says, “I know.”

Ilya grabs the water from the bedside table and opens it, handing it over. Shane smiles like he’s realised something, it’s private and sweet. He takes a drink and grazes the label with his thumbnail.

“Always know what I need before I do.”

“What?”

Shane nods at the water then looks up and his eyes are unguarded, like the vodka has opened a window behind them.

“I always second-guess myself with everyone. You just seem to know, always.”

Shane’s smile drops, his body folding like he doesn’t have the energy to stay upright.

“You’ve never really made me feel like the way I am is wrong.”

Ilya never thought Shane needed him to tell him that he’s not wrong, that there’s never been anything wrong with him.

“Rose is like that too,” Ilya tries not to react to that physically. It’s a close thing, “I think it’s why I thought…”

Ilya watches Shane watching the water bottle.

“I thought she could make me feel like you did.”

The past tense hits him in the solar plexus, making it difficult to breathe. He attempts a deep breath and decides to let Shane sleep off whatever this is. The honesty he’s suddenly been afforded with cheap American vodka.

“You should sleep,” Ilya says, standing up and watching as Shane turns, nodding slowly, his eyes on Ilya’s thigh. Ilya takes the bottle from his hands and watches him slide under the covers. The vulnerability in his face, his hair spread across the pillow, the duvet up to his chin, it all settles warm in his chest. He’ll picture this for a long time. He can’t help but reach over and run his fingers through Shane’s soft hair, still damp from the shower. Shane’s eyes drop closed, peace settling over his features.

When Ilya pulls away, Shane’s eyes slide open a crack, his lips quiver and a tear drips across the bridge of his nose.

“I think you ruined me.”

An hour ago, Ilya would’ve taken that as a challenge, as an insult, as something that could wreck him. Now he can see it for what it is.

Because Ilya feels it too, the ruins in his chest that used to be a heart.

He pushes Shane’s hair back from his forehead.

“We’ll talk soon.”

Shane’s breathing deepens. Ilya allows himself to watch for a second, maybe a minute. When he’s at the door, Shane speaks up again.

“Can I call you?”

Ilya swallows, tries to regroup, “you can call me.”

Shane nods, smiling softly. He’s asleep before Ilya closes the door.

*

Ilya returns to the hotel after 2am. Connors isn’t back yet and he takes that as a sign that he did the right thing; bringing Shane home and bypassing any sightings, not having to answer to Connors and getting away with breaking curfew. All good things, all positive; when the door shuts behind him, Ilya lets out a long, steady breath.

Ilya turns straight into the bathroom and strips off, leaving his clothes in a puddle on the floor. He immediately thinks of Shane, of the meticulous way he folds his clothes. His heart pangs; does Rose Landry find it as endearing as Ilya does? These are little things he’s asked himself over the last few months.

Does she appreciate that? The careful way Shane walks through the world, the way he folds his clothes when he’s nervous, or throws them off when he isn’t. Does she stock her fridge with ginger ale? Does she appreciate how his eyes look black in the dark and glisten like warm honey in the sun?

Or did she? Past tense? She won’t have it again, his heart jumps; he wants to feel bad. They’ll have that in common now, knowing what it’s like to lose Shane Hollander.

Ilya takes a quick shower, scrubbing the night away, watching the water swirl. He rinses away the club and the shame and Jane and whatever torn-up rollercoaster of feelings he’s had to process over the last hours and days and weeks.

When he gets under the covers, the tiredness should send him straight to sleep, but his brain is hyperactive and his thoughts run through his head like it’s been shaken. He thinks of Shane, in his big bed, snuggled under the covers, the inevitable hangover, his cries and the realisation of who he is, that he had no one to tell but Ilya. Shane drunkenly said he was gay, that he would break up with Rose Landry, that he would call Ilya.

Ilya had obviously been hopeful at the time, but his hope is waning, the dread is building where he hoped it wouldn’t. He feels on edge. Just because Shane is going to break up with her doesn’t mean he wants Ilya, that he’ll want anything to do with him. Shane might not want a secret relationship with Ilya when all they have had is random bouts of fucking up to this moment. He couldn’t want Ilya and the truth of him; the broken, ugly parts that he can hide for a few hours at a time. When hockey is everything, where could Ilya even fit in?

And with Russia bearing down on Ilya, how could they even do this?

He turns over and the door opens. Connors. He stumbles a little, the door closing heavily behind him. Ilya knows the moment Connors sees him, when he lets out a little whispered ‘shit’. Clothes rustle and shoes are kicked off before the creak of the bed behind him announces Connors settling onto the mattress.

Luckily, Ilya has had plenty of childhood experience feigning sleep.

Connors' breathing evens out almost immediately.

Even with the deep breathing of a drunk roommate, sleep evades Ilya.

*

Ilya is up at six, throwing an empty water bottle at Connors’ head to rouse him from the sleep of the damned.

“Fuck Roz!” He groans, the hangover evident in the pallor of his skin.

“Up, bus at 8. Or you want to stay and play for Metros?”

“YOU made me go out, asshole!”

Connors is still groaning, throwing his limbs around on the mattress when Ilya leaves for breakfast.

Marlow is already at breakfast, scarfing down sausages and bacon and eggs and looking like he may go back for seconds.

Ilya collapses beside him with his own plate and a coffee. He has a feeling coffee will be the only thing to get him through today.

“Roz, what up, man?” He mumbles, mouth full, grease on his lips.

“Nothing,” Ilya gulps back half of his cup from the thimble-sized cup they have in every hotel. Why they don’t just provide a venti cup is beyond him.

Marlow swallows, an eyebrow immediately flicking up.

“You didn’t kill Hollander?”

Ilya keeps his composure, knowing the question would come.

“No, I was very good hockey representative. He was almost asleep. Threw him in bed and left.”

Marlow shakes his head, a grin plastered across his face.

“Damn, man, didn’t expect that from Hollander, he always has his shit together.”

Ilya pushes down whatever nausea he feels rising. Everyone thinks they know Shane - even Ilya, though he knows a lot less than he would like - they think he is straight-laced, a hockey robot, a brand ambassador, a good, Canadian boy. Ilya shrugs.

“He just overdid, I think.”

Marlow nods, staring at the sausages on his plate like they’re his newborn children, love and approval in his eyes.

“Been there, my friend.”

*

It’s been 22 hours since he saw Shane when Ilya gets a text.

He’s been home for hours, Coach sending them home with a promise of a hard practice tomorrow. Ilya hit the gym, working out whatever buzzy energy in his body he could. But his body gave out on him sooner than normal, the stress and lack of sleep catching up on him.

He moved around his house like a ghost, flashes of memories of his day with Shane here coming back to him like he’s been haunted. Shane sleeping in his bed, his body fitting against Ilya’s, his head resting heavily on Ilya’s arm where his hand went to sleep; Shane eating his food, watching hockey, his head nestled comfortably against Ilya’s chest; Shane asking about his father, sharing more words than they had in eight years.

Jane: Can I call you?

Shane had asked already, nearly one full day ago. But Ilya didn’t really think he would follow through. His heart-rate picks up, taking a deep breath, leaving it a minute or two - just one, really - before he responds.

Ilya: yes

The call connects seconds later.

“Hi,” Shane breathes, his voice low, almost a whisper, nerves on his tongue.

“Hi,” Ilya responds, for a lack of knowing what else to say.

Silence stretches until, “is this okay? That I called?”

Yes, of course, better than okay, I want to hear your voice.

“I said it was.”

Even hours and miles away, Ilya can hear Shane thinking. He decides to give him a break.

“You were hungover like death today, yes?”

Shane huffs out a laugh, small but there. Ilya relaxes.

“I thought it would be worse, but, yeah… I mean, puking before sleep and, and you getting me water probably helped.”

Ilya sinks back into this couch.

“I didn’t think you would remember.”

Shane breathes out slowly, “I remember. I mean, most things. Not everything.”

Ilya wants to ask, wants to ask Shane what he remembers, if he remembers that he wanted to break up with Rose, that he’s gay, that he wished he had never met Ilya.

“I - I met up with Rose…”

Ilya’s heart drops. He met up with Rose Landry. He probably saw her and realised he wanted to be with her, being in an unsatisfying relationship better than doing whatever he could with Ilya.

“I didn’t break up with her.”

He fucking knew it. Ilya will not do this.

“Okay, I’m happy for you. Thanks for letting me know. Goodbye Hollander.”

A gasp.

“No, no, wait, please!”

Ilya’s never been able to deny Shane fucking anything, just another downfall in his life.

“What, then?”

He can hear Shane breathing over the phone.

“I didn’t have to… she kinda, she kinda implied it?”

Implied what?

“Implied what?”

Ilya can hear Shane’s breath through the phone, before the words pour slowly, “she asked if I’d been with a man before.”

Ilya’s ears fill with static, a headache building behind his eyes. He doesn’t say anything.

“I guess I confirmed it,” Shane sniffles, lets out a wet laugh, “she was really nice about it… said 80% of her boyfriends left her for other men.”

A small smile breaks across Ilya’s mouth despite himself. Maybe Rose Landry isn’t so bad. Still terrible, but... not as bad as Ilya had thought. Maybe. Only maybe.

“I - I realised… that when I was telling her… that all the moments, all the best moments were with you.”

Ilya feels like his strings have been cut, his whole stiff, tight, hurting body drops. He hadn’t even realised how much he had been holding the physical presence of Shane’s denial, the loss of him.

“What?”

Shane’s breath crackles across the line.

“I mean -”

Ilya’s emotions bear forward like the tide.

“S’okay, you can tell me.”

Shane’s voice is quieter when he continues.

“When she asked… about being with another guy. I think, I just -” he blows out a long breath, voice softer than before, “I just think about, um… about kissing you. How it made me feel. How you made me feel.”

So fucking earnest. Honesty pouring out of him like he can’t hold it all inside.

“I like kissing you.”

Shane chokes out a wet laugh.

“Yeah?”

“Yes, Hollander.”

Silence settles, like they’re both afraid, unsure what to say next. Where do they go from here. Shane lets out a heavy breath.

“You’re going to All-Stars?”

Ilya is, of course. He’s been invited and he’s not going to pass up the opportunity to play on the same team. Though he would rather slit his own neck with a blade than admit it.

“I’ve been invited.”

A beat and -

“I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be on a team with you.”

Ilya smiles despite himself. There it is again and it makes him grin.

“Have you?”

“Yeah, I think… I think it would be amazing.”

Ilya agrees, of course. He thinks that any team with him and Shane would be unstoppable, regardless of where they played.

Ilya tries for his own honesty, “I think… it would be nice to just see you.”

Shane is silent on the end of the line. Ilya’s heart is in his neck. When Shane speaks again, his voice is soft, hopeful.

“Really?”

“Yes, Hollander, really.”

“Me too.”

Ilya wants to see Shane’s face, his freckles, maybe there’s a small smile and a flush on his face too. Hs thinks of Shane, alone, having broken up with Rose Landry (or been broken up with?)… maybe for Ilya, maybe for himself. Alone and all of these truths pouring out of him.

“You are okay?”

Shane takes a few deep breaths, steady ones, like he’s been taught by someone who knows how to calm themselves.

“I’m… okay. Maybe lighter? I think? I feel kinda anxious and sick, but… but I’m happy too. It’s not like I’m gonna… come out or anything, but nothing bad happened. Yet, anyway.”

Trust Shane to wait for the other shoe to drop.

“You will be okay.”

Shane breathes right into Ilya’s ear.

“And you?”

Ilya smiles softly. He’s fine, he’ll always be fine. Even when he isn’t.

“I will be okay, too.”

More silence.

“Can we hang out? At All-Stars?”

Ilya snorts, “you want to get me all alone? Have your wicked way?”

“No! I mean...” Shane says slowly, determination mixed in with something else, “I’d just like to see you, to, um, get to know you? Properly, I guess.”

Eight years of whatever this is that they do and Shane is still shy about what he wants. The request is outside of Ilya’s comfort zone, but it settles warmly in his chest.

“I think we can do that.”

When Shane speaks again, there’s a smile in his voice.

“Thank you.”

Fucking Canadians.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

The next words come slowly, “I feel like I do.”

But Ilya is feeling generous.

“You don’t have to thank me for something I want to do.”

Shane’s voice is light and pleased, if a little confused. Like he can’t quite believe Ilya’s words.

“I’ll see you soon?”

Ilya feels butterflies, honest-to-god butterflies.

He thinks maybe he can try again because it’s all he wants, his given name on Shane’s tongue.

“Yes. See you soon, Shane.”

Shane huffs out a small laugh.

“Good night, Ilya.”