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Ilya Rozanov is many, many, many things. One of the best hockey players in the NHL. A strong, powerful, incredibly sexy man. Bisexual. Russian. Shane Hollander’s husband of six months. An orphan. An excellent wingman. A slightly over-exuberant dog parent.
Clinically depressed and maybe more than a smidgeon traumatized. Galina explained that he had something called “complex PTSD,” and Shane had read article after article explaining what on earth that meant, but at the end of the day, being parented by a woman with untreated depression who killed herself when he was 12 and a man who hated him had maybe permanently changed the way his brain worked.
He tried, valiantly, not to think about this, because he needed to be strong. He needed to be a powerful wall, a place for people to put their burdens and worries. The man who held everything together. He mothered the rookies and babysat for Bood and the Pikes and anyone else who asked. He helped Harris and supported Troy and listened endlessly to Wyatt. And he stood, rock solid and steady, when the ocean around Shane Hollander got choppy. He could not. Would not. Be weak. Fall apart. Be anything other than the strong, stoic Russian man he was expected to be.
(And never mind the quiet voice that sounded like his husband telling him that “actually, mon amour, you don't have to be strong for me all the time. I can carry your burdens, too. That's what marriage is, 愛しいあなた, we carry each other.” Shane needed him to be strong, so strong he would be.)
And so he skated. He skated until he felt like he couldn't breathe anymore, and then he skated some more. He worked out and cooked dinner and went to therapy and had coffee with Yuna and drinks with Troy and rambling phone calls with Svetlana. At the end of January, they played Boston at home and Ilya dragged Cliff and several other Boston players to Monks in order to toast the Centaurs’ victory over Ilya's former team. He knew Shane was worried about him, so he took his meds and he did his best to sleep and eat and live like a normal person.
¥¥
In late March, Ilya paced Galina’s office.
“It was not her fault!” He was near-shouting, the Russian sharp and angry.
Galina was endlessly patient with him. They probably taught that in therapy school or whatever. Ilya had never been a patient man.
“Ilya, you know that I know that, and I would never say it was.”
“So why are you saying that she…that she…”
“Ilya. I am not accusing your mother of having done anything wrong. She was suffering, and alone, in a place that would not have helped her even if she could have asked for it.” Her voice was soothing and calm. Raspy, like she used to smoke. She had admitted as much, but then she had shrugged, because what Russian didn't used to smoke.
“She wasn't like him.” Ilya knew he sounded like a petulant child.
“No, of course not. Your father was purposefully and intentionally cruel. To you, to your brother, and to your mother. That was no one's fault but his own. And your mother's depression was no one's fault, not even her own.”
“But…”
“I am simply explaining that…Ilya, I know your mother loved you. Loves you. And you love her, and that never needs to change. But asking such a young child to shoulder such a massive burden is unfair. It was unfair to you and to your brother. I know she was suffering, and that you wanted to help. But the care and keeping of an entire household, cooking and cleaning and trying to protect her from your father…these things were not your responsibility.” Galina took a breath.
Ilya sat down. On the floor. Never mind that he was a 6’3” professional hockey player who would be flying to Colorado in two days for the first game of a 5-game road trip. Never mind that in less than a month his team would be in the playoffs. He sat on the floor like a child.
Galina continued. “You have told me of times when you, at 9 and 10 years old, brushed your mother's hair. Fed her.”
Ilya could not look at her. His vision swam.
“These were very kind, selfless things to do. You are a kind, caring, and compassionate man, and by all accounts have always been so. Those things should not have been your responsibility. I know that she could not have received the help she needed in Russia, but your father could have - should have - helped her. Another adult. Not you. You were a child.”
“But…”
Galina held up a hand. “Let me ask you this. If someone put Ruby or Jade in a position to have to feed and care for an adult, what would you do? How would you react?”
Ilya stared at his hands in his lap. “I would tell them that was not their job.”
“Even if that adult was very sick and they wanted to help?”
“They are children. They can help in other ways. They made David cards when he got the flu.”
“Exactly.” She paused. “And you have told me that you and Shane want children, eventually.”
“Yes.”
“If you had a severe depressive episode, would you expect your children to care for you?”
“No! Never! They do not need to…ah. I see what you have done.”
“Ilya, your mother was, by all accounts, a good woman in a desperate, impossible position. And unfortunately, that position also harmed you.”
“It isn't fair.”
“No. It isn't.”
“So what do I do?”
“Stop trying to carry the world on your own, Ilya. It is not your job. It never should have been in the first place.”
Ilya simply scoffed.
¥¥
Ottawa made it to the playoffs. Again. Playoffs were distracting. Distraction was good. And helpful. It was hard enough to just stay awake long enough to consume enough calories to keep the body in fucking motion.
Round one, they took down Detroit in a sweep. Playing next to Shane in the playoffs was like playing with the embodiment of hockey. Ilya was flying on the ice. He WAS the ice. He had never felt more alive.
Round two, they played Boston and fought, tooth and nail, winning in game six in overtime. After the game, Cliff and St. Vicky and Connors and Hammersmith came to Ilya and Shane's house with most of the Centaurs. They all ate way too much bbq, prepared by Bood, and Ilya slept for 12 consecutive hours.
Round three. New York. God, they hated him in New York. He played the hardest he'd ever played, falling into bed with Shane every day. They weren't technically doing any kind of playoff sex ban, but fuck he was so tired. His knee was sore, Shane's shoulder ached, and they gave each other sloppy blow jobs after winning the first game in New York. They went out with Kip, Scott, and some of the other guys in the city. They went to the Kingfisher and Ilya didn't even make that much fun of Scott when they won.
Round four. The Cup. They were playing Vegas. FUCK Vegas. There were three teams Ilya hated playing against. Montreal, obviously. Fuck Montreal. Except for Pike. And Pike was trying to leave Montreal. Toronto had not improved at all since Kent got arrested - somehow they had only gotten worse. But Vegas. Vegas was a team full of assholes and bigots and uncomfortably good players who did not deserve their spotlight, and Ilya hated playing Vegas.
It was a slog. A slog filled with slurs and unnecessary aggression and absolute bullshit. Ilya was hungry, and tired. Shane was hungry, and tired. The entire team was hungry and tired. They needed to get another goalie to help Wyatt out. He was a brick wall, but even brick walls need support sometimes. The rookies were nervous and excited. The vets, especially the ones who had always been on the Centaurs, were baffled and awed. Ilya did everything he could to keep the team moving forward. Upright and strong. At the end of every game, he collapsed into Shane and Shane collapsed into him and they slept for too long and not long enough and ate to fuel their bodies. He never wanted to look at ground beef and rice ever again.
The series went all the way to game seven. Three minutes to the buzzer, Shane got a pass from Luca and slid the puck into the goal on an absolutely beautiful backhand that made Ilya want to fall to his knees and worship. A god, Shane, it didn't matter. In that moment, with the goal buzzer blaring and the fans screaming and the lights shining, Shane was a god, and Ilya was going to worship at his feet.
The game ended. The Centaurs won. 4-3. The team that the internet claimed was fueled by the power of gay love and friendship, beat a team that seemed to be fueled by hate. Ilya and his husband got to shake hands with the miserable commissioner who looked like he had swallowed a lemon when he handed them the cup. One year after Shane had been accused of throwing a game because he was in love, Shane and Ilya got to lift the cup together. Got to kiss each other, on ice, surrounded by screaming fans and screaming teammates and glowing lights. In the sun. In front of their friends, their families, and anyone who was watching.
“Спасибо, мама.” Ilya whispered into the chaos. “Я тебя люблю. Я по тебе скучаю. Спасибо тебе.”
Then he hugged Yuna and David and Harris and every single member of his team at least three times.
¥¥
The cup was over. The parades, the parties, all over. Ilya dragged himself to Galina's office again.
I'm tired. He told her.
Tired?
I won the cup again.
I saw. Very impressive win, Ilya.
Thank you.
So you are feeling tired?
I am so happy. My life is so good now. But I am so tired. Every day I am helping someone and doing something and I am going and I am going and if I slow down maybe I will fall apart. But I am so tired.
You are allowed to pause. The world will not end if you pause.
What if it does?
What if it doesn't?
Two days after that session, Ilya woke up cranky. He had three back to back virtual meetings for sponsorship shit, and another two for the Foundation and then a Captains’ meeting with the coaching staff and Shane and Bood, and then he went to the gym with Troy. His knee was still sore, so he spent half the gym session in the PT’s office getting it worked on and iced while Troy got his wrist taped under Harris Drover's watchful eye.
Suffice it to say, by the time he got home, he was in what Yuna would call “a bad head space.” Fucking cranky. Tired. Irritated. Worn down. Frustrated with the world and himself and the constant pressure to feel like he was On, all the damn time.
And then Shane is sitting there. With his glasses on. On the couch. Probably reading emails. Ilya kicks his shoes onto the rack and hangs his keys up and collapses into a pile of limbs on the opposite end of the couch.
“Hello, 愛しいあなた. No kiss?” Shane looks petulant.
Ilya grabs one of the many throw pillows on their couch and squeezes it so tight he's surprised he's not ripping it, fighting back the tears that are coming for no good god damn reason, and through gritted teeth he bites out, “I'm so fucking tired.”
“Tired?”
The tears come. He's clinging to the pillow like a fucking life raft. He feels so stupid.
“I'm so fucking tired, Shane. My life is good. It's amazing. I'm so happy, I have you and the team and my friends and a family, finally, and Anya, and I love you so much and I have a good fucking life and I'm still so tired. I just want…” he isn't even sure what he wants. “I want a break. I want five minutes where nobody thinks I'm this great strong, tough, unbreakable beast of a man. I don't WANT to be strong, I'm TIRED. I'm so fucking tired.”
He's full on weeping now and he knows he probably looks ridiculous and he can't stand to look at Shane because he's so afraid of what he's going to see in his husband's eyes. But he's almost more afraid that Shane is going to rush to try to fix this unfixable broken thing inside of Ilya, and then…
“Okay.” Shane stands up.
“What?”
“You want a break, yes?”
“Uh…”
“Okay.”
And then Shane is standing in front of him and just…picks him up. He picks up all 6'3" wall of solid muscle, the way you'd pick up a child. He walks, with Ilya in his arms, to the bedroom, and places him - gently, so fucking gently - on the bed.
“Wait here.” Shane says, and Ilya is so shocked and confused and exhausted that he just sits on the edge of the bed where Shane has left him.
Moments later, Shane returns with what appears to be every soft thing in the entire house (including Anya, who is trotting along behind him). Ilya watches, baffled, as his husband creates a nest of pillows and blankets, on their bed. He puts two water bottles down on the nightstand, turns the lights off, and starts playing soft atmospheric music through the surround sound system. He props himself up in the pillows, and with an astounding lack of struggle on his part, Shane tugs Ilya by the waist towards him.
“Come here.” Shane whispers, soft and gentle.
With remarkable flexibility and strength, Shane pulls Ilya into his lap like he does for Arthur or Jade or Ruby or Amber, and he just wraps his arms around him, tucking Ilya's head into his neck. Ilya is too tired and vaguely confused to fight it or argue, he just adjusts until he's comfortable, curled up in his husband's lap and wrapped up by him. Shane pulls the final soft blanket - the big one from the foot of their bed - up around both of them, and holds Ilya close.
“Take a break, chérie. I've got you. For however long you need.” Shane whispers into Ilya's hair and kisses the top of his head.
Gently, Shane starts to rock Ilya back and forth, and he hums quietly, a tune that is familiar only because Ilya has heard him hum it to Hayden's kids, to baby Milo, and once, apparently mindlessly, to Anya. For a brief moment, Ilya isn't sure what to do with himself, and he's almost frozen. Surely, he shouldn't allow this. He should get up and insist he's fine. He should stop being so weak. But Shane doesn't seem upset. Shane lets Ilya hold him, lets Ilya comfort him. Perhaps, just this once, he can let Shane comfort him.
So he sinks into it. Without really realizing it, he's crying again. This is, Ilya realizes, the first time he's been held since he was an exceptionally small child, unless he counts the time in Tampa when Shane crawled into his lap and held him close. It's certainly the first time he's been held and rocked and hummed to. Shane's powerful arms and shoulders are wrapped around him, and Ilya can feel his husband's strong legs under him, and he tucks himself further into the crook of Shane's neck, breathing in the smell of his soap. Shane, Ilya knows, is strong. He's powerful. A wall of a man. It is an honor to be allowed to help carry Shane Hollander's burdens.
And so, Ilya Rozanov, now, in this hour of need, lets himself be carried. Lets himself be held. Lets his husband, a strong, capable, loving man, pick up the heavy burden, and takes a break. Stops trying to carry the world on his own. He cries, and he cries, and he cries, until his eyes run dry and his chest feels caved in, and he lets Shane’s gentle rocking carry him to sleep, safe and warm and protected.