Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It is close to 3 o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon when the news breaks. It is common knowledge that nothing of note happens on Tuesday afternoons. Mass shootings, movie premieres, and scandals always happen on the weekend. Tuesday afternoon is the home of after-school art club, doctors appointments, and tedious late-afternoon conference calls when it is too early in the week to look forward to the weekend.

Puck drops at 8 o'clock for the Boston at Montreal game, and Shane is expected to be at Bell Centre at half past five. He will be there on the hour, first in the door and working through his routine when Hayden rolls in next at ten after. Their routine is well oiled and repeatable; it has brought them two MLH Cups in a row, why change it now?

Montreal is on the second game of a four home game stretch, and Shane has been free since practice ended mid-morning. Boston is on game three of an away stretch, and flew in after an early morning practice in Detroit. Four hours of obligation-free time in the same city is a gift fully wrapped and hand delivered on a silver platter.

Conveniently, Ilya is at Shane's condo when the news breaks. They are already two orgasms in and are comfortably settled on Shane's couch, TSN playing quietly in the background. Shane is tucked into the corner, Ilya stretched out with his head in Shane's lap. Shane idly combs his fingers through Ilya's hair, gently untangling and reshaping his curls while Sports Centre drones on.

The mid-afternoon sun spills across the floor, highlighting the grain of the hardwood. Shane watches the shadows ripple as the trees outside sway through the light. There was a quiet peace in the room, fragile and threaded with longing. Two hours. That was all they had before another month of distance would separate them.

It had been a month since they had last seen each other – a stolen hour in Boston during a preseason game. Neither of them had been playing, both relegated to the bench, but they had managed to carve out that one short hour together before Montreal flew out the same day. Compared to that, today felt like a luxury.

Neither of them are particularly interested in moving. Shane scratches gently at the back of Ilya's neck, receiving a contented sigh in return. This was the sort of affection that was hard to share over text messages and phone calls, but that they spent breathless hours making up for whenever their schedules aligned.

"What time do you want to eat?" Shane asks, leaning in to brush a kiss on Ilya's forehead.

"Hmmm." Ilya reaches up without opening his eyes and catches Shane's wrist, pressing a lazy kiss to the inside of it. He threads their fingers together and rests their hands on his chest. "Maybe in an hour? Should give time enough time before we leave?"

"Sounds good."

Ilya tilts his head back, and when he opens his eyes to look at Shane, there is a spark there. "We can do a lot of things in an hour, дорогойMy Dear." He turns his head into Shane's chest, mouthing at his stomach before looking back to Shane. Then he is laughing at Shane's exasperated eye roll.

"You're insatiable."

"It is your fault. If you weren't so pretty, It would be easier to keep my hands off you."

With a gentle smile, Shane leans further forward to capture Ilya's lips in a deep kiss.

"Mmmm. You won't take much convincing," Ilya murmurs against his lips.

"I never do."

They lose themselves in each other, and it is only when the tone of the broadcast shifts that they break apart. TSN had been little more than background noise all afternoon, but when they hear the words Montreal Metros, Ilya pulls back so they both have a clear view of the screen

MLH Central has just started, and David Amber and Nick Kypreos are on the panel. Behind them, taking up the entire screen, are photos – unreasonably clear photos for security camera footage, if you ask Ilya – of a hotel hallway. There is no one else in the frame, but the figures of Shane and Ilya are unmistakable. They are caught kissing, almost hidden behind a half closed door, both inside the room. Ilya's hand can be seen pushing the door closed behind them.

Ilya would never admit that, beneath his shock and fear, there is a flicker of something dangerously close to relief. No more hiding, no more careful excuses and stolen hours. But Shane's panic was immediate, and he was already unraveling. They didn't even really know what had happened yet, if anything else had been leaked – let alone who had done it, or how bad it was going to get.

Shane was eerily still on the couch, barely breathing. Ilya was more than familiar with Shane by now and that look – the blankness – it was the calm before the storm. Ilya wanted to tell him that everything would be fine, but he could not find the words and he could not bring himself to lie. Despite his mild relief, his own stomach was twisting with fear, and his thoughts were wild, plotting potential fallout and next steps. Shane, however – Shane was much, much worse.

"I can't do this," Shane whispers.

Ilya reaches for him with one hand, "Hollander .."

Shane's reaction was swift. "Rozanov! Ilya! Get off! I need to find my phone! Jesus fuck, let me up!" Shane was furiously whispering, panic threading through his voice. Ilya barely has time to move before Shane pushes past him, stumbling off the couch.

Ilya watches as Shane only makes it a few steps before his body gives out, knees hitting the floor hard. For five, maybe ten seconds, Ilya freezes. Seeing Shane – usually so controlled and so unflappable – physically fall apart scared him more than the headlines had.

Forcing his body into movement, he drops beside Shane, ignoring the way his own hands are now shaking. "Hollander," quietly, and then a little louder, "Shane." Nothing.

"Hey. Look at me." Shane doesn't react. "Shane. Look. At. Me." Ilya reaches out, taking Shane's hands in his own, forehead to forehead. "Breathe with me, please. slow breaths. Count them with me. One … two … three …" Ilya counts as he took a series of deep breaths, his worry lessening as Shane began to breathe along with him. In time, his breaths even out, fingers curling into Ilya's palms as he leans further into him.

"Everything is wrong," he says, voice breaking. "We don't even know what they have. We don't know what is going to happen next. We'll be kicked out of the league."

Ilya runs his hands from Shane's hands and up his arms, then pulls him into a hug. "We don't know anything yet." He knew that Shane was right; they didn't know anything right now, and that was the worst part. But while his uncertainty was steadily growing, he couldn't let Shane see that he was also afraid.

"I know." he says. His voice is quiet in the room, barely audible above the broadcast in the background. "I know you're scared." He squeezes Shane gently. "I am too. Let's go get our phones, we need to see what is happening." He pulls Shane up with him, and gently directs him towards the stairs.

Ilya watches as Shane takes the stairs two at a time to retrieve his phone from the bedroom. He pulls himself up and strides across the room to where he had tossed his jacket over a dining chair. Grabbing his phone, he retreats back to the couch, splitting his attention between the broadcast and his phone.

It doesn't take long for Ilya to see he's missed a lot in the past hour. He makes a habit of putting Do Not Disturb on when he is with Shane, but his notifications are full and rolling in at a speed he can not follow. As he moves to open the Raiders' team chat, an incoming call flashes on his screen - Coach.

Ilya goes to accept the call, then decides otherwise, pressing the decline button and sending it to voicemail. He opens up his web browser and a quick search later shows hundreds of results already out there, building a story around them. He closes the browser window and opens Twitter. They're trending. He locks his phone, places it on the coffee table, and pushes it away. He leans forward, elbows on knees, rubbing at his temples. "Hollander?" he calls. There is no answer from upstairs, no sound of footfall as Shane returns.

Initial thoughts aside, this was a disaster. An inconvenient, untimely, life-changing disaster. A disaster of the I can never return to Russia and what the fuck will the MLH do level of disaster. A catastrophe. His phone rings – a quick glance shows it is Marlow. He ignores it.

He feels colder without Shane. His life is being dissected by a panel of people on a show he has watched a thousand times, turning it into something to be debated between commercial breaks. They don't know anything, but they won't stop talking. Ilya stares at the screen without really seeing it. His own face appears again in the corner, and his stomach twists. His phone vibrates again on the table, but he still doesn't answer.

Ilya drags a hand over his face and lets out a shaky breath. Shane hasn't come back downstairs and that is more important than his fear.

"Блядь... я влюблён в него.Fuck … I am in love with him" The realization feels like a surrender, and his breath catches. He loves this serious, idiotic, overwrought, amazing man and he thinks he's loved him for a long time. What a fucking inconvenient day.

"БлядьFuck!!" Ilya lets his head fall back to the wall behind the couch and with a sigh, pushes himself up off the couch and heads upstairs to find Shane. His self-induced drama shoved to the back of his mind to be dealt with another day. Because he knows Shane, and because he knows Shane he is fully aware that Shane will be spiraling. Nothing Ilya does in the next ten minutes will change what has happened, no amount of introspection around the workings of his heart will fix this, so he will control what he can.

The bedroom door is open, and Shane is on the floor next to the bed, legs pulled up to his chest, head tucked in, right hand curled around himself, phone hanging limply from his left hand, alight with notifications. He's made himself as small as possible, seemingly trying to curl into a ball and disappear. The panic is back, arriving the moment he no longer has Ilya to hold him together. Ilya crouches in front of Shane, reaching out to cup his face, stroking his fingers along Shane's jaw. "Hollander," he says. No response but a shuddering breath.

"Shane," he tries, as he settles onto his knees and uses his other hand to slowly unwrap Shane's fingers from his phone, placing it behind them on the bed. Turning his full attention back, he wraps his arm around Shane and rests his head on top of his soft hair, "I'm here, we will figure it out together." He holds Shane, the only sound the constant vibrating of the phone on the bed. They stay there, together in each other's arms.

It may be only a minute, it may be five – Ilya could not tell you – when Shane's shoulders shake, and a quiet sob breaks the self-imposed silence. "Shhhhh." Ilya murmurs into his hair, "Всё хорошо, любимыйEverything is okay, beloved."

Shane's voice is quiet when he finally speaks. "What are we going to do?"

"I don't know, but we need to agree what we will say before we speak to anyone." Ilya nuzzles his head into Shane's hair, as Shane relaxes into him. "Though the pictures are very clear. I do not think we can deny anything." He pauses – unsure if Shane will be receptive to humour right now – then continues, "Though you know, we look very hot together."

Shane's laugh is weak, but it is a laugh; Ilya will take this type of shoulder shaking any day. Frankly, making Shane laugh is one of Ilya's favourite thing to do, up there with holding him, kissing him, fucking him, and well – if we're being honest here – just being with him.

"Let's get off the floor. I'll grab your phone and we should see what people are saying before we answer any calls." Ilya pulls back from Shane, using the hand on his cheek to gently pull his face up. "Дорогой, can you do that?"

Shane makes a jerky nod. Ilya rolls himself back onto his feet and stands, holding out his hands for Shane to take. "Come here," he says, once Shane is standing, pulling Shane fully into his arms and holding him tight. Letting him go, Ilya grabs Shane's phone with one hand and his hand with another, pulling Shane behind him and back downstairs. The tv continues on in the background, having moved on to other hockey news.

"Who first?" Ilya asks. "Coach? Your parents? Team chat? Hayden?" Ilya unlocks his phone, and moves to his texts. There is a longer list of unread messages than he's ever seen.

"Fuck! My mom!" Ilya is pulled away from his messages by Shane's outburst. He raises an eyebrow at him. "I fucking lied to her. To them. For so many years, I fucking lied to them. This is a fucking nightmare."

"I think maybe they will be okay," Ilya says. "I think your parents will … ah … " he trails off "... I think they will be worried for you, but they love you, yes?"

"Ugh … I feel like I'm gonna die. I'm terrified to look at what they've said, and I don't think I can look at the Metros chat or see what Theriault has to say yet, either." Shane unlocks his phone and scrolls through the notifications. "Hayden feels safe," he says, opening his text thread with Hayden.

"Fuck," he says, quiet enough that Ilya ignores him, but with enough feeling to get the point across. "Wrong choice," he mutters. He clicks into the thread with Farah.

"Fucking hell." Shane rubs his forehead, runs his hand through his hair. His phone hangs limply from his right hand. "I need to call Farah." Ilya looks up to see Shane looking back at him.

"Who is Farah?"

"My agent. I think I need to tell her about you. Fuck. Are you okay if I tell her about you?"

Ilya barks out a short laugh. "Hollander, I think she knows about me by now."

"You know what I mean! She can help …" Shane stands abruptly, pacing the length of the room. "I mean, that's her job right? I'm sure there is something she can do. If I speak to her …"

"Yes Shane," Ilya interrupts. "Call her. I no longer have an agent, so we might as well talk to yours."

"WHAT?"

"He is not asshole, but he is Russian," Ilya said, tilting his head and dropping his eyes back to his phone. "He is Russian, he has family, and I am man kissing a man. He can not keep his family safe and me as a client."

"Are you fucking serious?"

He snorts as he types in a response to Boris. "Oh yeah, great joke. Gay people in Russia get killed, so funny to joke about not having agent."

"Jesus! Okay, I get it."

"He is very clear, ah … but I can see he does not want to drop me."

"How can you know that?" Shane asks. "He's fucking dropping your ass when you really need an agent!"

"Is very Russian. He says to me 'I have every confidence you will find a new agent that will represent you moving forward.'. This is very American way of saying this, in Russia we would say something more blunt and no room for interpretation. 'You will need to find new representation' maybe?"

Shane lets out an indignant laugh. "Him saying he is confident you'll find an agent means he supports you?"

Ilya raises his head from his phone and sees Shane still staring at him, very intently. "Yes. He was good agent, but it is … ah …" Ilya closes his eyes again briefly, then smiles a sad, small smile at Shane " … to be expected."

"Jesus, okay." Shane's phone vibrates again, new messages from the Metro team chat, his mom and Hayden coming in. "I'm calling Farah before we do anything else. Actually fuck I'm putting Do Not Disturb on first, I can't fucking do this."

Shane mutes the call.