Archive of Our Own

“The most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or touched, they are felt with the heart.”

- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

 

When Shane was ten, his dad had gotten him several books.

It was one of David's means of broadening his interests, what with Shane's world slowly tunnelling towards hockey and hockey alone. He'd tried to get Shane into different genre's, giving his hyperactive mind an outlet to tap into his imagination. He knew, keenly, that Shane had the tendency to be pretty single-minded when it came down to it, and had hoped these books would serve Shane well in at least giving him some other things to talk about with his peers.

David had been particularly unsuccessful in stirring Shane's interests with sprawling, multi-book series about young wizards of grand destiny, or children of Greek gods and their attempts at harnessing their divinity. Shane hadn't found the concept excitable, remotely. Who cared about flying broomsticks if Shane could achieve that with a push across the ice? Who cared about gifts of the sea or of the sky when all Shane had ever wanted was the sheet of ice beneath his skates?

However, there was one book, somehow, that had managed to arrest Shane for a little more than the cursory read he'd had with the others.

It was about a pilot, but beyond that it was also about a young boy who was actually a prince, far from home. At the time, Shane had found himself more drawn towards the concepts of it all, with their tiny planets and their peculiar occupants, the talking roses that were both the great loves of ones life but also common, and talking foxes and talking snakes.

At the time he'd read it, he'd felt rather moved—whether it be by the profound loneliness that encompassed the book, or the way it detailed love, not as something romantic, but as something about responsibility. To love is to tame, and to tame is to be responsible for another's dependence on you. To love all the more carefully, to be mature and understanding of it's uniqueness.

It had been something he'd kept in the back of his mind. The only things you learn are the things you tame. You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed.  

He's been thinking a lot, about that book recently. Which is odd, because it shouldn't be such a big deal, this harmless children's story about a little prince's tireless odyssey—wanting to go home, yearning for their love, that persistent loneliness. But it seemed to have struck a chord with him, regardless.

The yearning for home is a familiar feeling, one that he's been parsing through ever since the start of this season. Home has changed its shape for Shane over the years, has become less an object with doors and windows and structures and more an abstraction, a feeling caught and associated more and more with the warmth of another; of Ilya Rozanov and the homely shape of his broad shoulders and sculpted thighs and large, calloused hands and the soft skin of his gut.

So, maybe Shane had begun to struggle beneath the gravity of that—a particularly sobering reality that lent itself to a host of other's Shane's realizations; being that he could not particularly see himself being so far from home—meaning Ilya, with his eyes a gorgeous, refracting hazel and his presence an endless wellspring that slotted against Shane's like a warm hug, never a dulling moment, even in the quiet ones—any longer, but was struggling to remedy that. Consequently, that had led to even more pondering on what he had thought would be a part of that definition of home too—namely Montreal, the Voyageurs, and his identity as a hockey player, really—which had slowly but surely become more and more foreign to him with each cold shoulder and passive-aggressive comment about his lifestyle. 

Nevermind that he doesn't bring his lifestyle onto the ice, nor does he have any intention of bringing even more attention to it—given the less than stellar reaction its gotten from the locker room.

There's a hesitation there, admittedly, when it comes to admitting these shifting definitions of home and belonging. Shane loves his routines, abiding by them to maintain a sense of structure in his life. He loves his team. He loves his hockey.

He also just loves Ilya more—and that's why they had a plan to make it work. A vague few years into the future, where they can be safe and out and, most importantly of all, happy.

But it is a problem, because Shane's own mind has started to turn against his own want for consistency, for that rigid routine to keep him on track, and now he is longing for Ilya while also being terrified. Because he has Ilya here, in Ottawa, and Ilya has him in Montreal, but neither of them seem to be doing quite well enough to make that work. So now he misses Ilya with every fibre of his being with every phone call and interview and sudden silence and comment on the ice. Cannot stomach it, because being in Ilya's heart is different from being with Ilya out in the open, the way he was now beginning to crave to such a terrifying degree—that he feels the intense pinpricks of envy that tumble down his spine with every other out and proud queer couple he know.

But he is still afraid, because he knows the hockey world isn't ready for this, for them; for them existing to each other beyond what is perfunctory and expected. Because to the hockey world they are friendly, sure, but likelier to the degree of business partner and joint causes rather than a love story for the ages. They aren't supposed to be a unit like Shane&Ilya—they would have preferred it it they were never anything at all.

He's no Scott Hunter, and Ilya is definitely no Scott Hunter—but Shane knows that he's a bit more willing to step out of the closet, maybe test the waters with other people. And perhaps Shane is terrified because he does want it too, to the extent that Ilya would want it.

However, it just isn't possible right now. Shane knows, that in order for them to be happy for longer than the moment in which they tell the truth and the world has yet to reply, they would have to coast along the line of plausible deniability for as long as possible.

So, Shane needs to keep their careers while also keeping his guy, his baby happy—preferably forever. Easier said than done, seeing as his heart wouldn't stop flip-flopping out of his ribcage and spilling pathetically onto anything that Ilya had ever known and loved and made it way too obvious and completely derail everything and put Ilya in danger and have them slowly resent each other for getting themselves into this beautiful, lovely thing and—

Where was Shane going with this?

Well, Shane was, surely, going somewhere with this. But he and Ilya are arguing, yes, and that doesn't mean he loves Ilya any less—that would be impossible. Be that as it may, he and Ilya are arguing over a fucking Boxing Day party when really, all Shane wants is to be with Ilya, have him hold Shane's heart the way he always does, cradled deep into the marrow and nurtured with his heat. It's been Christmas. It's been bliss. Why can't Ilya see the danger of it? 

An abundance of caution is necessary for their safety, for their future! And they're snapping and snippy and Shane is aware of how deliberately short he's being. Which he doesn't like being, especially towards Ilya, who he loves so much that he can't help but be rambling and winding and all in his face with it that he's sure it's obvious, so, so obvious. Shane loves him so much they could probably smell it on him, see it in his gait, in the set of his eyes. He's probably a walking, talking, living beacon for how much he loves Ilya.

Which is why they can't go. Because its dangerous, and people talk, and it hurts to deny him, but Ilya, we can't, it's dangerous!

But Ilya is getting short with him, too, and there's a fuse lit right here, in Ilya's living room where he and Shane were supposed to be languishing gloriously on one of their sparse, longer weekends together, and it's nearing that explosive, booming, catastrophic ignition. And Ilya is saying all these things about how Shane wouldn't be choosing Ilya,  that he hadn't been at all, and that Shane is ashamed of him, and Shane feels his hackles rise because that is so deliberately false and that makes him parrot it back and—

There is that moment, right before a grenade explodes, where the pin is pulled and the people around register it; the grenade, and the pulled pin, and its in that moment of recognition, before the blow comes and the fear rises, that there is something wrong, so unbelievably wrong, and you think to yourself, god, how am I in this situation with a damn grenade? And it explodes, and its unsightly, and it hurts, and you'll probably die from the pain of it, registered sharp and swift and irreparable.

Ilya's pulled the pin, he's thrown it. And lit fuse in their living room has finally reached the bomb strapped to it; and it explodes ever so deadly, a stab right through the heart where Shane has realised, all at once, that the gravity of this whole situation wasn't just with the fear and the risk to their careers and lives and everything external—everything Shane had thought was the problem.

Instead it's here, right here, where they keep it all in. It's this house in Ottawa and Shane's apartment in Montreal; and that feeling of home, suffocating you because people can never know that they are your home. Even when all you want to do is to invite them inside and let them know—to be able to say 'Hey, here is the love of my life. Hey, here's the best thing I have ever known.'

And then that reluctance starts to feel a lot more like rejection—constant, stinging rejection, and you shouldn't be expecting that from the one person you can call home. Except it happens again and again, in increments. Pulling away in public. Avoiding each other when there are others around. And try as you might to pour all your love when hidden, it will still feel unfair that others get to have it all out there while the two of you rot in this place you call home.

Shane hasn't reached that part yet, the part when he registers the pulled pin and the grenade and the sharp pain. But he sees it clearly, already, the wreckage in the form of Ilya and the quiet devastation that settles into his features like a second skin—or maybe, his actual skin, his mask falling off to show all the hurt that Shane hadn't known the depths of. So, as Ilya requests Shane that he leave Ilya, that Shane leave the only home that has mattered, in a voice so defeated and cold yet wanting all at once, Shane moves, he has to.

He will follow what Ilya says of him, even if it means he has to go.

He doesn't register it all, really, the sharp pain of it, until he's driven the two hours away from home, to this house in Montreal.

The thing is, Shane remembers the story well—all the planets, and the places on earth, and the talking roses and snakes. But before that, before all the little prince's adventures, the story actually begins with a six-year-old boy, drawing an elephant eaten by a boa constrictor, but which adults believed to be a drawing of a hat. He remembers thinking it incredulous, how could these people fail to take his word for it?

Perhaps, Shane is feeling that way, because he is unmoored—everything tense and terse left both said and unsaid between him and Ilya ringing in his mind. Perhaps, if he had been more cognizant of the situation, gone through the play-by-play of that moment before a startling clarity washed over Shane, then maybe Shane wouldn't be feeling so incredulous.

So now, he's remembering that story. Except, it's his boyfriend, the love of his life, his better half in every conceivable way, imposed to the image of a six-year-old-boy, wanting to be heard; and Shane, one of those blustering, disbelieving adults, bludgeoning how he'd felt with a dismissal.

He had already chosen Shane, that was true, irrevocably. He had left Boston and the team and all the years of his prime for Shane, to be loyal to Shane, like they had discussed it. And while it's unfair, that Ilya thinks Shane wouldn't have chosen him, Shane knows, quite intimately, just how much Ilya's choosing of him is more visible than his choosing of Ilya.

But shouldn't Ilya know, by now? After almost three years of exclusivity and a decade of whatever they were to each other? Shouldn't he know how he's chosen Ilya to the point of devotion, every brick laid for a smoother, happier future where they retire happy and sated and without the hockey world serving their severed heads on a platter?

Still, Ilya's eyes, cold and washed over with something distant, the feeling of the rug pulled from under Shane, under what he thought they knew, as the unit of them—Ilya hadn't seemed convinced Shane would choose him, over hockey, over anything, and that was breaking Shane's heart, and it ached so much more because however much Shane is feeling must be worse for Ilya. Had Shane done something to convince Ilya he wouldn't choose him? Had Shane been unable to love him hard enough, loud enough, in all the ways that mattered? He knew, of course, that Ilya had gotten deeply, worryingly sad—and Shane always wanted to know, if Ilya had been alright. If Ilya was still alright. If Ilya was still happy?

Had Ilya been? Or had he been a bit like Shane does with his teammates in Montreal? Had he masked and pretended in such a way that Shane, in all his literal bullheadedness, had failed to see beyond the meagre illusion?

But that didn't seem quite right either. Every time they were together, it had seemed quite resplendent, and Ilya would laugh and joke around and they'd fuck into loose-limbed bliss and touch and crave and rebuild with the tender care of two people who knew, quite well, just how much they love each other.

Except it hadn't, clearly, because Shane had been seeing a hat when Ilya was showing him something else.

Fuck. Shane didn't know anymore. He's tired and he's hurting in that way it usually does when he and Ilya fight. Except this time the ache is like an open wound, bleeding helplessly, too much blood lost and so little time to let it be staunched and clotted over. Shane is standing in front of his apartment, sluggishly punching in his door code, and proximally getting through the threshold with all the strength he could muster.

He's thrown his car keys into the tray by the doorway, and he's toed off his shoes with his head hung low. He didn't bother shoving them back into the cabinet, nor did he have the energy for anything beyond walking from his the doorway to his bedroom.

He's stepped into his home, socked feet padding against the hardwood floors, pad-pit-pad with all the weight and creaking that comes with a settling apartment. He's rubbed at his eyes and at his chest because everything was still aching, and all he has to soothe is himself. He's taken the steps two at a time in a rather recklessly fatigued pace, and he's aware he could slip and a nasty fall from this height wouldn't just end his season, it might even end his career, but he's all tangled up in the would you choose me?/I already chose you/please leave of it all, because Shane thought the answer was pretty clear and—

He's looked up, padding towards the door of his room and unlocks it with no particular flourish, except maybe, he should've, because there's a person on his bed. 

There's a distinguished person, smoking a cigarette, on his bed. Great. 

Shane stares right at the man who's sat right on the edge of his bed, and sure enough, a set of brown eyes are staring right back at him. At least, he has the decency to put out the stick. 

See, Shane wants to panic. But he also wants to do other things, like call Ilya and talk to him, properly this time, and he wants to haul his ass back up to Ottawa to fix things, because there's so much shit unspoken between them and it's killing him. And he wants to walk into the locker room and not have conversation die around him, like wilting flowers sprayed with pesticide for an assured death. And he wants to be just a hockey player, not some tokenized symbol or some diversity quota. And he wants to know what Ilya is thinking, really; and how long has this been going on; and has Shane killed him, killed them, been killing them, by claiming hockey publicly and Ilya privately?

But he's also bone, fucking, tired. So he lets his brain decide for him, the way it usually does when it needs to put Shane first. 

He collapses right towards his bed and falls sound asleep.

Hollander, as Shane had taken to calling his elder counterpart, was surly and seemingly weighted. He's got this salt and pepper thing going on, his hair long but shorter than how Shane was currently styling it. There were quite a few fine lines etched into the fat of skin around the eyes, a smattering of wrinkles across the forehead that seemed to denote a great deal of stress. He was broader, Shane realised, occupying far more space in this lonely, stretching apartment he calls a home.

Shane had never really spared a moment towards thinking about how he'd looked like older. He felt that thinking about how he looked like in the present was more sufficient. After all, it was the present that held all that arresting qualities that Ilya had known him for, so it was the now that mattered, regardless if that now was the both of them baby-faced outside a rink in Saskatchewan, or the now that was the teasing, slowly showing signs of age.

He had no doubt that he'd find Ilya attractive at any age. He was obsessed with Ilya, with his everything, and time makes the heart grow fonder and his own fantasies all the more lustier. He's also quite confident that Ilya would love him at any age too, what with Ilya's domestic fantasies and his own old man habits that he settled into with pride.

Not that Ilya found him attractive right when they were fighting. If anything, Ilya probably felt wounded and hurt just by looking at Shane. No balm at all. Not even a handsome face would soothe those spiky, emotional jabs. 

This whole thing finally seems to have caught up to Shane, now that he had gotten a nap out of the way and let the frantic energy of the last few hours finally settle into his skin. He'd been gently shook awake by his older counterpart, insisting Shane eat—and which was also, likely, a veiled attempt at getting Shane out of his bed.

Because now that Shane was registering it, the apartment he's entered is definitely not his apartment. It's summer, instead of the freezing chill of winter, that he's been greeted to. There were a few differences that Shane could pinpoint between this Montreal apartment Hollander occupies and the version he had thought he'd be returning to.

For one, there seemed to be much scarcer personal affects and knickknacks. Traces of anything that, to Shane's knowledge, was to his or Ilya's more distinct taste had been scrubbed; the apartment had looked more like a catalogued showroom worn with age. There were of course, a few signs of life across the apartment: a ring shaped cup stain on the wooden console table, a particularly aged DVD player, a shelf full of coffee table books, hardbound in faux leather, his jersey framed in a neat black frame hanging sentinel over the living room.

For another, there was a certain smell to it, one he'd come to associate with an Ilya from years ago—the smell of cigarette smoke. It's not cloyingly obvious. But to Shane, who's been coming home to this apartment almost daily, it had always smelled clean (or of orange freshener). This was different—this was a clinging scent, something only mellowed out by the city air entering through the large screen doors that led to the balcony.

It had felt much more hollow, standing in this space so familiar yet quite foreign room, as if it had been copied and edited from a vague memory.

Hollander hadn't seemed surprised to see another Shane. If anything, he had remained seated across the chaise, simply observing himself—his younger self. If Shane knew himself, he was probably cataloguing his reactions: checking if he's about to send himself into a panic or go completely numb.

"How old are you?" Hollander asks, finally. The silence between stretching much too long for his liking. 

"That's your first question?" Shane asks back, incredulous.

"You're not the first one to barge into my home, kid." Hollander replies, shrugging. 

"I'm thirty. Not a kid." 

"Well at some point when you have multiple versions of yourself coming and going you tend to just assume." Hollander pushes himself off of the couch and begins to head towards the kitchen, motioning for Shane to follow. "Come. Whatever you did to end up on my doorstep is better discussed on a full stomach."

Shane perches onto the bar stool, hands on the counter and traces the marble pattern with his eyes as he waits for Hollander to finish whipping them up some impromptu meal. A hearty lox bagel is placed before him, clearly prepped from a day before. "We're still on a diet?" 

"No. Not anymore. It's just easier to have these on hand when a new variant of me drops on my doorstep." Hollander replies. "And, it's not all bad. This one has some pretty good hollandaise."

"This happens often—"

"Often enough." Hollander cuts him off. "Anyway, go on. What what were you doing before?"

"I, um…I was in Ottawa."

"For the break?"

"No, I was visiting Ilya." 

"In Ottawa?"

"Yeah, in Ottawa. He lives there. He plays for the Centaurs?"

Hollander's face does something horrible, a mix between a frown and a kept together sob. Shane doesn't like that. He doesn't like that the kitchen and the living room and his bedroom seemed so devoid of all the little touches of Ilya scattered around. Doesn't like the absence of photographs or clear personal details.

Something has gone very, very wrong for Hollander, for his space to be so sanitized and for the heartbreak to creep out unbidden. "You said you were thirty, right?"

"Yeah."

Hollander sighs. "OK. Wow." He places both hands on the counter, as if bracing. "I wasn't expecting that. You're a version of me that's…" He releases a wheezing breath, and Shane notices that not even age wears away at his habits—at his attempts at grounding himself.

"Alright, start from the beginning."

Shane's been a bit worried, actually, that he shouldn't be seeing the future—his future, especially. But Hollander had shrugged at him, reassuring him that whatever his future was, it definitely wasn't Shane's, thus, they're probably not in the same universe. No consequences.

Hollander, doesn't seem too bothered at the company, having been host to a whole peanut gallery of Shane's from different points in time. He's quite well-equipped, actually, what with the clothes and the food and his usual steps. He's even given Shane a phone, one of the older models that still had a decent battery life, as was his standard procedure for most of the Shane's, but the phone didn't connect to data or any WiFi signals. 

Apparently, he could waltz into a future version of his home rink just fine, but he shouldn't have access to anything online because it might be cheating. Which, sure, Shane could understand parts of the logic behind it, but if Hollander was already adamant that they weren't in the same universe, then what harm would having access to the internet do to Shane?

But he digresses.

According to Hollander, the other Shane's have appeared to him during a time of deep personal turmoil. Often, that meant periods of time like Shane's first year as captain, or Shane's rookie year. Most of the turmoil had been about hockey or the locker room in some shape or form; however, it was also about personal reconciliation—reconciling with the whole I only like guys of it all.

Hollander often solved this problem by taking him right here, to the Voyageurs' training complex. 

Apparently, Hollander was now the head coach for the Voyageurs for a good four years now, having finally kicked old Thierault off to the side. He's been retired for a good while before he'd taken up coaching, coasting along and finally relaxing after being constantly with a hockey stick for so long.

Today was apparently a briefing, something about management and training camp, especially for those players they're considering from the farm team; and since Shane isn't part of the team—technically—it meant that Shane couldn't sit in and watch on the administrative proceedings. Instead, Hollander tells him to take a look around the complex and knock himself out with it.

"Most of the Shane's that have ended up here usually only need to see the complex before they figure it all out." Hollander had reasoned, and Shane wasn't about to question the logic behind it yet. It had only been a day of this odd time travelling thing, after all.

Shane finds himself staring at the rows of display cases by the lobby, the grandeur of Montreal's rich history and legacy ever present. He's scanning them, trying to find these small differences. 

He's rounding the corner that leads to a bunch of displays with his name, on it. Captain Shane Hollander, engraved on a golden plaque, a collage of photos and miniatures and time stamps with tiny trivia squares. A museum to Shane's greatness, immortalized right here, at the heart of hockey.

It would be enough to calm a younger version of him—to see a version of himself who seems to have gotten it all figured out, even with the gay thing. Maybe having physical proof of that success was enough. 

His eyes trace each etched win and their accompanying photos.

2014-2015. The Montreal Voyageurs first Stanley Cup in the 21st century after an almost two decade drought.  

2015-2016. The Montreal Voyageurs second Stanley Cup in the 21st century after an almost two decade drought.  

2016-2017. The Montreal Voyageurs third Stanley Cup—which, confused Shane there, for a brief moment.

A three-peat so early into his career. No wonder Hollander seemed so beloved. No wonder they had wanted him here, coaching, leading the next generation of Voyageurs with a wealth of knowledge on how exactly you could win a cup. He's a dynasty-maker.

In Shane's own experience, 2016-2017 was a year of revelation. It was a lot of reconciling particular truths he'd kept buried and hidden out of shame—coasting along with a conceived notion of his own capacity for being 'normal' that he'd been paralysed. It was the year he had finally become honest, not just towards himself, but towards the people he loved—his mom, his dad, and most especially, Ilya.

All that's to say that Shane's starting to get it, a bit, why everything back in that apartment seemed so devoid of anything in the shape or smell or size of Ilya Rozanov. Perhaps, this Shane Hollander never had to make space for an Ilya to miss, for an Ilya ardently cherished. Perhaps, Hollander had instead gone on to be laser-focused on hockey and hockey alone, just like how his dad had feared he would. It didn't seem too bad, seeing as he's emerged out the other side seemingly content and beloved.

Still, Shane can't help but wonder at it all.

He'd seemed properly shocked when Shane had mentioned Ilya in Ottawa. Maybe Ilya had done and retired with the Bears? Maybe they had twin legacies, their rivalry a constant pillar of their staggering careers? 

Does Hollander know of this, of the Shane&Ilya of it all? Or is this a version of him that has never experienced the tempest that is Ilya Rozanov?

Their circumstances seem so frankly different that Shane can't help but wonder what this Hollander could possibly have, that sent a slew of other Shane's just like him to his doorstep? That sent Shane into this future, that he'd already jumped the bridge on.

He hadn't realised much time had passed while he'd been exploring the practice facility until Hollander had clapped him on the back. "Feels good, doesn't it." He says, pride radiating from him.

Shane catches the other dates for the cups. 2019-2020, that tracks, he's done that too, a recent memory. 2022-2023, so Shane would be 33. 2026-2027, and Shane would've been 37.

Six cups over different parts of his career, no wonder Hollander feels like this.

He looks over the cups, and then to the fine lines around Hollander's eyes, and the difference between the atmosphere of this room, where Hollander has undeniably cemented himself as one of the greats, and the atmosphere of his locker room back in his own world; where he is great, sure, but he is also tempered and quiet and weathered down.

It's harrowing to realise that his future self sees this as home, in a way he's slowly weaning off of. 

"Did you find what you're looking for here?" Hollander asks.

"I…" Shane hesitates. "I'm not sure this is what I need to get home." 

Hollander nods, imperceptibly. "Alright. Let's try again tomorrow."

The car Hollander drives is an electric jeep. In concept, it's quite hilarious, for a car good in the snow to relying on E-power. But perhaps two decades of time has turned Shane into the type of man who believes in the capacity of electric cars over gas ones. 

Similarly to the apartment, the car is sparse in it's decor. No photos hidden in the sun visor or a tiny doohickey on the dash. All it seems is weathered with age, the sparse scratches in the detailing betraying nothing except signs of use.

Hollander's been pretty wish-washy ever since they left the rink, probably unused to a variant of himself that doesn’t immediately calm at the sight of hockey—or, frankly, of the Voyageurs.

Shane wonders if Hollander has anybody in his corner, someone he calls home. Maybe this Hollander would get defensive if he asked, the same way he used to when his peers talked about settling down and starting a family, the way his parents had prodded (before Ilya, of course) about the single daughter's of friends. He hasn't been doing much talking with this version of himself, not since he'd given a brief rundown of the past day's events with Ilya in Ottawa; The whole we fucked/we fought/needed to cool off/feeling guilty of it all.

Well, one things for sure. Whatever Future-Ilya was to Hollander, it was not remotely similar to what Shane had with Ilya. His Ilya, his baby, who is probably sad and hurting and needs space, but who Shane wants to go home to, right now. If only to grovel at his feet or to soothe or to kiss feather-light kisses across the folds of his skin.

If Shane's suspicions are right, it wouldn't even be remotely close.

Hollander points out a few things here and there. Innocuous details, like the cafe with the barista JJ had a horrendous crush on closed down, replaced by a Pilates gym; or there's a sports bar here somewhere, and they have a drink named after us, called it the Hollzy and it's part ginger ale and gin and syrups and tastes suspiciously like a seltzer; or that corner store you used to buy condoms at is still being run by the same guy, by the way, and he knows who we are, because we pet their bodega cat and wipe our shoes at the welcome mat.

It's at a crossing, familiar yet changed, that Shane spots it.

Right there, on an e-billboard by the crossing, is Ilya. It's clips of him, walking towards the camera in a tailored black suit, cupping his hands around a sleeve as if smoothing out his outfit. And it's zooming out, to reveal a sleek sports car beside him—a Porsche, which, Shane should've predicted. It was one of the few brands in his large sports car collection that he had hesitated to part with before he moved to Ottawa. 

Ilya on the billboard is well, he can't tell just how much has changed, but it's less like the recognition Shane had when he saw his future self's face, and felt more like Ilya had slapped on one of his silly snap filters. He's also distinguished, and he's sure there's some corner of the internet that's given him some title of 'DILF' or some other, thirsting after him in all his aged glory. Was internet lexicon still similar? Shane would assume so—the concept of Ilya with the moniker of 'DILF' felt timeless and perfect, especially to Shane.

Time seems to suit him, Shane admits. Though he'd also probably prefer to see just how time has affected Ilya, without the powder and concealer and post-production clearing out any fine lines, or the traces of stubble that undoubtedly dot his chin, or the veins of his neck that have probably hallowed around the skin, less elastic than it was before. He wants to see that, on Ilya, the effects of time and age. 

He wants to grow old with him. But Shane already knew that. He wants to do a lot of things—most pressing being getting back to Ilya, because Shane's increasingly aware of just how much he misses Ilya in the face of a version of himself where, it seems, he doesn't know just what there is to miss. 

On an impulse, that's definitely fuelled by a longing to see his boyfriend, Shane decides to take a photo of the advert with his borrowed phone. He looks to Hollander to see if he'd react to the shutter sound from the phone, but—

Hollander also seems to be staring, at least. Watching the ad instead of watching the road. Shane feels like a voyeur, in this regard, watching his future self stare with a complicated mix of longing and apprehension that to anyone that wasn't, well, a version of Shane, would probably be read as indifference.

If this Hollander was anything like him, then there's no doubt in his mind that he found this Ilya attractive. The question then, is more of: Does he elicit the same electric, undeniable feeling? Does Future-Ilya continue to orbit him, even in the very obvious distance between this Hollander and everything Ilya Rozanov? Does Future-Ilya consume this Hollander's every waking thought, even if it seems that decades has passed since they'd ever been within the presence of the other.

Semantics. 

The light turns green, and the advert mercifully fades out into a photo of the Porsche logo, and neither him nor Hollander are looking at the face of an aged Ilya Rozanov. At least, not anymore.

But Shane just can shake away that look in his future-self's eyes. The one that looked a lot like the feeling of missing. 

Hollander had prepared yet another salmon dish, frying the fish in miso paste and serving it with a healthy serving of buttered asparagus and sliced cherry tomatoes. He'd even portioned out the brown rice.

He's peppering Shane with questions, trying to get to the bottom of the whole how to get me (read: Past-Me, but simultaneously Present-Me) home safe and whole of it all, retracing Shane's steps and trying to figure out the commonality between him and every other version of Shane that had ended up at his doorstep.

He's been taking note of all the differences between this universe and his own. So far, most blatant had been the distinct lack of Rozanov in any personal capacity, and the cups, of course. Or rather, one cup in particular at the wrong time, but that also seems to be the most pressing one.

"You know, the amount of cups is a bit shocking. I mean, I have three cups but I didn't get a three-peat like you did."

"Really?" Hollander perks up at this.

"Yes. My third cup's your fourth." Shane replies.

Hollander seems to consider this, face settled into a frown. "Did you get hit by Marleau that season?"

"Yeah, actually. Is that the norm?"

"Seems to be. Most of the Shane's whose gone through that season has been injured with a fracture collarbone and a few broken ribs." —he stabs at chunk of his fish, running it through the sauce— "That didn't happen to me though. What happened with me and Marleau at that game was a standard check, nothing more."

"And you won the cup." Shane states.

"And I won the cup." Hollander says with a bright smile. "Three-peat and all. It was a wonderful time, you know?"

Shane is sure it was; perhaps, because this Shane hadn't had to go through the eye of a needle to get all his own affairs in order. Maybe, the cups spoke enough for himself that being gay hadn't mattered as much to the Voyageurs. Maybe he hadn't experienced the same rollercoaster of a year he had with the Rozanov of it all.

"So Scott Hunter didn't come out that year…" Shane prods, and Hollander raises his brow at him, confused.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's just— if every other version of me you've met got their bell rung, that probably means they're likely getting the same sequence of events."

"Oh." Hollander slips, unable to control his reaction."So, every Shane that injures himself witnesses Scott Hunter win the cup?"

"—And drag his boyfriend down onto the ice and come out in an unbelievably public fashion. Yes." Shane reaffirms.

"Is that so…" Hollander replied, half-hearted. "Well, Scott did come out, eventually. He won the cup twice, actually. Once in 2019 and then another the year he retired. Took much longer than yours though, considering I stole his thunder."

"Have there been others who've come out?" Shane asks, pushing his food around. "There's been quite a few for me."

"We had some of the retirees come out: Eric Bennett, Ryan Price. That sort of thing. Usually the players have taken to coming out a few years after you know, with their NTC's locked in. Less of a hassle, that way. They didn't want a repeat of Barrett."

Shane's noticed it, all throughout, how quiet this Hollander gets at the mention of of anything vaguely alluding to anything queer. He'd noticed it instantly when he revealed he'd been with Ilya, as his boyfriend, a fact that seemed to throw Hollander in such a shock that his face hadn't been able to completely mask it. There's also, of course, the shocking lack of any queer related hockey news from the man, as if this world, also two decades into the future, still holds the same values Shane's been exposed to his whole career.

Of course, everything won't get better immediately. But, was it so bold to assume that two decades would have some much more positive changes, especially if—

"Have you come out?" Shane asks, averting his gaze from Hollander. The kitchen's atmosphere shifts, turning even more tense than what Shane thought possible. "It's always been the plan, you know? Retire and come out, let the announcement speak for itself and let the cups and the awards do the rest…"

"There's no point in coming out, for me." Hollander replies, curt, in a manner that felt very much like a 'drop it' and 'discussion over'. Whatever Shane's had in his mouth tastes like ash, now, and he looks up to see his older counterpart's expression fall, his trusted look of careful neutrality revealing something vulnerable and aged. It's the expression he has, Ilya would say, when something hurts him unexpectedly, face unable to mask the pain that spreads through him like a poison. "The people who matter to me know, and that's it. I keep my personal life and professional life separate."

"Oh. Right, of course. You're still coaching. The league must not like that." Shane responds, using his own experiences with the league so far as a benchmark.

Hollander looks defensive though. "I mean, the guys now, well they're definitely better than before. And they're not kicking people out anymore. I don't want you thinking they're a bunch of assholes. It's just—"

"Who you go home with shouldn't be a big deal?"

"More like they don't need the distraction. All this brings is distraction onto the ice. I learned that with Scott, and Barrett, and every other guy who's come out while active."

"But you're no longer a player, surely your guys wouldn't be giving you as much shit if—"

"I'm still on the team. I'm their coach. And if I came out now its going to be a huge shit show that I don't want to burden then with." Hollander is looking at Shane, assessing, as if he were trying to piece together Shane's own willingness. "They just want to play some damn good hockey. Wasn't that what you've always wanted, too? I mean, it's not who we fuck in our spare time that brings home the cups, right?"

It doesn't escape Shane the use of we, as if this future version of his is trying to reach out, grasping towards a string of familiarity—one's knowledge of one's own vulnerabilities to make sense of what's going on inside their head. The future, trying to make sense of the past, divorced as he is from it with the passage of time.

Sure, Shane's always held that belief. At the end of the day, he had just wanted to play some damn good hockey. His sexuality isn't what's shooting the puck, it's his skill on the ice, lithe and fast and strong. In a perfect world, no one would care that Shane had fallen in love with a guy, with Ilya—and maybe the rivalry would still be there, the way women in the WMHL had it.

There is no perfect world for Shane to follow, only courage. Courage is what led to him and Ilya getting together and falling in love, after all, and it was that same courage that led to his own gentle, open-ended reveal of his sexuality—even if the media had yet to catch on.

See, the thing about courage, the thing about trying to build towards your own happiness, is that it's going to take time. Shane's been cautious, because of it. And yes, he sees it now, a whole universe away from Ilya and Montreal and the world as he knows it, that sometimes that caution can hurt without meaning to. But that doesn't mean he's about to turn tail and leave it all behind. He was always going to follow through with coming out.

"I don't want to hideaway the best thing in my life forever." Shane starts, and perhaps that's not the answer Hollander was expecting. But Hollander is a few decades away from Shane right now, and a whole slew of circumstances detached.

"You're right, I mean—it shouldn't matter who we bring home when we aren't at the rink. But I'm not going to call it a distraction, nor do I want to keep it a secret. I'm not ashamed of it, you know? Ilya and I are only playing the long game right now because I want everything to be secure before we do."

Hollander seems to consider Shane's words for a moment, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair in one of Shane's telltale signs of discomfort. Shane's waiting for a response from him, any acknowledgement, or even violent reaction. Shane doesn't know this version of himself, so prickly and seemingly much more stubborn with age, clinging onto what he knows of himself in reference to a version of him so fundamentally different.

In the end, the response doesn't come. Hollander simply nods, picking up the empty plates between the two of them and loading the dishwasher. Shane sits at the counter, letting the silence speak for itself.

Hollander looks to Shane, and for a moment, he thinks he'll finally get something personal, something that wasn't just hockey from this version of him. "Sorry, by the way. I know our circumstances are different, so—"

"No. It's OK." Shane assures. "I'm your guest, I shouldn't have assumed."

"Well, it's fine. This whole thing is weird anyway." Hollander begins to move away from the kitchen, jerking his head towards the general direction of the guest room. "I made up the guest room by the way, and you have some new clothes for tomorrow. Try to get some sleep."

Shane can't help it, unfortunately. Sleep has been fitful, and there's much to be said about Hollander and his whole clipped, downright cold refusal of the whole 'coming out' and authenticity thing. He can't really be blamed for looking (read: snooping) through his borrowed phone.

The thing seems practically wiped, with the only thing in the photo gallery being Shane's recent photo of the billboard from the drive home. Shane would have assumed that the other Shane's who have used it would have tinkered around with it, but he supposed that those Shane's may not have stayed for a long enough time to truly need it.

Then again, those versions of Shane's probably didn't need to use the camera app. It probably hadn't slipped their mind at all.

If Hollander was to be believed, their problems were usually of a one-man, more internal variety. Not a lovers quarrel.

But Shane's also a bit sceptical, regarding this older version of him—who isn't as regimented but still uptight. Who's beloved in this city but seemingly hiding himself at the heart of it. Who seems to love hockey more than anything else, yet stares at an advert with painful type of longing.

It's only until he stumbles upon a drive app, with a numerical protected folder, that Shane's suspicions raise doubly so. He tries inputting a few password combinations. The usual suspects being 1410 and 2481, or, his personal favourite, 0615.

In the end, it's a number that Shane was least expecting: 1919, the code to his front door.

Admittedly, Shane feels a tad bit guilty for snooping, but he wants answers as to the how and why he's gotten here—and to the how and why this version of him keeps having to welcome other versions of him into his home. With the folder unlocked, he clicks at the file and reveals a—

The selfie of him and Ilya, all grainy and airbrushed with the quality of a 2014 front camera. That's expected, at least. He swipes to the left to get to the other one and—

Shane stares at the photo and thinks, privately, devastatingly, to himself. Oh. It's their faces from the CCM shoot, bursting into twin grins, all teeth and amusement and a twinkle in the eyes that captures an undeniable spark. 

It's a photo, one that Shane just saw a few nights ago at Ilya's house, the one he gave Shane for Christmas even when they were short and snippy towards each other. The one that reminds him, even now, just how much Ilya loves him.

Shane struggles to sleep that night.

Now, Shane thinks of Ilya a whole day and a universe ago, looking heartbroken and severe and gloomy in all the ways that he feared he would be; and Shane's left wondering when his boyfriend had felt like he couldn't tell Shane any of it; or what had Shane done to give him the impression that he was not Shane's first and foremost priority.

Ilya is his baby. Of course he's afraid to screw things up for the both of them. Of course he wants him to be safe. Of course he wants them to be happy. And that abundance of caution was always in service of that, of keeping all that doom and gloom away. He wants Ilya to know he is cared for.

Except, it wasn't working anymore. And he doesn't know how to fix it, because he isn't even in the right time or place as his Ilya.  Instead, he's here, following a future version of himself that doesn't seem to be particularly bothered by his antsy disposition—this version of him that doesn't seem to love Ilya with every inch of his body, seeping through his pores. Undeniably.

This version of him that doesn't even seem to want to be honest with himself.

He doesn't get anymore time to wallow in that though. Instead, Hollander knocks on his door, beckoning him to join him for breakfast.

Hollander seems to wake up later than Shane does, but not by much. He is, still, for all intents and purposes, an early riser at heart. It's that thing his body just does when he knows he has something scheduled, and if Hollander was to be believed, the next location should probably hit the mark. Hopefully.

They eat their breakfast in tentative peace, skirting past the gravity of the 'I'm not out, actually' revelation and instead delving into topics that required much less tiptoeing around each other's metaphorical spiky pit traps. 'One of Hayden's daughters had gotten engaged.'  'JJ was in Cabo.' 'Comeau's on his fourth divorce' 'Scott Hunter's expanded that gay bar he owns into a franchise.' 'Andropov's visiting Montreal soon—he's moved back to St. Petersburg, did you know?' 'Yeah, one of the rooks is still on the team, actually. It's a bit funny, that he's calling me coach.'

And if there's no mention of Ilya Rozanov in all these little bits of the future that Hollander was sharing, Shane didn't bother pointing it out.

The next location should've probably stirred up much more familiarity within Shane, but it wasn't until they were parked right up the back that the recognition finally slotted into place.

"It's no longer a hookup building, for your information." Hollander states, and Shane finds it amusing. "I've remodelled it, easy enough to do when you own the whole building. It's an office now, our base of operations."

"For what?" Shane asks, but he thinks he knows what this might be for.

"For the Foundation, of course."

The Foundation, appropriately named Game Changers is a charity beneath the Hollander Estate dedicated towards the fostering of an inclusive, safe hockey environment for all children and teens. It's apparently been up and running since the Voyageurs fourth Stanley Cup win, and has since been a benchmark of hockey—providing scholarships and aid across the country, getting several budding MHL and WMHL talents the opportunities needed to go all the way pro. 

Standing here, in the shell of what used to be his stupid sex condo since repurposed for a nobler cause, Shane can't help but feel confused. The location isn't inconvenient by any means, close enough to rinks that could be plausibly rented out for any camp activities. And there was parking, so it wasn't improbable to assume that all these things played a factor into the building's eventual transformation into an office. But it's odd enough for him to standing here, because he had sold this building so they could jump start the Irina Foundation—a strategically necessary and an emotionally poignant thing, in any case. A closing of the chapter where they hid from each other, and thus beginning the painstaking process of slowly drawing the world into the fold. 

He follows Hollander towards the front entrance, entryways refurbished into large mahogany double doors, with floor to ceiling windows designed framed in black and lined with exposed brick,  with chalk decals and an artfully decorated logo, hand painted onto the glass. The lobby is cosy, warm light illuminating the space as Hollander greets the receptionists at the front desk. 

This time, at least, Hollander lets him follow deeper into the administrative areas, Hollander giving him the whole grand tour. With each communal or office space, Shane imagines something else—a large kitchen space,  fridge filled with coke cans, a bed with too many pillows, a gnarly, bright orange couch. There's an elevator now, where one of the spare rooms used to be, but apparently they didn't really need to go to the third floor. That's the lodging for some of their scholars! 

Secretly, Shane's pleased they didn't have to. If he had to see the old floor he actually slept in, it might actually send him into a panic.

After the tour, Hollander left him to his own devices, citing actual administrative work, again, disappearing behind one of the office's many conference rooms. Shane didn't feel up for much socializing, though, so he found himself gravitating towards the more administrative spaces.

Shane's not sure what Hollander wants to accomplish by bringing him here. Did he think the foundation would spark a particular moment in Shane? Had he assumed that this didn't exist, for him? Or was it the location? The proximity to something familiar? 

Or was Hollander trying to communicate something to him? Was there something about this place, or the concept of the foundation, that would've let Shane click it all together, finding the resolve and the pieces he needed to go home?

And really, Shane's quite sure what he needs to get back to his time isn't reminders of how good hockey can be or how much he's been giving back to the community. Shane already knows these things, because he's been doing it with Ilya at his side, with his trusted friends alongside him. If anything, all Shane wants to do is to get home so he can fix things with Ilya, not see what life looks like without him.

While he's going through one of the administrative sections, a particular office piques his interest.

Through the window, Shane spots his mother—Yuna Hollander, with her grey hair cut right by  her shoulders, a set of thick glasses perched on her nose, wrapped in a shoal and looking all too delighted—a laptop on her desk and papers in neat piles across. Shane supposes that his mother would always be intense, regardless of her age, regardless if she's near eighty and should be spending her days lounging around in a Grecian paradise with his dad. 

There's something about knowing your parents are aging and seeing the very effects of age for yourself. However, Shane probably isn't supposed to be seeing his mother in what he assumes is her late seventies. He's supposed to see her reach this age alongside his own aging—as his skin sags and softens and pulls taut with age, as his hair greys to that peppery shade while she grows more silvery and wiry but still with all that spirited, fiery energy that never seemed to leave her.

He's observing her, taking in the difference time has made. Pronounced fine lines, the taut skin on her wrists, her cheekbones, hollowed with an aged pallor. 

She rises from her desk, suddenly, and before Shane can turn around and find another place to look through, Yuna Hollander, in all her 5 foot six glory, is opening the door.

"Can I help you?" Yuna asks, giving Shane a cursory once over. 

Shane freezes, and he's cursing his future self just a bit because this is exactly the type of situation you shouldn't be having, especially now with the elderly version of your mother. He's hoping, that maybe his hair and his outfit and his mother's age would keep her from recognizing him as her son.

"Oh. I'm just…" Shane sputters, trying to find a suitable explanation. "I wanted to inquire about the camps for next year?"

Yuna nods. "Well, come inside. I can give you a run down of the process." She beckons him with a come hither motion. 

The inside of the office is a lot warmer than what Shane had expected, clearly filled with a lot of personal touches. A photo of his mom and dad, sitting on the desk beside Yuna's nameplate. A tiny hockey puck plush, hanging to the side. There's photos of them as a whole family, lining the shelves. There's even a tiny pride flag in the pencil cup. It's perhaps the most decorated and personalized room he's seen since he's landed in this universe—and he tries not to let that bother him.

"Pardon the mess, it's usually a lot cleaner." She remarks.

"Don't worry, ma'am." Shane says, all polite. "It's my fault, too. I'm sure you don't take walk-ins."

"Oh, it's fine, deary. I always make time for involved parents." She reassures. "How old is your little one, by the way?"

How old would his kid be? Well, Shane hasn't really thought about imaginary kids, but if he had one, at his age, they'd probably be toddlers. An image, unbidden, pops up in his minds eye. A little boy, or maybe even a little girl—with a head of fluffy, golden hair and a smattering of freckles with brown eyes; or a straight head of jet black hair with hazel; or an image of Ilya, carrying a delighted toddler in his arms, the spitting image of him, twin smiles that stretch through a thicket of freckles. They'll have a little scrunch to their nose, just like their papa—and each time they do something cheeky, little kittenish whiskers appear on their skin. They'll have squeals and peals of laughter that mellow into giggles.

And maybe Ilya is calling them sweet nicknames like his little dumpling, because their cheeks are round and elastic and Ilya loves squishing at them, pinching them into little folds like he would when he makes pelmeni. And maybe, they have cute matching jerseys—the number 105–because its cute and its both their numbers when added together, silly, because they share in this love. And sometimes they're in the commentators box during matches, watching their dads on the ice, and during the intermission you can hear their tinny voices and everyone will coo and aww at the angels in the booth. And maybe they want to be centre, just like their papas. And maybe they don't want to be hockey players at all, that's alright too. He's sure that he and Ilya would love them, no matter what they did. 

But hopefully, they don't want to be goalies. Shane isn't sure he could handle the stress of it. He respects goalies a ton, of course, but he can't imagine any child of his subjecting themselves to such—

So, yes, maybe, the imaginary kid is five-years-old. And they don't exist, but Shane has thought of it, a bit—but actually, a lot.

"They're five."

"Twins?"

"Yeah." 

"That's sweet, you're very lucky. They'll have a best friend with them no matter what." Yuna seems wistful at that, something that Shane knows quite intimately. His mom and dad had always wanted another kid after him, but her pregnancy had been high-risk, and they'd decided against having another kid. And soon after, they were consumed by Shane's hockey—their little thundering comet, leaving a trail of stardust in his wake. 

She's walking Shane through the different camps and development models, smoothing out different scholarship plans and routes for hockey across Montreal. Apparently, offerings for toddlers mostly involved day-camps, with basic skills development through fun, digestible mini-games and exercises. It also involved a lot of playtime—because every kid deserves to have fun on the ice.

Shane nods along and asks all the right prodding questions, and Yuna's enthusiasm doubles with each one he asks. It's calming something in Shane, to see his mother so animated, even at this old age. He's always known that his mother would never truly idle down, but to see her so invested in this foundation Hollander's started warms his heart.

After Yuna's covered most of her bases, her prepared pamphlets laid out in front of Shane, the conversation finally peters out. Yuna is looking at Shane expectantly, and for the first time since he's entered the room, it feels assessing.  "So, any other questions?"

Shane doesn't know what compels him to ask. It's not hockey related at all, but more Shane-adjacent—the past, present, and this future him, in a simple question. "Hypothetically, if one if my kids wanted to go all the way pro, would you encourage it?"

In her years of being a mother, would she look at the life her son lived, and encourage another parent to pursue it?

Yuna seemed to consider it, seemingly turning the questions around in her head. "I think, there are two things a parent needs to consider when their child wants to become a professional athlete. The first, is can you, as a parent, support them. The second, is will the sport make them happy."

"It involves a lot of sacrifice as a parent, you know? You'll be driving them to games, and buying their equipment and scheduling with trainers and camps and all the things that'll get them closer to that dream. You need to be able to show them you support them."

"We need to keep them safe." Shane supplies.

"Exactly." She punctuates with a smile. "When they're that young, you'll want to watch over them. And they might enjoy being on the ice for a week or two, but when they have to wake up early to go to practice, or have to miss out on hanging out with friends to go to games, or they have to stay up late every other day to do their homework, well—"

"It's like, you'll feel guilty that they're missing out on things all the other non-athlete kids do?"

"Yes, of course. And sometimes you'll want them to go back to just being a regular kid, because as a parent you're much more aware of these things—and a sport like hockey, well, it's never going to be able to love your kid back. But you see them on the ice, and it's like its their whole world, unfolding before them, and you can't take that away." She reaches for the corner of her eye, wiping at her wet eye-line. "It's a magical thing."

"I mean, all we ever want is for our kids to be able to do what they love." Shane smiles at her—and Yuna's smiling at him, that same wistfulness from before returning.

"Indeed. Everything else is trivial, so long as our kids get to be happy." 

They wrap up their impromptu meeting there, Shane finally looking down at the phone Hollander gave him and noticing a bunch of messages from him. He apologizes for the intrusion, and heartily promises to give a call once he's made up his mind on the camps—even if he'll never return here. But before Shane can exit, Yuna gives him a hug.

It feels a lot like the ones his grandmother used to give, though whether that's because this Yuna is aged, or because she's her mother's daughter, Shane couldn't tell.

It's only after Shane's walked out of the building, he realizes, that Yuna never asked for his name.

On the car ride back, Hollander is clearly tense.

He probably doesn't like that Shane had spent so much time there talking to his mother—nevermind the fact that technically, this was all on him, too, considering he brought Shane to their Foundation as part of his 'problem-solving, actualization plans for time-travelling, universe-hopping Shane Hollanders'.

He doesn't even keep up the pretence of chattering. His fingers are drumming on the steering wheel, clearly anxious. He just seems tense, as if itching for something.

Shane, because he has no sense of self-preservation when it comes to dealing with his future self, breaks the silence first. "All she said was that she wanted you to be happy."

"Is that so?" Hollander replies, voice flat.

"I mean, that's my takeaway. She was speaking to me as a parent to another parent, but I know our mom, OK? She was practically handing it to me."

"Since when did we have the gift of perception? I thought we're supposed to take things too literally or blunder towards it head on?" Hollander snipes back, catty. Shane scoffs at him, incredulous.

"I'm going to choose to ignore that because there's a lot to unpack with that statement."

"Well, you should've chosen to ignore our mom, too."

"She came up to me, alright?" Shane retorts, disbelieving. "I wasn't about to ignore her. That's our mom—"

"And you shouldn't be dipping your toes into shit you don't understand."

"How was I supposed to? Look, I'm sorry if I overstepped, alright? But how was a I supposed to know? You didn't tell me jackshit either!"  Shane looks away from his future counterpart, staring out the window instead.

The silence stretches on until they're nearing the apartment. Hollander continues to drum his fingers on the wheel, looking straight at the road. With a sigh, he continues—"Look. Let's just—" Hollander struggles for words, turning into the garage. "I'm sorry. You're right. I should've warned you." He acquiesces.

Shane nods, and Hollander seems to take that as a sign to continue. "And about what mom said. Look, I know you have some ideas about what could be better and all that shit. But, I need to you to know I'm happy, alright? I am happy with where I am right now."  He says—to the garage, to Shane, to himself.

"I wasn't asking about that." Shane replies. "I was just relaying. You don't need to defend your life to me. I'm not going to live it, anyway."

"Good." Hollander says, final.

They're silent as they make their way back into the apartment, Shane retreating to the guest room. He takes a shower and freshens up, and spends a good few minutes to try and take a nap. He fails.

Shane plugs the spare phone into the side table and rises out of bed, slugging towards the kitchen to hopefully get some macrobiotic aligned foods into his system before he ruins his routines completely. 

Hollander isn't there, of course. But there's a plate of food left out on the counter, and a smoothie in a reusable tumbler.

Shane is grateful for his counterpart's grace and hospitality. (So much so, that he's going to ignore the pack of cigarettes on the counter. He's sure his future self needs the vice.)

A few weeks before Ilya had permanently moved to Ottawa, Ilya had shown Shane a movie version of that book.

Or well, it wasn't a movie version of the book. But the title in Russian had been the same, and in a roundabout way, it  was about the book; though mostly it was about a family getting together to film a home movie about the little prince, only for it to fall apart, judging by the downwards barrelling spiral of the production and the family.

It was a Russian movie, and to this day Shane still doesn't understand how Ilya had found it. Apparently, he'd been trying to find  the book's animated counterpart, but instead stumbled upon this film instead, interest piqued.

They'd watched on Ilya's couch, Ilya feeding him the lines because the copy he'd found had no English subtitles. While Shane's Russian had been slowly improving, he wasn't at the proficiency required to sit through an hour-long film. It was midway through, Shane tucked squarely into Ilya's side, Ilya's arm wrapped around his shoulders and hand rubbing circles absently into the meat of his thigh, that Ilya had paused the movie. He'd turned towards Shane, a faraway look in his eyes, the type where Shane could never follow. "Sorry, I don't think this is what you were expecting ."

Shane nods. "It wasn't, baby. But I was enjoying it. I love listening to you." 

"Your book sounded happier than this." 

"Well, definitely." Shane acquiesces. He presses a kiss to Ilya's nose. "But this was charming too. My personal interpreter and the whole severe, gloomy Russian experience." 

Ilya hums at that, and shifting his grip around Shane, instead opting to burrow himself into the crook of Shane's neck and wrapping his arms around Shane's torso. Shane shifted in turn, accommodating his boyfriend with the apex of his thighs, his own arms coming to wrap under Ilya's underarms and through the upper back, their legs tangled indiscriminately.

"Russia was not always severe, I think." Ilya begins, and Shane can feel the vibrations of his throat and the escaping breath through their plastered skin. "It was hopeful, growing up. And I think many people were excited, thinking about everything possible. But as I grew older, I think, it became a bit bleaker, or maybe I had become less optimistic. I'm not sure."

"I was jaded, I think you know this. And sometimes I think maybe it is because I am Russian, and being jaded and gloomy and severe is to my nature. Inherent. "

"I don't think so." Shane reassures, and Ilya nuzzles further into the junction between the collar of his shirt and the skin of his neck.

"I know. You tell me this always." Ilya pauses, and Shane gives him that space to think. "But I think, sometimes, I am just like that, no? Like Russia—constantly gloomy and depressing and down, even with all the beautiful things in my life. Even with you."

"You know, I'd still love you even if you were always gloomy and severe and dark." Shane replies, and Ilya chuckles lightly.

"You have said this also. But I don't know, Shane." Ilya admits, hesitant. "What if that is all I am, forever? What if your fun and sexy boyfriend is gone and all that's left is Russian sadness and despair? What if that is what I am, deep down? Weak and gloomy and lazy and no good for anyone? For you?" 

"Well, I don't think that deep down, you're only all these sad and gloomy and weak and lazy parts." Shane says, and gently taps at Ilya in a motion they've established early on. Look at me. And Ilya's looking at Shane from his place, swaddled around Shane's arms, and the angle is a bit awkward but Shane needs to see Ilya's eyes for this—to try and follow Ilya into the places in his mind that he cannot follow.

"I think, maybe, that it feels that way because all you've had for the longest time is all that severity and gloominess. But that isn't the case anymore, right?" Ilya nods along, slowly, and Shane continues forth. "You're here, with me, and I love you. And I know me loving you won't take away all the years of sadness, but I'm here for you when it feels too much."

Shane presses a kiss to Ilya's forehead, gentle and syrupy and he feels Ilya melt even further, as if they had fused into one being. "And you are not weak or lazy for feeling that way, alright? Just tell me, Ilya. I'll always want to know. That's what it means to love you."

Ilya had looked at him, eyes still clouded with that vacant distance when he seems to retreat into his own mind, but it had softened, dulled at the edges with a gravity of affection Shane can't help but revel in. To be here, with Ilya, to see his eyes smarm with a gooey, disbelieving devotion, is a privilege. To have him Ilya in his arms, a warm line of comforting heat, is a blessing.

"I love you." Ilya whispers, placing a tracing kiss along the length of Shane's jaw. "I love you. I will try, I promise. I will try and tell you." And it sounded like a promise, though whether that was to Shane or for himself, Shane wasn't sure.

It's morning. Shane pockets his phone and tiptoes out of the guest bedroom, waking to the smell of cigarette smoke and the shy, beginning rays of morning sunlight.

It's a bit odd, for a rain shower in the summer. It's odd to see a version of himself smoking, too.

Hollander is lounging on the chaise by the balcony, the air stagnant as the cloudy drag dissipates into thin wisps—reminiscent of cirrus clouds against a gray sky. He turns towards Shane now, nodding in acknowledgement, but doesn't seem to want to do anything more.

Shane busies himself with preparing breakfast, looking through the fridge and picking out all the right ingredients for a heavy, grain and nutrient heavy meal. In the few minutes he's in the kitchen, he debates upon himself if he should join his future self outside, or if it would result in yet another cold shoulder.

The thing is, Shane really hadn't meant to step on his host's toes or anything along those lines. All he really wants is to get home. If Hollander found his interaction with his universe a form of humiliation ritual, then he's going to have to  become a lot more self-effacing. He's the one with the whole multiverse-Shane experience between the two of them.

But on the other hand, Shane understands. He doesn't like it when there are people he doesn't trust in his space—and while he is a variant of Shane, there are just a tad too many differences for him to really relax into his space. If anything, Shane's quite sure that his issues stemming from the Ilya of it all is an even worsening factor.

Still, Shane wants to get home, and for him to get home, he has to talk to Hollander.

Shane feels gracious enough to prepare another serving for his future counterpart, plating it similar enough to his own. He walks towards the balcony and takes the seat across from him, setting the plates on the glass table between them. The sun is rising, peaking between the roofs of sprawling, towering buildings—blues and oranges and pinks painting across the retreating dark.

Again, he feels compelled to take a photo, discretely reaching out for his borrowed phone and capturing the clandestine moment.

Hollander lets out a scoff at that, but Shane pays him no mind. He sets the phone back into his pocket, before eating his plate in silence; his elder counterpart still stubbornly subsisting on the cigarette between his fingers. He tries to not let the smell of smoke bother him, even as it wafts slowly towards him. He'll let this future version of him set the tone for the day.

He's used to these silences—he's grown attuned to it with Ilya, who sometimes seems so weighed down and quiet that all he can do is go through the motions. It's concerned Shane plenty, but does what he can to slowly bring Ilya out of his sluggish shell. 

He doesn't mind it, of course. If anything, Shane is glad that he's there in the moments Ilya feels too much, too little, and too tired. He loves taking care of Ilya, even if that means sitting in silence, plastered to each other from nose tip to the edges of their toes. 

With Hollander, he supposes it feels a bit more like waiting out a parent—like him waiting for his dad to come to him with a concern he's had, or for his mom to ambush him with a whole host of things. It's a product of his upbringing, the stubborn waiting—always ensuring the timing is just right.

Hollander finally does more than inhale the drags of his cigarette after Shane's almost finished scarfing down his breakfast. His elder counterpart taps the cigarette on the ash tray beside him, then presses it entirely, putting the stick out. He nods, again, finally taking the plate of food Shane's prepared for him.

"I'll be honest with you, kid. I'm kind of running out of ideas." Hollander admits. "You're a unique case. You're a bit older, a bit more secure. All the hard things seems to have already happened to you, and you're still standing."

"Well that's not true." Shane replies. "There's still so much more I have to do." 

"It’s got more to do with the whole"—Hollander bends his fingers into quotation marks—"'I can be who I am and still play' thing, the 'I might be in love' thing, the 'where will my legacy take me' thing. You've already gone and done it. And I'll be honest with you those are the only things I really have any expertise in handling."

"So you've never met a version like me?"

"I guess so." Hollander admits. "The furthest I've gotten was a kid who just got a phone call from Rozanov."—and it doesn't escape Shane's notice, that this is the first time Hollander has ever acknowledged him at all—"Apparently, that Rozanov told the kid he was coming to the Cottage. Kid freaked out a bit, drove from his parents house and well, he ended up here."

"What did you tell that version of me, when he came here?"

"I did the same thing I did to you." He looks at Shane now, as he says it. "Brought him to the rink, then told him to do what he thought he needed to. By the time I'd finished running practice, he was gone."

Shane swallows down the knot forming at his throat. "Do you have an idea of what that thing was?"

Hollander lets out an amused huff. "Shouldn't you know? You've already confirmed my theory. Every other Shane I've encountered was on track to getting injured and losing out on that specific cup. If anything, I'm the outlier."

"But if you're the outlier, wouldn't that mean that you should have something unique to just you? I highly doubt Shane's will keep showing up at your doorstep if you didn't have the answer or what not."

"That's very kind of you, kid. But I think the universe keeps throwing these guys at me because I'm probably the version they don't want to end up as. I mean, you make it pretty obvious. You really want to get the fuck out of here."

"Well excuse you, I just really want to get home. Someone is waiting for me—even if we're fighting." Shane justifies.

At his words, Hollander finally realizes something. He hastily gets up from his spot. "I think I know what we need to do now." 

Shane regards him, apprehensive. "What is it this time?"

"Just pack an overnight bag." Hollander says. "We need to go to the cottage."

Hollander acquiesces and lets Shane drive his car.

The route to Lanaudière remains relatively the same. The same highways and exits and forks in the road leading to their quiet sanctuary. Though, there are definitely pockets of land where thicket of trees have grown thinner, and there are a few rest stops he's never seen before.

It's not matter, though. It's still instinct to Shane—the route back to the first place he's truly called home.

Hollander has fallen asleep in the passenger seat beside him, head resting on the window and arms folded to his chest. Like this, Shane finally sees his features age.

When he isn't frowning or flat or beaming with pride, Hollander looks quietly sad, his sleeping face set against an interminable frown. This is his future self in a state without his conscious control, and it seems to be one plagued with an undeniable melancholy.

And while Shane isn't going to question his counterparts insistence on his happiness—lest they end up butting heads, again—Shane doesn't wholly believe his word either. He can be all apprehensive about social cues and reading too much or too little, but Shane is sure of one thing: this Hollander can be happy about all the things he wants when he's awake, it's not going to change the fact that there is something dragging at him, making itself known even while asleep.

As he nears the clearing leading to the cottage, he gently shakes Hollander awake. Seeing him wake is like a transformation, a mask of neutrality slipping onto his elder counterpart's face that Shane can't help but notice the stark contrast.

Is that why his future counterpart lives alone? So he can mask himself like a suit of armour, trekking out into the waking world without falling short? So no one can notice the cracks of his foundation, of his very skin and bones?

Shane shuts off the ignition and pops out of the car, Hollander following suit. Shane takes their bags from the trunk while Hollander walks up to unlock the front door.

He walks into the cottage, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight. There's a few things that Shane notices immediately, like the stale smell, or the fine sheen of dust on the countertop. Hollander's immediately sliding the doors to the patio open, letting the fresh lakeside air in.

It's a bit surreal to be at the cottage, this far into the future. Shane's always imagined the cottage to be some version of his retirement home—their retirement home, following his and Ilya's long competitive careers. He's imagined Ilya here, for longer than the summers they have, basking in the sun, laying in the silly hammocks they have lakeside. He's imagined hosting his friends here with Ilya, spending time sharing this little slice of them to those they love most.

He's imagined them as this Hollander is now—and maybe, that makes it all the more vivid. Because he knows how he'll look like, years down the line, and he has an accurate image of Ilya too. So now, in his daydreams about their blissful retirement, he will see their faces, and their softened bellies and the deepening lines on their skin, and the grey that begins to pepper their hair and the aches that come after years of pushing, pushing, pushing their bodies to the limit. So now, when he thinks of what he and Ilya will do, when the night comes and they sit by the fire, plastered against each other in a tangle of limbs and creaking joints, he will see them; this universe's them, the one currently twenty years their senior, but will be theirs in due time.

Hollander is staring at him now, arm outstretched as if to say 'here's the view', standing square in the middle of the cottage. Shane feels overwhelmed by the enormity of it—of standing here in the cottage, with a version of him still so deeply intertwined with the sport he has loved with all he could, but without the man he knows as his better half. Of the absence of life, even here, in the one place on earth that Shane knows he can be himself, staring at a version of him who keeps a mask around, even to another variant of himself.

"Do you want to know why I brought you here?" Hollander asks.

Shane nods, and Hollander continues on. "I am an outlier, and you know this. But because of that, I can guide these variants of myself towards their conclusions. I never suggest, I just nudge. I bring them to the rink so they remember who they are—whether that be their worth, their ability, or their love."

"But that will only work on a version of me that has yet to experience this—this week in the cottage where the impossible happens. You are the only version of me that I have met that has lived through that experience." Hollander pushes off from the patio doors and begins walking towards Shane.

"You said you fought, yes? So, let's go all the way to the very beginning. Retrace your steps here. If there is one thing this place can get us to do, it's to be honest." Hollander hesitates, as if grasping for the right combination of words. "I want you to walk me through the impossible. What was it like to bring Rozanov into your home, into this space that reflects us the most? What happened here, that gave you the strength to love him so much you would fight about it?"

Hollander stops right in front of him, handing Shane the keys. "Maybe, this way, you can finally go home."

Shane takes the keys from his elder counterpart, taking in his theory. He considers it, with the same scepticism he's taken to viewing everything this version of him has done so far.

Shane doubts this is the whole reason, knowing himself. This is more than just a means of getting Shane home. This reeks of ego.

Still, Shane will go along with these ideas, if only to sort out his own conflicting feelings. His elder counterpart is more than welcome to try and make sense of these things too. "So you just want me to…"

"Start from the beginning. What did Shane Hollander of 2017 do?"

Shane thinks of that book, again, and that thing about being responsible for your love. Has he been responsible, when promised Ilya a love that would last forever? Has he been careful and gentle with it, in all the ways a man like Ilya deserves? Has he understood him, and their needs?

The prince goes away from his planet—goes away from his rose—because he had grown unhappy and lonely. In a way, Shane supposes he's felt this too. He had been feeling unhappy and lonely, despite all the love still there. He's grown unhappy at the distance that awns between them, and all the hiding. He's grown lonely in Montreal, much more than he'd like to admit. He's become unhappy and lonely in his fear for them both.

And by the end, after all the prince's unhappiness, he longs to simply go home—to go back, to his rose. Because he's feared he hadn't loved her properly, too foolish and boorish to do so. And he misses her, the way those who love with the heart rather than the mind do. It's why, by the end, the prince goes so far as to risk the poison bite of a snake, all so he can be reunited with his love.

Obviously, Shane isn't planning on dying any time soon. He loves Ilya, and he plans on spending a long life loving him. But he does understand the missing and the entreating fear of failing to love properly. Because Shane has never loved another like he has Ilya—so all his firsts and all his pitfalls and all his tries are all for him.

Shane knows he is no expert at love. He's just a dumb hockey player, hoping to hell to make it work. 

So, he tries, he immerses himself into the feeling of it, until the uncanny passage of time brings him right back to memory. The Shane Hollander from the summer of 2017 colliding with the Shane Hollander of right now—of 2020 but also some nebulous year into the 2040s.

He retraces it all, all the love that fit the three years since I love you and the decade since 'you will not be so nice when we beat you' and the three decades of missing history here, in this cottage a universe away from his own.

Hollander takes in each of Shane's innocuous anecdotes with a fervent curiosity, morbid as it is for a version of him twenty years his senior to be so enraptured in this alternate universe. 'Here, on this couch, he called me a problem that just wouldn't go away—and that he'd never ever want it to.' and 'Here, in our bedroom, I spent all night making a plan for our future, and he was so overwhelmed he told me he loved me, and I told him I loved him too—because why else would I be planning for our futures if not for all the love I have for him?' and 'Here, on the deck overlooking the lake, we watched the sunrise every morning, and I'd look at him in the light of the morning sun and wonder how I could have ever gotten so lucky? Has that ever happened to you? Have you wondered?'

Maybe there was a bit of merit, to his elder counterpart's means of reflection. Shane doesn't remember the last time he's been able to talk, at length, about the depth of his love for Ilya. He can't imagine how he could have possibly bottled it all up, kept all that love inside of him—even if he could talk about it with Hayden or Rose or his parents.

He thinks of Ilya, and all that he left behind to meet Shane in the middle—the five hours from Boston and the nine hours from Moscow. His mother's grave. His closest friend, kept out of the loop from a secret half opened. A few more prime years for his career. 

When they'd planned their future together, it was supposed to be a slow, steady—like the dropping grains of sand in an hour glass towards the undeniable happily ever after. It was supposed to be safe. It was supposed to be for their own good.

It was never going to be easy, but perhaps Shane's been looking at their situation like a snow globe rather than the whole wide expanse of the world at their hands. Perhaps, without him realising, he'd made the pair of them impenetrable—impervious, sure, but ultimately lonely on the planets they call home. Perhaps, that's why they'd both felt so alone and rejected, over and over again.

Would you choose me? Shane has, he always has—and he knows that Ilya knows this. But there’s all these underlying questions behind it: all the 'is this enough' and 'are you still happy?' and 'do I deserve this?'; and all the 'I don't want you to feel trapped' and 'I just want people to know how much I love you' and 'I hope you do not come to resent me' that comes with it. 

Shane can see it now, so far into the future as he is, how much their hiding has become a cage of the mind—an insurmountable distance.

Ilya wasn't even asking them to come out. He just wanted to go to his friends with Shane.

And maybe, that's what this was all for—maybe the reason he's been brought here, to this nebulous universe so far detached from the future he hopes for, is to be able to finally talk about it aloud. To talk his ass off about it to his near direct mirror in every way except this—in this loving that has willingly taken him hostage.

To see the love from the distance of a universe, and to decide upon what he should do.

After Shane's exhausted himself with retracing every little thing from that summer, Hollander excused himself to his bedroom.

That's fine with Shane, really. He's sure this version of him wants to digest it all, and to give Shane the space to really process. It's quite amusing how the cottage truly is his temple of reflection, across any universe.

Shane's eaten the takeaway they've decided to pack for the trip;  he's situated himself by the firepit, listening to loon calls and the chirping of crickets. The fire's began to dim, but Shane doesn't feel like retreating back into the cottage. There is something comforting about sitting out here, knowing this is where he usually lays bare his secrets—heart, soul and all.

Distantly, he keeps expecting to hear Ilya—whether that be his padding footsteps or his breathing, or his shifting body as he gets comfortable, or the low pinging of his phone as he swipes through his games, or the sound of his fingers, rubbing up and down against some limb of Shane's.

The moon has been up long in the sky by the time he hears his elder counterpart patter down the deck, finally joining him. Shane turns to him, a soft smile on his face.

Hollander settles down on the other end of the firepit, clearly pensive. He's cradling something in one hand, a small, thin rectangle—expectedly, an unlit cigarette is pinched in the other. He turns to Shane. "Have you figured out what you need to do?" 

Shane nods. "I definitely need to talk to him—get back on those cottage rules of ours."

Hollander hums in approval. "I'm sure it will go well. You seem to love him very much." 

"I mean I did tell you." Shane says. "He's the most important thing in my life. I'm going to do everything I can to make sure he knows and feels that way, too."

"Of course." Hollander assuages, seeming tentative. Shane waits out his counterpart's hesitation, simply watching the fire as he waits for what he has to say.

Hollander doesn't say much, simply depositing the object in his hand into the space between them. Then, he's placing the cig dangerously close to the pit, letting the sparks catch on to light the smoke. Shane looks away from the fire and towards the thing, gently picking it up with his hand.

He flips it around and—

"From the look on your face, you must have seen it before." Hollander supplies, bringing the cigarette to his mouth. "Did you see it on the phone?" 

"No, actually." Shane's mouth dries, staring at the frame in his hands. "I mean, I did see it, on the phone. I've also just seen this before. He gifted me it, for Christmas." 

It's the same sleek, black frame and the same grinning photos from their CCM shoot all those years ago. The only difference might be the age, seeing as the photo in his hands has started to take on an odd tinted fade.

"I got that in my P.O. box when I announced my retirement." Hollander says, voice uncharacteristically melancholic. "It came with a note and everything. Told me that hockey would not be the same without me. He didn't sign it, of course, but who else could it have been from, right?"

"Have you ever told a Shane who's been here what happened between the two of you?"

"No." Hollander shakes his head, taking a drag, smoke blowing out through his nose. "It's not important. After so many Shane's that have come and gone, all with the same set of circumstances, I've realised that this grief of mine is my own to bear. No need to scare any of the youngins with a tale of heartbreak, no?"

"But you couldn't hide it with me because of the obvious."

"Well, when the first few words after Ottawa is Ilya, first name, Rozanov…" Hollander says, some attempt at lightening the mood. "I've been pretty callous about it, might be the sentimental old genes in me." 

"You're not that old, man. Come on." Shane assures.

"But I'm not getting any younger, either." 

"You should probably quit it with the smoking then." Shane chirps, expecting Hollander to banter with him; Some thing about his age or being ancient or being retired. Instead, Hollander's face falls, any fledgeling attempt at humour gone.

He takes in another drag, this time keeping the smoke in his mouth for much longer than he did the other times. When he blows, it wisps into a wiry puff. "Why do you think I smoke, kid?"

Hollander tries to cover it with a laugh, but the implication hangs heavy. 'Why do you think I smoke, kid?' But also, 'why do you think I have a locked folder, kid?' and 'why do you think I repurposed that condo, kid?' and 'why do you think I kept that photo, kid?'

Why do you think it's such a touchy subject, kid?

"I don't like that look on your face, stop it." Hollander says, so Shane does that thing where he focuses his gaze on something else. That thing being the photo frame still in his hands.

"My face isn't doing anything." Shane replies—though Hollander sighs at that. 

"Look. Our circumstances are different, OK? So I don't want you to pity  me, or to feel bad for me, or to think that I need some shoulder to cry on about it." He takes another inhale of the cigarette, angling it away, this time. "When it was fresher and I was younger, I made everything in my life some form of monument to that heartbreak. Something to ground me and tell me that it was all real. And sometimes it still hurts to think about it, but that's all it's going to be. It's going to be the tight squeeze of your chest or the sudden pinprick of tears."

"But it's been years since, OK? So that thing I said yesterday, on the drive home? I meant it." He points the pinched cigarette towards his chest. "I am happy, Shane. Just because my happiness doesn't look like yours does not make it any less complete."

"I know." Shane nods. Because he knows himself, and he knows exactly how he'd have taken it. He'd have thrown himself into hockey, his first love—the one that he's long since accepted would never fully love him back. He'd have made mountains out of molehills with all the little, scattered pieces of Ilya he would have. He'd have done it all until all he felt was what's left of that happiness—like the inevitable break of dawn, signalling the start of a new day.

"I just want you to be truly happy, Shane." Hollander says, finally. "So when you finally leave this place, go and do just that, OK?"

"OK." Shane parrots, thumbing at the frame in his hands one last time.

They sit there and let the fire run it's course.

Shane wakes up, rather violently, to the sound of sobbing.

He's rubbing at his eyes, slowly coming awake. He blinks his eyes open, a head full of blond curls coming into view.

"Ilya?" Shane asks, voice thick with sleep. He sits up on the bed. "What are you—"

"Shane." Ilya gasps, instantly wrapping Shane into a tight hug, worming himself into Shane's lap. "Where have you been? It's been days and we couldn't find you and I was getting worried that something happened on the way home because your Find My did not notify me that you'd gotten home and—"

"Ilya, what day is it?"

"It's the 30th, sweetheart." Ilya replies into Shane's neck, his eyes dampening the collar of Shane's shirt.

"Ilya?! Don't you have a roadie—"

"I told my team it was family emergency. I'll fly after." Ilya reassures.  "Oh, moya lyubov, I was so worried." 

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disappear." Shane says, placatingly rubbing circles across Ilya's back. He breathes him in—Shane has missed his big lug, his golden retriever. 

"I shouldn't have told you to leave. Then you wouldn't have been in this situation." Ilya says, finally looking up, face to face with Shane. "It was getting drastic. They were about to call a search party and everything."

"Well they can call that off, baby." Shane says, placing both hands on Ilya's cheeks before placing a chaste peck to his lips. "Besides, we have a lot to talk about."

"Look, if it's about Boxing Day? It's fine, forget it. You win that argument for going missing, anyway." Ilya says, face still in Shane's hands. "It's just stupid party, anyway. I didn't want to go that badly."

Shane frowns at that. He doesn't want Ilya minimizing his own wants. "Ilya…" He thumbs at his cheeks.

"Shane…" Ilya echoes, schooling his face into something seemingly unaffected. Shane isn't buying it though, considering he's still got Ilya's face trapped with his hands.

Shane thinks of the past few days. He thinks about stable futures and legacies. He thinks of mother's, and their want for their children to be safe and happy. He thinks of a little prince and a rose and longing.

He thinks of Hollander, and the way love shapes happiness—making statues out of the mundane and museums of memory. He thinks of how it persists, even when it all falls apart.

'I just want you to be truly happy.'

That's all Shane wants, too.

"Baby, listen to me." Shane starts, and Ilya nods. Shane lowers his hands from his cheeks and ghosts them towards the back of Ilya's neck. "I'm sorry, that I made you feel like I wouldn't choose you. I will always choose you, Ilya. Please remember that."

"Shane…"

"And don't say you didn't mean that. The things we say when we're mad are always some version of what we believe, right?"

Ilya nods. "But still, I shouldn't have pushed. I should know how you are, by now."

"I know, baby. We weren't good to each other or ourselves that day." Shane says. "But I get it, now. You were feeling rejected, weren't you?"

"It doesn't matter." Ilya says, dismissively.

"Of course it matters. I think we've both been pretending all this waiting is all fine, but it's clearly affecting us both, right?” Shane asks, and Ilya shakes his head, affirmative.

"I just want us to be honest with each other, OK?" Shane says, rubbing his fingers across the knobs of Ilya's neck. "I want us to be on the same page, alright?"

They sit in silence, Ilya readjusting himself on Shane's lap while Shane wraps his arms around him. It takes a while for them to get down from the frenetic energy of the morning. 

Ilya brings a hand up to Shane's face, smoothing a thumb along his freckles. "I love you."

"I love you too."

"I have so many things to tell you."

”Me too.” Shane says, leaning into Ilya’s palm.

"We have the time. I skipped out on my roadie, after all.” Ilya grins at him, wide and bright, his cheeks meeting the corners of his eyes. It's a boyish look, one that suits him and his handsome face. His sweet boy, all soft, just for Shane.

Ilya places a kiss to Shane's nose, all gooey and tender. "Though, you should probably brush your teeth though. I don't want you uncomfortable while we talk."

Shane bursts out laughing. Of course Ilya would suggest that. God, Ilya knows him so well. Shane is so lucky. He can't believe just how much he loves him. 

As they detach from each other, Ilya following Shane into the bathroom to follow along with his routine, Shane can't help but smile.

I'll do it. Shane thinks. I'll do the things that makes us happy.