Archive of Our Own

In a world without hockey, Ilya thinks he might be happier.

He doesn’t hate the sport. In fact, he might actually love it. Watching it has never been a chore for him, and he looks forward to when he’s able to climb into the back seat of his neighbor (and best friend)’s parents’ car and ride with them to the arena downtown to watch the Ottawa 67s play, or settle in on their couch for a few hours to scream at the television and eat snacks and feel a sense of community in the way that only team sports can provide. He knows the statistics of most of the Canadian prospects for the upcoming draft, and can recount them with his eyes shut. 

In another universe where his mother had not died and his father had cared a little bit more, perhaps Ilya might have even played it for longer than the year or two that he had. There is still a bag of child sized skates in his garage, gathering dust next to a couple of hockey sticks that lean against the wall, draped in cobwebs. When he shuts his eyes at night sometimes he pictures himself on the ice racing towards the goal, thousands and thousands of people screaming his name. 

Even after all of that, he still thinks he’d be okay if hockey didn’t exist. Because hockey is about to take his best friend away from him, and he doesn’t like that at all.

Okay, he knows he’s being dramatic. Shane Hollander is not being taken from him, not really. He’s just… moving. Two hours away.

Shane is Canada’s Golden Boy, star center of the 67s and drafted by the Montreal Voyageurs with the first overall pick in this year’s draft. The Hollanders and Ilya (and the majority of Canadian sports media) had all suspected that this would be the case, but to actually see it happen had been something else entirely.

Ilya had been there at the draft, sat at the table next to Yuna and David Hollander, dressed in his best suit. His pants had been slightly too short, the shoulders of his jacket too broad. The suit had been his brother’s before it had been his, handed down once Alexei had grown out of it, and there were holes in the pockets where he must have pulled on the loose strings, unraveling the threads keeping the bottoms of them held together. 

Ilya had watched across the table as Shane sat, hands clasped between his legs to hide them from the cameras, so that the people watching on television wouldn’t see how badly they were shaking. His head had been bowed, eyes locked on the table in front of him. The commissioner had stepped up onto the stage and called out his name first, and Shane had lifted his head to look at Ilya immediately, the look on his face like someone had just kicked his legs out from beneath him. He had flushed bright red, blinked twice to clear the deer-in-headlights stare, then had stood up. He had pushed in his chair and turned to hug first his mom and then his dad, his face doing its absolute best to stay expressionless. 

But then his arms had wrapped around Ilya, and as Ilya held Shane tightly, he had felt his best friend shudder in his arms.

"You did it, Shane,” Ilya had murmured, his lips brushing the shell of Shane’s ear as he spoke, the words meant for just the two of them and no one else. "Now go and get it.” He’d turned and pressed a kiss to the side of Shane’s head, inhaling just enough to smell the sandalwood and orange shampoo Shane had used that morning.

Shane had pulled back, his eyes glassy as he looked at Ilya, a smile fighting its way to his lips where they pressed together, his excitement finally overtaking the nerves. He’d squeezed Ilya’s forearms, then had turned to walk up on stage and claim his spot.

The sight of Shane standing up there, holding his new Montreal jersey with his name and number already printed on it, had made Ilya’s eyes fill. Next to him, Yuna had wrapped her arm around his, holding onto him as she watched her son pose with his hand in the commissioner’s. Cameras flashed around the room, immortalizing the moment, and then Shane had been whisked backstage for photos and interviews. 

Ilya had bowed out almost immediately after that with a quiet apology to Yuna and a brief hand on David’s shoulder, finding himself a back door so that he could have a cigarette while Shane and his family spoke to the press, team leadership, other prospects… all things that were for the family, not for the best friend. He didn’t mind; it was nice to loosen his tie and take a breath of the cool night air around him. 

He felt so excited for Shane. This, being chosen first, was what Shane had been working practically his entire life for. Ilya had known him since they were four, and since then, there had never been a time where hockey hadn’t been a part of Shane’s world. He played in all of the minor leagues, excelling in each one, enough that there had been coaches who had tried (and failed) to bring him up a level despite the fact that he wasn’t old enough to be a part of their division yet. He’d been snatched up by the 67s the second that he’d become eligible, and Shane had been more than thrilled to play for his hometown team instead of having to billet. 

Ilya, for his part, had gone to as many games as he possibly could. For a while it had been Yuna and David, and Ilya and his mother Irina, all tucked in together dressed in layers and under blankets in the cold hockey arenas, cheering Shane on. Irina would buy Ilya snacks, things he’d never get otherwise, and she’d commentate the game for him if he ever struggled to follow along, explaining in a gentle mix of Russian and English so that he'd understand better. After she’d died, he’d wondered briefly how he would fit in without her, but at the first game after she'd passed, Yuna had sat on one side of him and David on the other, pulling him into their fold without saying a word. The Hollanders had reached down into the deep, dark hole that Ilya had fallen into and pulled him out of it, showing him that despite the worst thing happening to him that could ever happen… the world would, in fact, continue to spin. From then on, it was as though he’d been more a part of their family than his own (not that he was complaining about that).

Regardless of what team Shane was currently playing on, Ilya always had a signed jersey on, worn with pride, supporting his best friend. He’d sprint down to the tunnel as the periods ended, holding his hand out so that Shane could knock his glove-covered fist against Ilya’s with a toothy grin. 

So yes, seeing Shane get drafted, Ilya had felt like he was fit to burst with pride, happiness, joy… all of the things he should be feeling.

And yet.

From the moment that Shane’s name had been called out, Ilya had known that things would be very different moving forward. Shane will be moving to Montreal, of course – it might be soon and it might not be, depending on if Montreal still wants him to develop with the 67s for another season or if they want to pull him up to the big leagues right away. (Realistically, Ilya knows that Shane is fucking incredible at hockey, and will likely play for Montreal next season.) His entire life will be at the whim of the Voyageurs, going where they tell him, asking how high when they tell him to jump. 

Ilya can’t fault him for that, for living his dream. 

But he would be leaving Ilya behind, here in Ottawa. It’s not like Ottawa is far from Montreal, a two and a half hour drive at best, and Ilya has a car (albeit a very mediocre one). But Shane won’t be next door anymore, close enough that the two of them can roll down their bedroom windows and have a conversation when it’s too late at night for either of them to get away with leaving out the front door. He won’t be there for dinners with Yuna and David, will likely be out of town on some holidays playing games, and when he does have free time he’ll probably spend it working out or practicing or… doing things with his new group of teammates, some of whom will probably grow to be Shane’s new friends.

New friends with lots of money who all play hockey and have fancy cars and perfect families. New friends that Ilya is very much not jealous of, thank you very much.

He’s not.

He’s fucking not.

And then there’s… the other thing. The stupid, unrequited crush that Ilya has been pretending not to notice, that grows in his chest like a weed with prickly thorns, wrapped tightly around his heart. He’s a fool for having it, he knows, and he’s long since decided that he’s going to ignore it for the rest of his life if he has to, because he’d much rather have Shane as his best friend than not at all. He knows Shane isn’t gay, because if Shane was gay he would have told him, right? Because they’re best friends, and the same way that Ilya had confessed late one summer evening a couple of years ago that he was bisexual, Shane would have told him that it was okay, that he’s gay and he knows exactly how Ilya has felt having to keep such a massive secret locked away inside him.

But instead, Shane had reached over and hugged Ilya fiercely and thanked him for trusting him enough to tell him. He had reassured Ilya that it didn’t change a thing about how he saw him, and that no matter what they’d still be best friends, they’d always be best friends. It had been strange, how good it had felt to know that Shane would be by his side regardless, and yet how bitter it had tasted in the back of his throat, all at the same time.

From that moment on, Ilya had resolved to keep this to himself. So what if his heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest every time he looks at Shane’s face, with his big brown eyes, and his freckles that dot his cheeks like constellations, and the deep cupids bow of his lips. So what if the most casual touches — a hand on Ilya’s shoulder as Shane leans over to point something out, their thighs pressed together when they’re squeezed in the back seat of David Hollander’s Honda Civic, the exhalation of breath ghosting over his cheek when they fall asleep curled up close on Shane’s twin-sized bed after a late night of talking together — send Ilya into orbit, spiraling around the galaxy with no return trip to Earth planned. So fucking what.

He’ll get over it. He has to get over it.

—

"I have a very stupid idea,” Ilya says, taking a sip of the beer that he’d stolen from his father’s fridge on his way over. The brown bottle is cold in his hand, condensation dripping down his fingers and making them slippery where they press against the glass, leaving fingerprints in the wet.

They’re sprawled out in the grass in Shane’s backyard, about a week after the draft, the sun beating down on them. It’s late June, and the summer heat is relentless, both of them practically drenched in sweat. Ilya can feel the way his cheeks are going pink, and he lifts his bottle to press against his skin, sighing at the relief that the cold glass brings.

"You shouldn’t be drinking that,” Shane bites back, the retort automatic as he rolls his head in the grass to face Ilya. "What’s your idea?”

"There is a spider on you,” Ilya says instead, laughing as Shane flails instinctively, hands flapping as he brushes off the small, harmless jumping spider that had climbed its way up his shirt. His fingers knock into his can of Canada Dry and Ilya watches as it tips over, spilling out into the grass. He reaches out and rights it before too much can escape down into the dirt.

"Fuck off, Ilya,” Shane grumbles as he settles back down. "What is it?”

"You leave for camp in a week, yes?”

Shane nods, his eyes going just slightly unfocused in the way that they tend to every time the subject of professional hockey comes up.

"And then you are free until September?”

"Uhh. Sort of?” Shane shrugs. "I have to do a lot of conditioning, and get in as much ice time as I can, especially if they decide to sign me right away. Even if they send me to Laval, I’ll need to make sure I’m pushing myself in case they call me up during the season, so that I’m ready to play.”

Ilya frowns. "Fine, fine, whatever.” He waves his hand, beer sloshing in the bottle. "You have all summer to train, whatever. What about July?”

"July?” Shane’s brow furrows. "That’s like… tomorrow.”

"Okay, fuck, like late in July. When you are not at camp and you are not on the ice and you are not with your team. Obviously.” Ilya rolls his eyes fondly.

"I… guess I'm free,” Shane says slowly, thinking over the words as he speaks them. "I mean, it could change, if the team wants me–”

"Just humor me, Hollander.” Ilya groans, slapping a hand over his face comically.

"Okay,” Shane says, ducking his head to hide a smile, although it’s a pointless gesture – Ilya can hear it in his voice. "Fine. Assuming things stay the same, I’m free in late July.” Shane wiggles his bare toes in the grass. "Why?”

"Road trip.”

"I– what? Road trip?”

"Yes. You have heard of this thing, yes? Where two best friends get in a car and drive for days and days and see World’s Largest Ball of String, and Giant Toothpick, and Biggest Wheel of Cheese, and–”

"Yeah, I’ve heard of a road trip,” Shane says. "I’m not an idiot.” He stares up at the sky, eyes moving back and forth like he’s searching for something among the clouds. "I… guess it could work.” 

Ilya watches as the idea hooks into Shane’s mind, but it’s too slow. For good measure, he offers some honesty, despite knowing that it might turn around and bite him after he says it. "You will be going away to Montreal after this,” he says, letting some of his sadness leak into his words. "I will be… busy with work. We will see each other at Christmas, maybe, and in summers, but. It would be nice to spend some time together before you go.”

He manages to keep the wobble out of his voice, but fuck, he sounds pathetic. What a baby, he won’t see his best friend all the time, boo hoo. The voice in the back of his mind tells him to get the fuck over it, as it always does, and so he swallows the lump in his throat and waits for Shane to respond.

"Wait, what do you mean, work?”

Well shit. Ilya’s not sure if he’s glad that that’s what Shane has picked up on in what he’d said. He’d almost rather Shane had said something else, like maybe oh Ilya, I’m going to miss you so much, we should spend the entire summer together or of course, it’s going to be so hard to go every day without seeing you. Or something.

"What about school? Did you decide where you’re going?” Shane sits up straight, knocking his ginger ale over again. This time, nobody picks it up, and Shane stares down at Ilya where he still lays spread out in the grass, ginger ale fizzing as it disappears into the soil. "Did you hear from McGill?”

Ilya winces, because yes, he did hear from McGill. He had received a very nicely worded letter saying that while they’d love to accept him to their Russian program, their applicant pool had been just a little too strong this year and thus, there was no more room for him. They had encouraged him to submit an application again in a few months in the way that he’s sure they tell everyone they decline admission to, although he’s not sure if the tacked on ‘Your application was identified as one of a small number that merited special consideration, so please remain in contact with your admissions advisor and submit an application for next term.’ is something that other students get as well, or if it’s just him.

Regardless, it had been a denial. At least, for now.

"Fuck. I’m sorry.” Shane reaches out to set his hand on Ilya’s arm sympathetically. "Where else did you apply?”

"Um.” Ilya clears his throat.

"Ilya," Shane says between his teeth, "please fucking tell me you applied somewhere else as a backup…” He looks like his head is about to blow off his shoulders like a balloon. It would be funny, except for the laser beams of wrath shooting out of his eyes, somehow pointed directly at Ilya’s soul.

"Um,” Ilya says again, feeling very, very stupid.

"Jesus, Ilya…” Shane flops back down on the grass, his forearm over his eyes. "What are you going to do?”

"Work.” Ilya lifts a shoulder. "I will find a job here to pass the time, and I will reapply to McGill for winter term. Or maybe for next fall, I do not know.”

Ilya had had it all planned out in his head. Shane would go to Montreal and so would he. Shane would play for the Voyageurs, and Ilya would study at McGill. He’d poured over the course catalog, ultimately deciding on the easy route – majoring in Russian would be the most straightforward, satisfying both his need to be in Montreal and his desire to know more about the country he left behind at the age of four. His mother’s country.

They’d spend lots of time together, with Ilya visiting Shane whenever he wasn’t busy with coursework and Shane had time off from hockey. He’d go to all of the Montreal home games, maybe even splurge on season tickets, and would proudly wear an autographed number 24 jersey to each game just like he’s always done. Whenever Shane would score a goal, he’d jump out of his seat to celebrate, and would tell anyone who’d listen that that is his best fucking friend right there.

And then the letter from McGill had arrived, an unknowing sentence to another year of living in his father’s house, another year of misery. He could move out, he supposes, but if he does get accepted to McGill in the winter then he’d have to break his lease, and would need to pay whatever cost comes with that, and… no. It doesn’t make sense for him to find his own place, not when he’s living (relatively) rent free. For now, at least, until his brother finally succeeds in convincing their father to start charging Ilya room and board like he’s been trying to do for the last two weeks. 

Shane sighs. "Fuck,” he says quietly. 

"Yes,” Ilya agrees. "Fuck.”

—

Ilya borrows Yuna Hollander’s desktop computer in the guest bedroom and plans out the route for their trip while Shane methodically packs his suitcase for development camp on the bed next to him. Every once in a while, Ilya stops typing in order to watch with a raised brow as Shane folds and then refolds a pair of pants, looking for all the world like he’s planning to spend time over the next week in anything other than hockey gear or sweatpants.

When Ilya points this out, Shane frowns. "What if the guys want to go out for dinner or something? I can’t do that in sweats…”

"Wait,” Ilya says as his eyes fall on a familiar piece of clothing, "Shane, did you pack a suit?”

"Shut up, no I didn’t.” But the tips of Shane’s ears are red as he ducks his head.

"It is as though you packed enough underwear so that you can shit yourself most days,” Ilya teases, leaning over in the desk chair so far that it creaks warningly, the front two legs lifting off the carpet as he reaches into the suitcase to rifle through the clothes that Shane has packed so far.

"Careful,” Shane says without looking up at Ilya. And then, once the words Ilya has said process in Shane’s brain: "Fuck off, Rozanov. I hope you do fall off the chair.”

Ilya grins. "No you do not.” He settles back down, all four legs of the chair on the floor again as he turns back to the computer, frowning at the screen. "The US is very large, and I do not like it. Too many things to see and not enough time.”

"Hm?” Shane shuts the lid of his suitcase and zips it up, then leans over to look over Ilya’s shoulder at the map on the screen, blue lines tracing a very odd shaped route. "This is just like… New York. It’s not even other states– wait, why are we going to New York?”

Ilya rolls his eyes. "Not just New York. We will go to Scranton, first.”

"Scranton? Like, the city from The Office?”

Ilya grins. "Yes.”

"...what is there to even see in Scranton? They don’t shoot the show there, it’s all in California or something–”

"No, of course not. But there is apparently a big tower with the logo on it. From the opening. And the mall, and the sign, and Poor Richard’s–”

"Ilya, it’s the US. We can’t drink there. We can’t even drink here.”

"Just to see it, whatever.” Ilya waves a hand. "Anyways, it is a stopover on the way to New York.”

"Okay, fine. So we drive down to New York, and then what?”

"We spend a few days there,” Ilya says, nodding. "See Times Square, eat a bagel– do not look at me like that, carbs do not count on road trips, Hollander. We will have cheap pizza and run from people in weird costumes and maybe if you are good I will take you out to dinner and to a show–”

Shane elbows Ilya, who dodges it with a laugh.

"Okay,” Shane says, biting his lips to hide a smile. "Then where.”

Ilya holds out a hand to cover the map somewhere over western Pennsylvania. "Is a surprise,” he says. "But after that, then we will go to Niagara Falls. I have never seen it, have you?”

Shane shakes his head. "No,” he says. "I, uh.” There’s an awkward pause, before he continues. "I think we were… supposed to go. Us, I mean.” He gestures between the two of them.

"What, really?” Ilya looks up over his shoulder at Shane. "When?”

"A few years ago.” Shane stares at the computer screen, almost pointedly not making eye contact with Ilya.

"Shane.”

Shane sighs. "We were twelve. Our moms were planning a trip for the four of us. We were going to drive down and spend a couple of days there, but, um. It didn’t happen.”

Oh.

Ilya feels a pit hollow out in the middle of his stomach somewhere, a gaping sinkhole. Twelve. When his mother died, leaving him behind, carving out the inside of his chest as she went. It makes sense, then, that the trip never materialized. He wonders how much of it had been planned, if Yuna and Irina had sat together at the Hollander’s kitchen table pouring over giant foldable maps from CAA and tracing their route with a highlighter. He wonders where those maps might be now, whether Yuna had crumpled them up and thrown them out, or if she had simply tucked them away into a drawer where they sit to this day, gathering dust. 

"So,” Shane says after a long moment of quiet. "We’re for sure going to Niagara Falls. Where else?”

Ilya swallows the lump in his throat. "Toronto,” he says as he stares at the map, eyes following the blue line between Toronto and Ottawa. "And then Montreal, maybe, so you can show me around, where you will be living. And then… back home.” He reaches out a finger to tap the screen, the blue dot over Ottawa that marks off Shane’s home address.

If he had his way, they’d go across the entire continent. He’d love to start at one ocean and drive all the way to the other, to dip one foot into the Atlantic and the other into the Pacific. But it would take a month, and they don’t have that kind of time. They barely have weeks. 

He has to be okay with this week that he’s able to pull together, despite how much he wants to do so much more.

"So no World’s Largest Ball of Twine, huh?” Shane knocks his shoulder against Ilya’s.

"No,” Ilya says solemnly. "It is in Minnesota and I do not want to drive that far.”

—

"Drive safe, please,” Yuna says, hugging Ilya tightly. She leans back, cupping his cheeks in between her hands. "You’ll be extra careful, yes? And call us when you get to your first stop, and then your next stop, and–”

"We will, Mom,” Shane reassures her, as she lets go of Ilya's face and turns to him next, wrapping him in her arms. 

Ilya can’t help but smile as Shane's face is smushed against her; Shane looks over at him, rolling his eyes. Ilya has always found it funny when the petulant teenager that lurks inside Shane manages to push past his polite Canadian Boy exterior and find its way to the forefront, and he ducks his head to hide the grin spreading across his face.

"The car okay?” David eyes Ilya’s beat up 2002 Pontiac Grand Am (that he refers to colloquially as the Silver Bullet) like he doesn’t trust it to carry them down the street, let alone to another country.

Ilya nods. "Is fine,” he says, turning to look at it. It’s got just over 150,000 kilometers on the odometer, and sometimes gives him issues when he first turns it on, but other than that, it’s been a reliable car. It’s got (relatively) comfortable seats, working air conditioning, and it even has a CD player in it. He’s spent a lot of time preparing the music for this trip, a folio of burned CDs tucked in the footwell of the passenger seat for Shane to flip through and choose from. 

Alexei had offered, in a rare show of kindness, to install a touch screen sound system into the car, similar to the one he has in his own. It’s a horrible looking Frankenstein job, with Alexei having to pry at his old radio with a screwdriver in order to pull it out of the dash. The new one did not fit exactly how it should; it’s held together with glue, duct tape, and a prayer, and Ilya would rather put up with outdated technology over a hack job like that.

So CDs it is – that, and the purchase Ilya had made the other day, a cassette tape attached to a long cord that apparently can plug into the base of Shane’s iPod and play music through the car speakers. Ilya has no idea how the fuck it works, but according to the clerk at Loblaws, they use theirs all the time.

"We will be okay,” he says, reaching out to pat the roof of the Silver Bullet, reassuring it that it’s included in that 'we'.

"Okay,” David says, although he doesn’t sound sure. "And you have insurance?”

"Yes,” Ilya nods. "And new oil. And I checked the tire pressure this morning. And went through a car wash.” All the important things.

David bends and peers in through the front window, eyes scanning like he’ll be able to diagnose anything wrong with the car on sight alone. Ilya isn’t sure if he’s ever seen David pop the hood on his own car, though he supposes that when you work for the government, you can afford for people to change your oil for you. 

"If anything goes wrong, you call–”

"Of course.”

Ilya allows David to pull him into a tight hug. It isn’t lost on him, or he’s sure, on Shane or his parents, that his own father isn’t here sending him off. He knows if his mother had been still alive that she would be standing out on the driveway with them all, nervously inspecting Ilya’s car like David or fretting over him like Yuna is with Shane. She would want regular updates, photos from each new place that they stop at, little souvenirs to clip onto her key ring or hang from her own car’s mirror as a reminder of all of the cities her son has seen.

But she is not here, and neither is his father. He thinks at some point he sees the curtains rustle in the front room, though it could just be the air conditioning kicking on. He imagines that his father is sat in his office still, working through the endless pile of paperwork that seems to go hand in hand with his job, whatever it is. When Ilya had walked out of the house that morning, he’d made a detour to the office, poking his head in.

"I am… leaving for my trip now,” he had said, the Russian words clunky on his tongue. While he'd spoken the language readily as a child with his mother, remnants from the four years he'd spent in Russia, enough that his own voice carries a light accent… nowadays he only uses it to speak to his father. With how little they actually interact, it feels like he’s losing his grasp on the language itself. (Another reason he’d wanted to go to McGill, so that he wouldn’t feel as if he’s giving up this vital part of himself, like he's losing yet another connection to his mama. He’d put that in his application essay too, but it hadn’t been enough, apparently.)

"Drive safely,” his father had responded, not even bothering to look up. "Do not do anything foolish.”

Ilya had wanted to walk into the office and pull his father from his chair, drag him out to the driveway, and force him to stand there and actually talk to the Hollanders. Ilya and Shane are best friends, and so it would make sense for their parents to be as well. Yuna and Irina had been close, a bond forming instantly between them when Yuna had knocked on their front door a day after they'd moved in with a fruit basket and a friendly smile on her face. But Grigori…

Ilya can count on one hand the number of times that Grigori has actually spoken to the Hollanders, with most times being out of complete necessity. The last time they had interacted had been at his mother’s funeral service, paying their respects to a nearly silent Grigori. Ilya had tried to step away from the receiving line and speak with Shane, to disappear into the crowd of people who had come to say goodbye to Irina, but Alexei had fastened a tight grip on the back of Ilya’s neck and, with a thin-lipped smile, had told him to stay right where he was.

And so Ilya had stayed, watching as David had shook Grigori's hand and Yuna had told him how sorry they were for their family's loss. She had tried to say more about Irina, but Alexei had chimed in, a smug look on his face as he had explained to the Hollanders that Grigori did not speak much English, but he was glad that they came. He had turned, then, to the next person in line, a quiet dismissal.

"We will see you at home later," Yuna had said softly, pulling Ilya into her arms. He had felt like his entire body wanted to collapse into her embrace, and had wanted to bury his face against her shoulder and sob. But he couldn't do that, not with his brother and his father standing right next to him, and so he had simply let her hold him.

David had been next, reaching out to set a hand on Ilya's shoulder, his grip firm. He had stood with his back towards Grigori and Alexei, and had ducked his head and said, very quietly so that Ilya's family wouldn't hear, "You will always have a place with us, son." That, that had been what had broken him in the end — his lip had quivered, the corners of his mouth pulled down as if someone had hooked weights into his cheeks, and he had bowed his head and wept quietly. David hadn't hesitated to hold Ilya close; he hadn't flinched when Ilya's tears had soaked through his dress shirt leaving wet spots behind.

Instead, David had pulled a tissue from his pocket and handed it to Ilya, then had leaned in to kiss his forehead. "We love you," he had said softly, and with a quick final check to make sure that Ilya would be okay, the Hollanders had moved on. Ilya had felt Alexei's hand heavy on his shoulder again, and had reluctantly turned back to greet the next person in line, but for the rest of the day he'd thought about how different David Hollander was from his own father.

But then, Ilya realizes as the David Hollander who's real and solid and standing in front of him here in the driveway squeezes him even tighter, Shane's father has always been more of a dad to him than his own. Grigori has held Ilya at a distance his entire life, almost from birth. While he doesn't remember many specifics about his early childhood in Russia, he does remember the coldness he'd felt emanating from his father whenever he'd looked at him. It was almost like something about Ilya turned Grigori's stomach, like he could barely stand the sight of him.

Secretly, Ilya has always wondered if he reminds his father too much of Irina — the same golden hair, the same set of their jaw in the heat of emotion, the same bright eyes and even brighter laugh. He wonders if it makes Grigori feel something, whether it's longing or anger or even guilt at the way their marriage had been, tumultuous and loud and full of vitriol til the very end, when he'd made Irina feel like a trapped dog backed into a corner. The only way out for her had been through, her desperation for freedom so primal that she'd made a choice that had released her from her cage but had cleaved Ilya's heart in half in the process.

He oscillates between missing his mother down to the very marrow of his bones, and being so, so angry at her for leaving him behind. It's always one, or the other. Never both.

After she had left Ilya, Grigori's anger had gone where it had been easiest to go, flowing like water towards the lowest point — his youngest son. Alexei had been spared, the infallible first son who could do no wrong. Everything had been Ilya's fault: wrong because of him, broken because of him, lost because of him. In the six years since mama had died, Grigori had done his very best to harden his own heart, and to destroy Ilya's.

But it didn't work. Because Ilya had the Hollanders. And just standing here, in the Hollanders' driveway in David’s arms, it feels more like fatherly love than Ilya has ever felt in his entire life. 

—

"I do not know why I am nervous," Ilya says idly, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. They're sat in traffic at the start of I-81, the booths manned by Border Patrol backed up with cars. "It is not as though we are doing anything wrong."

"No, of course not," Shane says. "No need to be nervous. It's just a few questions and then we're done with it."

Ilya turns his head just enough to watch from the corner of his eye as Shane fidgets with the string of his hoodie from the passenger seat, lifting it up to bite down on the end of it, worrying it with his teeth. He leans down, picks up the CD case for the hundredth time, and flips through a few pages as though he doesn't already know what's inside, before setting it down on the floor of the car again. He sits back, lifting a hand to tug the damp hoodie string from his mouth, choosing to bite at the skin on the side of his thumb instead.

"Shane. Are you nervous?"

"No." Shane looks almost affronted at the insinuation.

Ilya lifts a brow. "No?" He gestures to where Shane has his iPod in his hands now, the tip of his index finger tracing the circular wheel on the front of it as though he's scrolling through his music when in reality, the screen is still black.

"No," Shane repeats firmly with a shake of his head, leaning forward to set the iPod down in the cup holder. "I'm not nervous, Ilya, shut the fuck up."

It's nice, how Shane's anxiety smothers Ilya's like a fire blanket. He leans his elbow on the rolled down window, his fingers covering his lips to hide his smile. He can feel the car rocking slightly, Shane's knee bouncing up and down in a rhythm that doesn't match up with the music playing. After a moment, Shane reaches out to turn down the volume, listening for a couple of seconds before turning the music off all together.

"I put our passports here," he says, gesturing towards the two folios where he's set them on top of the iPod.

"Yes. Okay."

"Maybe you should hold them."

"Okay. So that when the hundred other cars go and it is our turn in like, an hour, I will be ready to hand them to the man in the booth, yes?" Ilya keeps his eyes forward, sucking his lips in between his teeth. He cannot laugh. Shane will fucking kill him.

"Fuck off."

"Are you smuggling drugs?"

Shane whips his head to glare at Ilya. "No, don't fucking say that with your window down—!"

"I am just asking. You are acting as though there is something up your ass—"

"I swear to fucking god, Rozanov, shut up." Shane clenches his teeth together, folding his arms across his chest.

"Just breathe, Shane. It will be fine. You do not even need to talk unless he asks you a question."

It takes longer than it should for them to arrive at the border patrol booth. The van in front of them, with New York plates and a litany of bumper stickers, has to pop open their trunk. Ilya and Shane watch as the officer pokes through what looks to be piles of trash with the butt end of his flashlight, before sighing and gesturing for the van to pull over for a more thorough inspection.

"Better them than us," Ilya mumbles.

When the way in front of them is clear and the border patrol officer waves them forward, Ilya creeps the car up slowly until he's even with the window.

"Roll your back window down for me," the officer says, looking almost bored as he reaches out to take their passports. "What's your country of citizenship?"

"Canadian," Ilya says, cringing a bit as his accent peeks through. "I was born in Russia but have lived in Ottawa since I was four, so."

The officer nods. "What's your destination?"

"New York City." Easier to say that than to describe all the other places they're stopping along the way.

"How long will you be in the US?"

"Ahh— a week, maybe?"

"Bringing anything with you? Firearms? Drugs?"

Ilya shakes his head. "Nope," he says, cringing internally as he does so. He's just been asked about illegal things — he should have responded no, sir or something better than fucking nope.

The officer nods, looking back to his computer. He stares down at it, then frowns, leaning in a little closer. "That's— hey wait a minute…" He turns towards the car, leaning down to peer past Ilya. "You're Shane Hollander— you just got drafted to the Voyageurs, yeah?"

Ilya turns to look over at Shane, a grin on his face as he watches Shane's cheeks flush pink, embarrassed. "Oh. Um. Yeah, that's me."

"That's cool, man, congratulations." The officer folds up their passports. "I love hockey, although I'm a Blades fan myself. But now that I met you, I'll root for you, even if it does mean having to cheer on Montreal every once in a while." He reaches down and hands Ilya the passports back with a grin. "Have a safe trip, boys."

"Thank you," Ilya says with a smile that's much less nervous now. "We will." He hands Shane their passports to put away, rolling up both windows as the car pulls away from the booth. He waits, just long enough, and then: "See, Mr. Hockey? Now was that so hard?"

Shane rolls his eyes. "You're lucky you're driving, otherwise I'd punch you," he grumbles. "Really fucking hard."

—

It's nice, being in the car with Shane.

There's just something special about it, and Ilya isn't quite sure if he can put his finger on what it is. They've taken trips together before, traveling on weekends for some of Shane's AAA hockey games out of town. They'd piled into the back of Yuna's minivan and driven up to Quebec City, over to Sudbury, and even further to Sault Ste. Marie, the trunk and the third row stuffed to the absolute brim with hockey gear and sticks.

The DVD player in the roof of the van had been enough to keep them occupied for the first couple of years after Yuna had reluctantly traded in her Volvo, realizing that there simply was not enough room for all of them to fit. Once the novelty of getting to watch movies in a moving car had worn off, they'd simply reclined their seats and stretched out, oscillating between singing along loudly to whatever music David had chosen, or opting instead to sleep for the entire drive with a pair of shared earbuds dangling between them.

The Hollanders would stop for fast food, with road trips being the only time Shane would indulge in whatever greasy meal that they could get at a drive through. Sometimes they'd stay overnight wherever the team was playing, Yuna and David in one hotel room and Shane and Ilya in the other, connected by a door in between. Those were always Ilya's favorite trips, when he and Shane would be able to pretend like they were all grown up, on a vacation all their own, instead of right next door to the real adults, separated by a propped open door.

Once Shane had graduated to the higher levels of hockey, he started to travel with the team. There was a bus, one that fit all of the players and all of their gear, and so instead of four in the van, there was three. Ilya had asked Yuna if she was going to sell it now that she no longer had to cart Shane and all of his gear around, and she had laughed as though the idea had never even occurred to her.

The years passed, and she kept the van. It gave Ilya room to stretch out, his body growing like a weed once puberty hit. Instead of sitting in the middle row he'd sit in the third row, all the way in the back on the bench seat, so that he could lift his legs up and rest them on the folded down seats in front of him. It made it easy for him to sleep on the way to whatever city they were headed to, wrapped in a blanket, his jacket balled up beneath his head like a makeshift pillow.

It sucked, not having Shane there for the drives. It was good to see him win on the ice, of course, and sometimes Shane would end up climbing in the car and riding home with them instead of with the team, falling asleep with his head on Ilya's shoulder and snoring softly in his ear. But most of the time they would only see Shane when he was on the ice, when he'd skate out to warm up before the game started and would search the stands to find them, grinning up at them brightly with a wave. They'd watch him skate circles around the other players, would watch him score goal after goal, and then wouldn't see him until late the next day back in Ottawa.

Sometimes it was an earlier pick-up, with the sun still shining, but oftentimes the bus would arrive late, the sky already dark. Ilya would drive along with whatever Hollander parent went to pick him up after the team returned back to the arena, keeping them company on the drive. It wasn't a long trip, maybe 20 minutes on a bad day, but when the drive was being made late at night when by this point the Hollanders would already be in bed? Ilya felt like he should go along just to make sure they made the trip okay.

That, and he wanted to see Shane. So the reasons for it weren't all selfless.

Shane would climb into the back of the car weary and exhausted, stretching out to take up the full seat, pressing his face into the headrest as sleep came quickly. Sometimes he would be injured, pressing an ice pack to his ribs or his face, sometimes he'd be limping on his way to the car and would wince if he put too much weight on one of his ankles. On those days, Ilya would sit in the back seat with him, holding the ice pack on whatever part of Shane was injured, or letting him elevate his leg on Ilya's lap.

Those drives home were always quiet, full of road noise and the soft sounds of Shane's breathing instead of conversation or music. But that, those handful of minutes… it wasn't the same as how it used to be. There was some part of Ilya, some deep, intrinsic part of him that deeply missed the hours on the road with Shane. Even though most of the time they were just existing next to each other, dozing or staring out the windows… it was still more time together that Ilya truly cherished.

But now, here in the car with Ilya behind the wheel and Shane stretched out in the passenger seat, music playing over the speakers and the windows cracked… it makes Ilya feel like they're back in their early teens again. He has to stop himself from checking his back seat, as though if he turns too quickly he'll catch a quick glimpse of their younger selves sitting back there.

It feels good, even if he has to suppress the part of him that wants to reach out across the center console and tangle his fingers with Shane's, lifting lightly calloused knuckles up to his lips to press a kiss there. He wants to feel Shane's fingers in his hair, tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck as they drive. He wants to talk about their future — about whether they'll get married one day, or maybe even have children… oh, he wants so much.

Instead, Shane taps his fingers idly on one knee to the beat of the music, eyes out the window. The conversation is quiet, flowing easily from topic to topic, interrupted only when Shane calls out the next step on the printed-out directions in his hands. They spend a lot of time talking about hockey, and more specifically the Voyageurs, because Shane has been studying. He knows the whole team, can recite them by number and position, and has been watching tape in his free time to prepare.

He tells Ilya about development camp, about what it had been like to play with the other rookies that Montreal had drafted. Some players had come up from Laval too, players who the Voyageurs were preparing to bring up to the team in case of injury (or trade). He recounts the scrimmages, giving almost perfect play-by-play descriptions so vivid that Ilya can easily picture it in his mind. It's like watching a hockey game, the way that Shane is able to narrate the whole thing for him, and he finds himself nodding along as he tries to keep up.

(He does notice that Shane keeps the discussion strictly on hockey, on the team, on camp. He doesn't talk about moving to Montreal, about anything that had happened at camp off-ice, about what's going to happen after they return back from their trip. But he doesn't push. Not yet, at least.)

They stop once, in Binghamton, to gas up the car and stretch their legs. Ilya sneaks in to the McDonalds attached to the gas station to get something to eat, and only half-complains when they get on the road a few minutes later and Shane steals a few of his fries. At some point Shane falls asleep, head bent against the window. Ilya reaches out to turn the music down, quiet enough so that he can hear the gentle sounds of Shane's breath, a soft snore that he insists he doesn't have.

The directions hang from his fingers, dangerously close to falling on the floor, and Ilya reaches out to take them, setting them on the center console. It's mostly a straight shot to Scranton; he doesn't need his navigator just now.

He'll wake Shane up when they're closer — he's happy to exist in this moment borrowed from the past for as long as he can.

—

SCRANTON, PENNSYLVANIA. (that's what she said)

"I just want to drive through it," Ilya says, taking the exit to get off of the interstate. "We do not need to stay, or go anywhere really, I just want to see the building—"

The building, according to the map, is a left and then a quick right, and Ilya pulls the Silver Bullet over on Vine Street and puts it into park. He arches his back, shifting from left to right as his back pops twice, stiff from being stuck in the same position for so long.

"Holy shit, there it is—" Shane ducks forward so he can look out the front windshield, peering up at the tall brick building. It looks just like it had on the show, with PENN PAPER on one side (the actual business located in this building) and DUNDER MIFFLIN on the other. "This shouldn't be as cool as it is, it's just a logo—"

"It's the logo." Ilya checks to make sure he's not about to open his door into oncoming traffic, but the street is fairly quiet and so he gets out of the car, walking around it to step up onto the curb. He walks down the sidewalk towards the corner, looking up to get the best vantage point, and then pulls out his cell phone. He flips it open, snapping a photo.

"I should have bought a camera," he says, sighing, looking down at the pixelated phone screen. The picture looks fine from far away, but up close it's hard to see exactly what the sign says. "Does your phone have a better camera—?"

It does. Of course it does. Ilya smiles as Shane leans back, taking the picture. "You will send that to me, yes?"

Shane nods with a smile. "You want one of you with it?"

"Us," Ilya corrects. "Take one of us with it."

Shane flips his phone around and holds it out, adjusting the angle so that they're both in frame along with the sign in the background. "Okay," he says. "Smile." He wraps an arm around Ilya's shoulder, their cheeks pressed together. Ilya doesn't think he's smiled wider in his life.

"Okay," he says a few minutes later, after staring up at the building. "We can keep going now."

"What, you don't want to go anywhere else?"

"I— well, we can, I did not think you were as big of a fan of The Office." Ilya shrugs. "I figured we would see the sign and then keep going to New York."

Shane shakes his head. "No," he says. "Let's go to Poor Richards for dinner, like you were talking about before we left. I'm hungry, anyways. Probably a good time to stop and get something to eat."

Ilya feels something bloom in his chest. "Okay," he says, ducking his head to hide his smile.

A half hour later finds them sat at a booth in the corner of the pub absolutely demolishing two orders of wings and some pizza fries. It's more food than they probably should be eating, and Shane tries to protest, but Ilya shakes his head as he places the order.

"My friend here is a growing boy," he says with a teasing grin to the waitress, who laughs. She tosses her hair in a way that he probably should find cute, but instead his mind is on Shane, who's close enough to him that their thighs touch beneath the table, warm and steady. The curve of the booth has them next to each other instead of across the table, and it's easy enough for Ilya to throw a casual hand across the back of the seat, his fingertips brushing against Shane's shoulders every once in a while when he leans back.

The food is delightful, and they eat almost everything, leaving only a couple of wings behind. Ilya looks after them mournfully as they slide out of the booth to head to the car and get back on the road, but Shane reminds him that there's likely not going to be a microwave in their hotel room, and cold chicken is fine to eat only if it has been in a refrigerator.

"And," Shane says, "there's probably not going to be one of those either."

—

NEW YORK, NEW YORK. (so nice they named it twice)

"This is a fucking nightmare.” Ilya grips the wheel of his car tightly, eyes wide as he creeps steadily through heavy traffic towards the George Washington Bridge. "I do not want to go across this thing, I might throw up. Shane, if I throw up and die you need to drive.”

"It’s gonna be fine, Ilya, you’re being dramatic–” But Shane is eyeing the eight lane double-decker bridge warily. "Why is it so wide?”

"We would not survive California,” Ilya says, shaking his head, the leather steering wheel creaking as he squeezes it tighter. The Silver Bullet's tires bump over an uneven part of the road as Ilya follows behind the car in front of him onto the bridge. Ilya spares a quick glance over to see what is, in theory, a stunning view of the Hudson River. Or at least, he thinks it would be, if it wasn't growing dark. They're so fucking high up that it's nauseating. Ilya has never been afraid of heights before, but he thinks now maybe he might be, and refocuses his attention straight forwards instead of on the glittering water below.

"I don't think it's going to get any easier once we're in the city," Shane offers. Ilya doesn't dare look over at him, because he thinks if he takes his eyes off of the road he might accidentally drive off the bridge and into the river.

"But— oh, the city, Ilya, look—" Shane reaches out to smack Ilya in the arm, pointing out the right window.

Ilya grits his teeth, hands tightening around the wheel. "I cannot, otherwise I might miss where we need to go—" And really, why are there exits so close to the end of the bridge? He puts his blinker on, looking in his side mirror. There are cars bumper to bumper, and none of them are letting him merge. It's getting late, why the fuck are there so many fucking cars? He grinds his teeth, jaw popping.

"Oh, just look Ilya, it's so cool—" Shane rolls his window down, arm hanging out of the car as he leans over to see more.

Ilya sighs, and turns to look at the metropolis rising out of the darkness, lights as far as he can see. New York spreads out on the darkening horizon, yellow dots glimmering in the windows of the skyscrapers. It feels surreal to think that there are people in these giant buildings, people going about their lives and turning on the lamps and the overhead lights in order to see in the coming dark. Each dot represents someone, a city full of strangers and friends, of lovers and poets, of artists and actors.

He finally merges, all but shoving the nose of his car into the next lane and then, quickly, the one right next to that. His lips press firmly together as they finally exit the bridge and merge onto a highway headed towards the city. There's more green than he'd expected, the city in the distance disappearing as they're suddenly surrounded by trees, the river on their right.

But at some point the trees fall away, replaced by glass and concrete. Giant piers jut out into the water, and the glittering lights of what Ilya knows to be New Jersey are visible on the opposite side of the river.

"Where do I get off this," Ilya says, motioning to the pile of papers in Shane's other hand, all but forgotten about.

Shane looks down, squinting to read what the directions say by the light of the street lamps that hang over the road. "Um. Keep going for a while."

This is the biggest city Ilya has ever been to. He does not remember much about living in Moscow, but he does know it's bigger than New York — he'd looked it up before they'd left for their trip. He wonders silently if there's anything similar about the two cities. New York is more glass, for sure, tall buildings rising out of the pavement like sprouting weeds. It's dense, chaotic, and makes him feel small. He knows the architecture in Russia is different too, older, more domes and spires — or at least, it had been, once upon a time.

He feels that hollow space within him ache. His mother would have taught him about her country. His father had expected him to learn for himself. He thinks once again about the rejection letter from McGill, letting it exist in his mind for a few seconds, and then tucks it away again.

"Turn here," Shane says, pulling him from his reverie. "Left on 56th."

So Ilya does, turning left and driving under a building (under a fucking building) before they pop out on the other side. Shane reads out the turn-by-turn steps until they reach their destination. Driving in the city is fucking harrowing, with pedestrians darting across the street regardless of the color of the traffic light and cars pulling out into traffic without checking if there's already someone in the street. Ilya rolls his window down and is hit almost instantly with a whiff of city air — it's some combination of roasting nuts from a street cart, trash on the street, and beneath that, the smell of people. Millions of people just living and working. And smelling.

Ilya rolls up the window.

—

"Fifty fucking US dollars a day to park the car," Ilya grumbles as they emerge from the parking ramp, their duffel bags of clothes over their shoulders. "This is a scam, I think."

"It's New York." Shane's eyes are up, tracing the tops of the buildings. "It's all gonna be a scam."

"Do not say that too loudly," Ilya says, bumping his shoulder against Shane's. He feels so small here, walking down 29th Street, dwarfed by all the buildings around them. He also feels tired, and wants his head to be in a bed as soon as possible.

"How long are we here?" Shane is standing very close to him, close enough that Ilya feels their shoulders bump again. "This is— it's so busy."

It's 9:30 at night, and the streets are as crowded as they would be in the middle of the day. People move quickly here, at a much faster pace than he's used to, and it feels almost like they're being swept along as they turn down Seventh Avenue, continuing the walk towards their hotel.

"Two full days," Ilya says. "Then we leave early and have a… six hour drive, I think."

"Six hours?" Shane's brows lift. "Is this— is this that secret place you won't tell me about?"

Ilya's lips curl in a secretive smile. "Yes," he says with a nod. "You will find out soon enough, but I cut out any references to it in the directions so you cannot cheat and look that way."

Shane rolls his eyes. "Fucker," he says, no real heat behind it. "Fine. Whatever. I don't care." He hikes his duffel up on his shoulder. "Are we close to Times Square?"

"I think so, yes," Ilya says, pointing straight ahead to where it looks like daytime is peeking out between buildings. "We are almost at the hotel. We can check in, put our bags down, and go for a walk before bed, yes?"

"Yeah," Shane says, excitement flaring behind his eyes. It's funny, Ilya thinks, how Shane is simultaneously wary of large crowds and yet wants to go to what might be the most visited spot in the entire city. But then again, it's not something that compares to anything he'd see in Ottawa, or even Montreal.

The hotel is… interesting. The location is excellent — it's right across the way from Madison Square Garden. The video billboard that hangs right below the MSG branding on the building shows highlights on loop of Scott Hunter scoring goal after goal for the Admirals, while interspersing random advertisements for season tickets for the upcoming season.

"You will be playing against him soon," Ilya says as they enter the hotel, pointing up at the billboard. Shane's gaze follows Ilya's finger, and his face goes a little green around the edges when he sees who Ilya is talking about. Ilya ducks his head to hide his smile, and pushes through the revolving door into the air conditioned lobby.

It feels like they've gone back in time when they step off the elevator onto their floor, long corridors stretching left and right that branch off into smaller inner passages. The hotel room doors are old, heavy things that look like they've been around since the hotel first opened. The carpet is worn, and the room itself is small, two single beds and a bathroom the size of a closet. There's a small desk and a wall mounted television that has seen better days. The window looks out over Seventh Avenue, the billboard of Scott Hunter's face almost front and center.

Theoretically, they're just going to be in the room for two nights, and they'll only be there to sleep and so none of it really matters, but at the same time they're two eighteen-year-olds who, it turns out, are both too tall for the beds. Shane flops down on top of his and his feet dangle off the edge, and the way that he sits up and stares at the foot of the bed as though it personally wronged him makes Ilya laugh so hard that his eyes tear up.

"I need to shower," Ilya says, wiping at his eyes. "Then we can go to Times Square."

The water in the bathroom is either boiling hot or freezing cold — there is no in-between. Ilya stands just outside the spray, only dipping himself beneath it when he absolutely needs to. By the time he's done, the mirror is fogged up, his skin is bright red, and when he steps out into the hotel room with his towel wrapped around his waist, he's accompanied by a cloud of steam.

Shane coughs. "Jesus—"

"Sorry. Water is— bad. Very touchy. Had to shower in lava." Ilya bends to dig through his duffel bag, back to Shane as he tugs out a clean pair of briefs.

Shane coughs again. "Good to know," he says, stuffing his phone into his pocket.

"Are you showering?"

"No," Shane says as he shakes his head. "I will in the morning."

Ilya gets dressed, toweling off his hair. It's hot enough outside to leave it wet, curls damp against his head. He tucks his wallet into his pocket, then motions towards the door. "Let's go," he says, pulling the oversized door open.

Times Square is a quick walk away, fifteen minutes up Seventh Avenue. Shane pulls out his phone, snapping a few photos here and there — the Empire State Building where it peaks around the corner on 34th, the red double-decker tourist busses, the massive billboards and video screens that grow in size the closer they get… until there they are.

Ilya knows that they call Times Square the 'crossroads of the world' because he'd read it on a website when he'd been trying to find them a hotel to stay at. It had made sense in his head at the time, but he hadn't really been able to picture it in his head. But here, standing in the center of the square surrounded by towering buildings, billboards bigger than anything he's ever seen, and so many people… he thinks he really gets it now.

Shane stands next to him, eyes wide as he takes it all in. "This is… I don't even know if I have the words for it."

"Yes," Ilya agrees, spinning around in a slow circle. "It looks like daylight here."

"Let's take a picture of us." Shane pulls out his phone. "My mom will love this—" He slings his arm around Ilya, pulling him close, and rests his chin on Ilya's shoulder. On impulse, Ilya turns his head to press a sloppy kiss to Shane's cheek. The phone camera clicks, and Shane lowers the phone so that they can both look at the photo. Shane's face is scrunched up, but he's smiling, head angled towards Ilya. The colors of the billboards reflect off of their skins, painting them in reds and pinks and greens and blues, like an artist has dumped their pallette over the top of them.

"We should take another one," Ilya offers. "I will be serious this time."

"Okay." Shane lifts his phone up and snaps a second picture, this one where they're both smiling normally at the camera.

"Send that one to your mother," Ilya says. "Send the other one to me."

Shane nods, fiddling with his phone. Once the pictures have been sent, he looks back up at Ilya. "Can we— is that Elmo?"

Ilya turns to look over his shoulder at the very tall red furry creature walking towards them, followed by what looks like Spongebob, Spiderman, and Batman. "It seems so," he says faintly. "Okay. We are going now. We can come back later, when Elmo and his friends are not here."

—

Ilya has a list.

He'd found a website that had listed off all of the coolest things to do in New York City and had written them all down on a sheet of paper. It sits in his pocket now, folded and crinkled, and he almost wishes that he'd brought a pen with him so he could check things off as they go.

They walk through Central Park. They go to the top of the Empire State Building. They feed pigeons in Washington Square Park. They eat a dollar slice from a 2 Bros on the corner. They get gelato in Little Italy. They visit the American Museum of Natural History and take pictures of all of the references from Night at the Museum. Ilya gets a hot dog from a street vendor (because Shane says no, he is absolutely not getting one for himself).

It's a jam packed two days, and both of them are absolutely exhausted by the end of it, feet aching. The thought of walking any more makes both of them recoil — which is why, on their last night in the city, they stand in an obnoxiously long line in Times Square and somehow manage to get Broadway tickets to see a show Ilya has never heard of before, called Next to Normal. The tickets had been the cheapest out of the whole list of options, and a 'contemporary rock' musical sounded the most interesting. Neither of them are big fans of musicals, really, but the thought of coming to New York and not seeing a show on Broadway is hard to swallow.

The seats turn out to be in a great spot, close to the front of the theater in the center of the orchestra. They settle in, ready to enjoy the show. Except by the time the musical ends, Ilya feels like someone has reached into his mouth and into his chest, violently tearing out his soul.

"Nobody told me it would be about that—" he gasps out, bent at the waist in his seat, hands over his face. Shane rests a hand on the back of Ilya's neck, fingers squeezing gently. It's enough to ground him, but not enough to stop the shaking that comes from somewhere deep within himself.

He should have looked up the plot beforehand. His fault. He should have known that he was about to sit for two hours and watch a musical about depression, about medication, about suicide. About a mother who struggled with bipolar disorder, who loved her lost son so much that she—

He thinks he might throw up, right here in his seat. He keeps his eyes shut, focusing on the feeling of Shane's hand, warmth where their skin connects, and breathes in and out, in and out, trying to calm the churning in his gut.

Ilya isn't sure how much Shane knows about his mother. He knows she's dead, obviously, but he's not sure if Shane knows the circumstances surrounding it. It's not something Ilya has ever told him about, and so the only way he would know would be from Yuna. It had been a day or two after the funeral, and unbeknownst to Ilya, she had been outside in her garden behind her house, bent over weeding, close enough to hear him where he had sat beneath one of the trees in his backyard, knees tucked up to his chest, weeping.

She had dropped her gardening tools, taken off her gloves, and hurried over, pulling him tight to her chest. She had held him as he'd sobbed, face pressed to her shoulder as his tears soaked into her shirt. He had cried himself hoarse, face blotchy and eyes swollen by the time he'd finally settled, and she'd taken gentle hands and wiped his cheeks.

She hadn't asked him why he was crying, she hadn't needed to — but he found himself telling her anyways. He told her everything, about how it had been him that had found Irina, her hand dangling delicately off the edge of the bed. An empty bottle of pills sat on the nightstand, a near-empty glass of water right next to them. The room had smelled like a sick combination of the light floral fragrance of her perfume and the stench of death — like orchids and lilies and bodily fluids and bile, cloying and thick as it had rushed into his nose, and despite the urge to turn tail and run he had sprinted over to the bed and shook her, begging her to please please wake up, mama, please.

Of course, she did not.

Yuna had pulled him into her lap and had rocked him back and forth gently as he talked, the tears flowing again, his body somehow still having more to give. She had sat, listening, and when the words finally ran out and he turned his face against her again with a desperate whimper, she had run her fingers through his hair and very gently sang a song in a language he could not understand. It had been soothing, enough that by the time the tears had finally dried on his cheeks, his eyes had stayed closed and he had slept for what felt like the first time since he had found his mother dead in her bed.

He had woken up a little while later on the Hollanders' couch, a soft pillow under his head and a blanket draped over him. Shane had been at practice, but when David returned from picking him up, he had flopped down on the couch next to Ilya and rested his back against Ilya's bent knees, giving him a shy smile before turning on the television. They'd both been asleep again a few minutes later.

Ilya doesn't think Shane knows any of this. And maybe he should.

"I think we should go back to the hotel and talk, yes?" Ilya says, focusing on his breathing. "I will… tell you some things, about… why this was so…" He gestures to himself.

"Okay," Shane says softly. "Whatever you need to tell me."

The walk back to the hotel in the dark is quiet — at least, between them. Around them New York is loud, sirens and shouting punctuating the soundtrack to their walk. Shane's arm brushes up against his as they go, and Ilya can see him looking over every once in a while, his brows furrowed like Ilya is a puzzle he's trying to figure out.

The hotel room, because it's in the front of the building, still gets some street noise, although the windows muffle most of it. The lights from MSG flicker in through the glass, and Ilya steps up to shut the blinds. Some light filters in around the edges, but the room is mostly lit by a warm glow from the bedside lamp that Shane flicks on. Silently they both change into their pajamas, and by the time Ilya turns around to get into bed Shane is already sat on his own, legs folded criss-cross as he looks up at Ilya expectantly.

Ilya sighs. "My mother," he says, voice cracking only a little. "She…"

He can't say the words. They physically will not come out of his mouth, and he sinks down to sit on the edge of his bed, bare feet against the thin carpet in the room. His toes curl against it, seeking to bury themselves in non-existent pile.

Shane gets up from his bed, crossing the gap between them to sit down next to Ilya instead. He reaches out and takes one of Ilya's hands tightly, squeezing it. He doesn't speak, but Ilya can hear him nonetheless. I'm here. Take all the time you need.

Ilya takes a breath, and then another, trying to steady the pulse he can feel jumping in his neck. "She took a bottle of pills. I found her, after." He leaves the rest unspoken, allowing Shane to fill in the gaps.

Shane makes a soft, wounded sound, and leans forward to wrap his arms around Ilya. Ilya is proud of himself for not crying, even though he wants to. But the immediate hurt has faded now; he no longer feels scraped raw from the musical. It doesn't feel anymore like his insides have been laid bare in front of him, arranged in a pile for him to dissect. He leans into Shane's arms, shutting his eyes.

"I didn't know," Shane says after a long while of silence. "I'm not— I'm not blaming you for not telling me, and it's… you didn't have to. But it hurts to know you've been carrying that this whole time, and I wasn't able to be there for you."

Ilya tilts his head, thunking the side of it very gently against the top of Shane's. "It is a heavy thing," he says with a lift of one shoulder in a shrug. "I did not want to…"

"You wouldn't have." Shane shakes his head. "Whatever it is you didn't want to do, you wouldn't have." Silence, and then: "Do my parents know?"

"Your mother does," Ilya says. "She found me crying in my backyard a few days after." He tells Shane the story, albeit an abbreviated version of it. "I always thought maybe she told you, but… it seems like she did not."

"It's not her story to tell." Shane reaches out, setting a tentative hand against Ilya's chest, fingers splayed over his heart. "But I want you to know, it doesn't matter that you didn't tell me, okay? I'm not mad. The hurt I'm feeling is… is yours, I guess. I wish I could have been there for you, helped to carry some of it if I could have."

Ilya's own hand comes up, covering Shane's gently. "No," he says quietly. "What you have done for me is… is more than enough. You have helped me so much without even knowing, I promise."

They sit together in silence for a while after that. At some point Shane goes back to his own bed and they both crawl under the covers, turning out the light. The room is dark, except for what creeps in around the blinds. Ilya should sleep, and he does try. The sounds of Shane's breathing level out as he drifts down into whatever dreams are destined to fill his mind, but Ilya stares up at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the lines where a crack has been repaired and patched with a paint that doesn't quite match the rest of it.

He can't stop thinking about the musical. Diana, the mother, had found her light at the end. She had found a way out through the darkness. Why hadn't Irina been able to do that?

—

MILL RUN, PENNSYLVANIA. (trust the process)

"Where even are we?”

Ilya had pulled off the interstate a half hour ago, maybe a little less. Since then their drive has been tree-lined, a vivid northeastern summer green. The windows in the car are rolled down, warm air rustling their hair, and Shane’s arm hangs out the window, his fingers moving as though he’s running them through a stream of water. He stares out at the woods around him, like somehow the trees will tell him where they are.

Ilya simply smiles, reaching out with one hand to poke at Shane’s cheek. It does the desired effect, in getting him to frown towards him instead of looking out the window, so that he doesn’t see the blue sign for where they’re headed. By the time he looks back out, they’ve passed it, and Ilya smiles to himself as they continue driving forward.

He can’t hide the final sign, though, as he slows the car to turn off the main road. The name of where they've just arrived is etched in stone, marking the turnoff point, and Shane gapes over at it. Fallingwater. "You’re fucking kidding me right now–?”

Ilya shakes his head. "Nope,” he says, lips popping on the ‘p’. 

"Ilya, if this is a joke, I swear to fucking god–”

"It is not a joke, I would not do that to you.”

They park in the visitors lot and Shane is out of the car almost faster than he can unbuckle the seatbelt. He’s practically bouncing on his heels as Ilya gets out and locks the doors behind them. "I can’t believe we’re here right now, oh my god.” 

They spend the next twenty minutes in the visitors center – Ilya buys their tickets, and Shane flips through architectural books, eyes taking in every detail. "We can come back after the tour and you can buy as many books as you want,” Ilya says teasingly, resting his chin on Shane’s shoulder so that he can look at the images on the pages, both of their eyes tracing the lines of the buildings.

The guide walks them down the path towards the house, the sound of rushing water growing louder and louder until they’re standing in front of a house that looks stretched out, too wide and not tall enough. But Shane stands at rapt attention, hanging on the guide’s every word as they’re led into the interior.

"Look–” he hisses under his breath, pointing over at a rock that juts out from the floor. "He built the house around that rock–”

Ilya’s brows lift and he nods, making what he hopes is an appropriate sound of interest. Architecture has never been his thing, really. It’s always been Shane’s, something that has evolved from building with Lego as a child to pouring over floor plans as a teenager. He remembers the hyperfixation on Frank Lloyd Wright that had developed some time during grade seven, remembers the hours spent laying on Shane's living room floor as he'd listened to Shane talk eagerly about the Guggenheim in New York (a missed opportunity, really, that they didn't make it there during their brief stay), looking at blurry pictures printed in black and white.

It has always been one of his favorite things about Shane — whenever something catches his interest, he makes it the center of his attention for however long the passion sticks. Some are fleeting, like the summer where he'd bought binoculars and a field guide and had made Ilya traipse with him through the Morris Island Nature Preserve whenever he had a free weekend from hockey, the two of them slathered in bug spray and wearing matching outfits, looking for all of the different kinds of birds so Shane could log his finds. Others, like hockey and architecture, had taken hold, deeply rooting themselves within Shane and refusing to let go. Ilya thinks that these passions are curled around Shane's bones, shooting off into smaller and smaller tributaries until they've intertwined themselves with every fiber of Shane's being.

Most of the tour goes over Ilya's head, the guide speaking about cantilevered terraces and local stone. Instead, he finds his mind drifting, picturing a world where he and Shane lived here, together, instead of in Ottawa. As they stand in the master bedroom, he can't help but imagine how it would be to wake up with Shane in his arms every morning. It's not a safe thing to think about, not here in public, surrounded by fifteen strangers and one Shane, who is very much his best friend and not someone who is in love with Ilya. And yet.

The domesticity of it all makes his gut twist, and he is certain it's not because of the house itself, or even the bedroom. It's the thought of getting to live with Shane, the thought of waking up every day with him, of making breakfast together, of cold ginger ale cans in the fridge butting up to the cans of diet coke, their clothes mixing together in the laundry… fuck. Oh, he's so fucked.

The tour ends where it started, in the gift shop, and Shane spends a long time trying to pick out souvenirs to bring back for his parents. In the end he settles on a pendant for Yuna, a small rectangular thing with bits of concrete taken from when they'd done preservation work on the house. For David, Shane selects a double-sided puzzle, one side a photograph of the house and the other a blueprint. "It's like he'll have two puzzles in one," he tells Ilya as they stand in line to check out.

Shane hasn't stopped smiling since they had parked the car, and it makes Ilya feel fuzzy on the inside. This had been only a quick stop on their way to their next, but seeing Shane this happy… it had been worth it.

—

Ilya brings up Montreal again when they cross the Pennsylvania border back into New York, one hand on the steering wheel and the other lifted to his lips, his fingertips tracing them idly as he leans his elbow on the window ledge. "Are you excited to move?" he asks, turning his head to look over at Shane for a moment before focusing back on the road. He doesn't want to talk about this, doesn't want to think about it, even, but he asks anyways.

Shane lifts a shoulder, angling his body so that he can stare out the passenger side window. "I guess," he says. "It'll be… fine."

"Did you find an apartment?"

"Yeah."

Ilya waits for more details, but nothing else comes. He blinks. "Is it nice?" He feels like he's pulling the answers from Shane, like they're stuck in quicksand somewhere deep in his throat.

"I found a place while I was there for camp. I dunno if I'll stay there for longer than a year, but it's something to get me by, at least."

Ilya waits again for more. He knows how Shane is with architecture, with real estate, with anything that has to do with houses and buildings, and he knows the sorts of tangents he can go on when talking about them. He just saw it, for fucks sake, at Fallingwater. And yet here Shane sits, silent, eyes out the window as he watches the trees along the side of the road fly by.

It stings a little (a lot) that Shane hadn't told him about any of this. Ilya's sure it hadn't been done intentionally, but at the same time, a sliver of doubt threads its way into him because what if it had been a deliberate omission? What if Shane hadn't told him for a reason, like maybe he's got this plan to completely disappear from Ilya's life the second that he drives off down the street towards Montreal? What if— no, no.

Ilya takes a breath, exhaling into his fingers, stopping that thought spiral before it even starts. Maybe Shane just doesn't want to talk about it right now. Whatever.

—

They're driving on an elevated highway around the city of Buffalo when Ilya notices it. He sniffs, first out of habit… but then does it again, deeper this time.

"Buffalo really does smell like Cheerios — I thought they were lying on the internet about this."

Shane rolls down the window and takes a deep inhale of his own. "Oh, what the fuck."

Those are the first words Shane has said to him since Ilya had tried to talk about Montreal. They'd driven for an hour without speaking, something neutral playing over the speakers from Shane's iPod, so while they've not been in complete silence, there has been absolutely no conversation. The air feels charged between them, like there's an electrical hum thrumming low and steady in Ilya's ears, his skin prickling with how tense it is.

But with the smell of toasted oats and warm, malted grains floating through the air, it's almost as though the scent has diffused the bomb hovering between them.

"You will be playing there soon," Ilya says next, reaching out to nudge Shane's shoulder gently before pointing at the giant blue dome of the hockey arena. "You will wipe the floor with the Blades, yes? Skate circles around them?"

"I don't know," Shane says with a shrug, elbow out the window as he breathes deeply, eyes shut. "Probably."

"Definitely. You are going to be the top points scorer in the league, I know it," Ilya says, his voice firm. He's never been so sure of something in his life.

—

NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK. (or thereabouts)

"I’m sorry, boys. I’ve only got one room left, and it’s only got one queen sized bed.” The motel clerk looks between the two of them from her spot behind the front desk, looking very much not sorry. "It’s yours if you want it, or there’s another motel a couple of doors down…”

"No,” Ilya says, shaking his head. "This one is fine. Thank you. How far is Niagara Falls from here? Can we walk there?” He slides his credit card beneath the glass partition over to her, pointedly not looking over at Shane, who he is sure would much rather drive over to a new motel where they can sleep separately.

The clerk raises one eyebrow. "The Falls? Oh, honey, that’ll be a long walk. You can get there in fifteen minutes by car, or you can grab a bus if that’s more your thing, but you won’t see it out your window if that’s what you’re hoping for. There's a bus stop in front of the Travelodge that'll take you there.”

Ilya can feel Shane's gaze on him now, laser focusing in on his face. He thinks if Shane could shoot heat out of his eyes, that he'd have burned a hole in Ilya's skull already.

"But you are called the Falls View Inn–” He waves a hand behind him, towards the sign out front that has clearly seen better days. 

"We offer rooms for rent by the hour here. You really think you’re getting a Falls view room?”

"...no.” Ilya sighs, then scrawls his name on the receipt.

"Room four,” the clerk says, handing him the room key and the television remote. They’re both sticky when he picks them up, and he tries to touch them as little as possible as they head back out to the car to get their bags.

"We could have just gone to another hotel,” Shane mutters under his breath. "Like… the Travelodge, or— or fuck, there’s a Holiday Inn just up the road, I saw it as we were driving in. There’s literally a Best Western right there too.” He gestures across the street.

"You need to be 21 to stay at most of those places,” Ilya says with a frown as he hefts his duffel bag over his shoulder. "I checked. Is why we have been in not-so-good rooms this whole time instead of nice ones."

"Well clearly you didn’t check hard enough.” Shane looks around them, at the busy road that the motel sits next to, the very residential looking houses that surround it. "This doesn’t feel like Niagara Falls.”

"I am… not sure that it is.” Ilya unlocks room number 4, pushing the door open. It at least is clean, the bed sheets nice and tidy. He peers around, trying to nonchalantly look for roach motels without Shane noticing. When he doesn’t find any, he sighs in relief. 

Well… at least there’s that.

Shane drops his bag down onto the bed, frowning as it squeaks loudly. "I think they might need new box springs,” he says, looking down at it. The covers are a dark green, some sort of floral pattern embroidered into it that at one time might have been very visible, but now just blends into the comforter indistinctly

"I think they may have found this one in a dumpster, probably,” Ilya suggests. He walks over and sits on the edge, then bounces up and down. The box spring makes a repetitive squeaking, and he can’t help but look up at Shane with a grin and a wink.

Shane rolls his eyes. "Stop,” he says, turning away.

Ilya frowns — there's no matching grin on Shane's face, just a furrowed brow and hunched shoulders. Ilya has seen this before, after Shane loses a game he should have won or when something doesn't go his way.

"What is it?"

Shane shakes his head. "Nothing. Can we just go get dinner or something?"

—

The car won’t start.

Ilya sits in the driver's seat, staring at the wheel as if the car has personally offended him, and tries turning the key again. The dash lights up, and the engine grinds like it's trying, but the Silver Bullet doesn't fucking start.

"I told you we should have rented a car instead–” And fuck, Ilya really doesn't need this attitude from Shane.

"We’re not old enough,” he says bitterly. "Old enough to play in the MLH, but not old enough to rent a fucking car, or stay in a normal fucking hotel room, or– or– blyad!” With a curse, he slams a hand down on the wheel once, and then a second time, and then a third for good measure. Then he leans forward and rests his forehead against it, shutting his eyes. 

"...well, at least there’s one good thing,” Shane comments off-handedly from his spot in the passenger's seat, already unbuckled.

"What is it,” Ilya says blankly.

"There’s a repair shop literally right next door.” 

Ilya lifts his head to gape at Shane, then follows the point of his finger to the auto body shop next to the motel. 

"It's closed now, I think, but tomorrow morning we can bring it over. We won’t even have to pay a tow truck. Just put the car in neutral, and we can push it over.”

Ilya presses the heels of both of his hands to his eyes. "Ahh yes," he bites out. "Thank god for small miracles.” 

—

They end up walking down the street to a 7-Eleven, buying junk food and drinks that will hopefully sustain them for the night. Shane looks less than thrilled about eating a roller dog for dinner, but when the other options are pizza that looks like the cheese has crusted over, and nachos that are the color of a highlighter… the roller dog is really the best option. Ilya watches from the corner of his eye as Shane picks up a salad and some eggs from the fresh food display, piling them on the check-out counter while Ilya finishes filling up a giant cup with blue raspberry slurpee.

He sips on it as they walk back, two bags dangling from Shane's hands as they go.

"It is hot here," he comments, looking around at the buildings they pass by while they walk.

Shane makes a noise of agreement in the back of his throat, looking around them. Anywhere but at Ilya, apparently.

"I cannot believe it about the car— I took her to the mechanic before we left, he said she was fine—"

"Mmmhmm." Shane shifts one bag to the crook of his arm so that he can crack open one of the cans of ginger ale that he'd bought, taking a sip.

Ilya frowns. Earlier today, when they'd gotten in the car in Manhattan, Shane had been fine. He'd been in a great mood in Pennsylvania, at Fallingwater. At some point between then and now, though, it's as though he's made up his mind to be miserable about something.

Ilya knows he shouldn't comment on it. Shane gets like this sometimes, in a bad mood when something doesn't go his way. But usually when Ilya asks about it, Shane will tell him. That's what best friends are for, after all — to sit and listen to your problems while you vent, even if the problem is something so minor as that you'd tripped while walking. He doesn't care about what it is, just that Shane is upset about it. But Shane won't tell him, and it settles under his skin like an itch that just won't go away.

He lets the silence grow until they reach the motel, festering like an open wound as they eat their food with no conversation, sitting on the edge of the bed. Shane's eyes stay down on his lap, occasionally flicking up to look over at Ilya but darting away the second their gazes meet.

Finally, Ilya has had enough.

"Okay, out with it," he says, crumpling up the metal wrapper of his roller dog. "You have had– what is it, bug up your ass, ever since we left Fallingwater. What is  it. Is it the motel? Or is it me? Did I do something?”

"No." Shane shakes his head. "You didn't do anything."

"Then what is it?"

"It's nothing."

It's not fucking nothing, and Shane knows it. Ilya knows it too, and he stands up with a frown, folding his arms across his chest. "Shane."

Shane sighs. "I was just— I don't fucking know, okay? I don't fucking know."

"Okay. Then let's figure it out." Ilya holds up a hand, ticking off their destinations. "You were fine in New York, you were fine at Fallingwater, but here you are not speaking to me. Is it the room? Or the car?"

"No." Shane shakes his head again, still not making eye contact with Ilya.

He's lying, Ilya realizes suddenly, like a crossbow bolt to the chest. Shane is fucking lying to him, to his face, as though their fourteen years of friendship aren't enough for Ilya to be able to see right through it. He's not sure whether to be more upset about the fact that Shane is purposefully concealing something from him, or the fact that Shane thinks he even can hide something. Ilya would like to think that he knows Shane inside and out, that he is familiar with every single part of his best friend, that he can tell with just a look what he is thinking. It might be foolish of him, arrogant even, to think that there's not a way for Shane to hide anything from him, but he is certain. In all the time they've been friends, Shane has never been good at keeping secrets.

"Is it… is it Montreal? You are upset I am not going to be in school right away? I told you, I am going to reapply for winter term–”

"No, I’m not upset at that. I’m just…" Shane presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. "I wanted you in Montreal with me."

"...what?”

"I wanted you there. With me.” Shane drops his hands, staring at Ilya as though what he'd just repeated makes more sense, even though he's not added any additional information.

"What?” Ilya's brows lift up into his curls, sure that the incredulity he feels is written all over his face.

"I don’t know how else to– fuck, Ilya, I’m fucking terrified to do this on my own without you.”

"Shane…” Ilya grits his teeth.

"Shut up.” Shane fists his hands in his lap.

"No, I need you to tell me. Are you mad at me because McGill did not let me in? That is not my fault, you being mad at me is not fair—”

"Fuck off, Ilya. I told you it didn't matter, I don't want to talk about it.”

"No, we are going to talk about it, Shane.”

"I don’t want to.”

"I do not care.”

Ilya watches as Shane folds in on himself, back hunched as he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "You’re being mean, Ilya," he says, staring down at the ground.

And oh, Ilya sees red at that.

"Don’t fucking turn this around on me," he spits. "You are the one acting weird, and when I ask you what is wrong, you tell me you are mad that I am not going to be in Montreal with you. And you are being mean. You have been acting stubborn and like— like a baby ever since we got here, and now we are stuck here in a shitty motel room with no fucking waterfall view and no fucking car, and you are saying me not going to Montreal with you is my fault? Go fuck yourself.”

The curse spills out in Russian, Ilya's lips twisted bitterly as he says it. He doesn't feel bad about it. As though Ilya had wanted to stay behind in Ottawa. As though Ilya hadn't been devastated when the letter from McGill had arrived. As though Ilya had done this on purpose.

Shane at least has the decency to look mollified. Ilya doesn't think he knows what had been said, but the sentiment in it had been fairly clear. "Ilya, that's not what I meant, I—"

"Whatever." And now the frustration is churning in Ilya's gut, indignation at the injustice of Shane's misplaced anger and of the stupidity of it all. He feels his heart climbing up into his throat.

"Look, I said didn’t want to talk about it.” Shane sounds apologetic. "Can we just—"

"Fine." Ilya turns away, ignoring the proverbial proffered outstretched hand. "Then we will not talk about it.”

And so they don’t. They sit in silence for the rest of the evening, with Ilya flipping through random television channels that are a mix of half-American and half-Canadian, while Shane jams his headphones into his ears and clicks around on his iPod. Ilya can tell he’s playing the brick breaking game, his thumb swirling in circles around the dial, quiet noises of frustration when he loses and has to start over.

The world outside their motel room window grows dark, and Ilya eventually gets up and pulls the shades shut, changes into his pajamas, and crawls beneath the covers. He's half tempted to sacrifice one of his pillows to put up a physical barrier between himself and Shane, but the pillows are so thin that he knows he won't be able to sleep otherwise. And so he settles for putting his back to Shane and pulling the covers up to his chin, curling up because the bed is just shy of being too short for him, the tips of his toes brushing against the very end of the bedspread. It's not a soft bed, the mattress old and worn, metal springs poking upwards in spots

He feels, rather than sees, Shane get into bed behind him a little while later. There's some shuffling as Shane tries to get comfortable, and then… nothing. He can tell Shane is still awake, his body shifting every couple of minutes, making the bed springs creak. If they had been in New York, or if they had been in Ottawa, or probably anywhere else other than fucking Niagara Falls, Ilya would have reached out with a soft are you still up? and a gentle touch to Shane's shoulders. Maybe then they'd talk for a little while, whispered words sounding loud in a nearly quiet room. But here, with this cloud of anger and hurt swirling between them… he can't bring himself to bridge that gap.

His annoyance bubbles within him, frustration replaying their conversation over, and over, and over again like it's a physical thing inside his mind sat next to a VCR, oscillating between play and rewind. He can see the clock on the nightstand, watching as the red numbers tick closer and closer to midnight. Sleep evades him, just out of reach.

But then there's a soft pressure, a warmth, as Shane's back settles against his. It's cautious at first, tentative and unsteady, as though Shane is expecting Ilya to pull away. He doesn't though, and Shane relaxes even further, a soft exhale into the dark room. Ilya hates how just Shane's touch makes everything better, all of the thoughts swirling around in his brain quieting as though Shane has tucked them into bed too. He feels as his heartbeat syncs to the gentle rise and fall of Shane's breath, a steady rhythm at Ilya's back.

Ilya lays there, feeling all of this, as Shane's breaths even out and he sinks down into slumber. His heartbeat wraps around Ilya's consciousness, pulling him down, down, down with Shane into the dark.

—

"It looks like your starter’s shot, kid,” the mechanic (Todd, according to the patch on his shirt) says early the next morning as he wipes his hands on a dirty rag, tossing it over his shoulder. He gestures over his shoulder with a thumb, pointing through the open door into the auto body shop where the Silver Bullet is up in the air on a hydraulic lift, being slowly lowered down to the ground again. "I did a full check, and while she’s a bit rusty in… a lot of spots and could probably use some work, it’s the starter that’s giving you the issues here.”

Ilya groans. "Is it going to be hard to fix?”

Todd laughs. "Nah,” he says, waving his hand. "I just gotta get the part and get it installed. A day or two, tops.”

From behind him, Ilya hears a very loud, very pointed sigh of relief from where Shane is sat by the windows of the waiting room, flipping idly through a magazine about hunting, or fishing, or something else probably equally as uninteresting. The sun is shining in through the windows, lighting him from the back with a halo of gold.

"You’re from up north? You stayin’ close by, then?”

Ilya nods. "Motel next door,” he says, tilting his head in the general direction of their room. "Lucky we were very close by when the car died.”

"I’ll say,” Todd says with a nod, wandering around behind the counter. "No need for a tow. Well, I’ll fill out a work order and have you sign, then we’ll give you a call when we’re all set. Like I said, should just be a day or two, then we’ll getcha on the road again.”

"Not too expensive, yes?”

"Nah.” Todd points down at the document. "$400. Uh, in US dollars.” 

"This is fine. I have a credit card, it will be no problem.” Ilya writes down his phone number, then signs the triple-layered document and slides it across the counter. 

"We'll give you a call when it’s ready,” Todd says, giving Ilya a grin before turning to walk back into the autobody shop. Ilya can’t help but look at his car being pushed off to one side of the garage to sit and wait for whatever parts are needed to make her run again. 

He sets down the pen and wanders back over to Shane. "He will call me,” he says, updating Shane as though he couldn’t hear a word of the conversation with the mechanic. Other than some stilted conversation as they'd navigated the car over to the mechanic's that morning with Shane behind the wheel and Ilya pushing from behind the trunk, these are the first words he has said to Shane all day.

"...okay.” Shane sets down the magazine. "So… what, we just… sit in the motel room and wait?”

"... I think so, yes," Ilya sighs. "Or we can maybe talk to the woman at the desk and ask what there is to do around here.”

Shane nods, shoving his hands into his pockets. "There's gotta be something to do close by, right?"

—

There is, in fact, not.

"Well,” Ilya says with a sigh as he pushes open the motel room door and steps inside, "this will be a boring day after all, it seems."

"…why?" Shane is stretched out on the bed, sprawled out like a starfish. He had opted to go back to the room while Ilya had gone to talk to the motel clerk in order to find out what is around them within walking distance.

"There is fucking nothing around here." Ilya grimaces. "Is a twenty minute walk to some shopping, and a place with wings. There is also some good ice cream place with very large ice cream cones, she says we should go there. But it is morning, so." He leans against the wall. "There is a bowling alley five minutes the other way, so maybe we go there for dinner?"

"Okay." Shane stares up at the ceiling.

"I will go to 7-Eleven and get breakfast," Ilya offers. "I think they have a decent selection." He hesitates, then extends an olive branch. "Do you… want to come with?"

Shane shakes his head, sending a spike of something sharp and painful through one of the spaces in between Ilya's ribs. "M'kinda tired," he says. "Gonna nap. Just, um. Get whatever you think I'll like."

"Okay." Ilya swallows the lump in his throat. "I will be back soon."

Shane nods, rolling onto his side, back to Ilya. He sees as Shane lifts his hands up to push his earbuds into his ears, and so Ilya turns and walks back out the door where he'd just come from, making the walk to the convenience store alone.

He should probably feel more annoyed that Shane is acting like Ilya is the issue, but instead he just feels… he's not sure what it is. A little bit of hurt, maybe, a lot of bitterness… and a little bit sad, too. This trip is supposed to be their last hurrah, the last time that they're going to be able to do something like this without the looming thought of professional hockey. Soon, the entire world is going to know Shane Hollander's name. He'll no longer just be Ilya's best friend, someone Ilya can keep to himself. Soon, Ilya is going to have to share him with everyone else, and he doesn't feel like he's ready to do that yet. He doesn't have much of a choice, though.

It makes him feel awful that they're ending their trip like this, locked in a fight that he doesn't really understand why it's happening. And for a friendship where he can count on one hand the number of times they've been in a serious fight? It makes it even worse.

He gets a couple of egg and cheese breakfast sandwiches, a bag of mini powdered donuts, and some more snacks. They still have drinks but Ilya gets some more just in case. He buys a deck of cards and a couple of scratch-off lottery tickets too, because why not, and then heads back to the motel.

Shane is still in the same spot, still on the bed with his back to the door, and Ilya swallows the hurt in his throat as he sets the food down. "Breakfast is here," he calls out, hoping that he's loud enough for his voice to penetrate through whatever music Shane is listening to. He pulls the sandwiches out of the bag and arranges the spread on the table, opening the mini donuts up. He dips a hand in and pulls one out, popping it into his mouth as he turns around.

From this angle, he can see that Shane's eyes are shut where he lays on his side on top of the covers, legs curled up and hands tucked beneath his cheek. Ilya could let him sleep longer, but the sandwiches are still warm and he doesn't think Shane would want to go over to the motel's front office to use the microwave that definitely hasn't been washed in at least a year.

So Ilya walks over, sinking down to sit gingerly on the edge of the bed next to Shane. The springs of the mattress creak and Ilya winces, but it doesn't wake Shane. Instead, he exhales deeply, pressing his face further into the pillow.

Ilya reaches out tentatively, setting a gentle hand on Shane's arm. "Wake up," he murmurs softly, shaking Shane as lightly as he can. "Breakfast is ready."

Shane doesn't stir.

"Shane." Ilya shakes just a little harder, and then reaches up to pop the left earbud out of Shane's ear. He hears the faint sound of piano music tinkling from the bud as it dangles from Ilya's fingertip, and he sets it down on the mattress. "Breakfast," he says again, hand resting on Shane's bicep. He lets it linger there, squeezing softly, and then as though he's possessed by the spirit of god-knows-what, he lifts his hand to Shane's cheek, cupping it. The pad of his thumb brushes across the smattering of freckles that dust Shane's skin, and he swallows the thought that he'll never, ever get to do this again.

"Mmmm…" Shane turns his head, leaning into the warmth of Ilya's palm, just enough that half of his lips brush up against the skin there.

It would be so fucking easy, Ilya thinks, to lean down and kiss Shane. If they were together, dating, even if they were just friends who decided to experiment… he'd bend over and press their lips together, waking Shane up with kisses, pulling him from slumber with the slide of his tongue.

But they are not together, and so when Shane opens his eyes a few moments later, Ilya's hand is safely back against his bicep, and the look on his face is one of gentle exasperation rather than desperate longing.

"Food is here," he says. "Eat while it is hot, yes?"

Shane nods. "Yeah," he says, his voice thick with sleep. "Mkay." He sits up, rubbing at his eyes with the tips of his fingers. "Did they have anything good?"

"Breakfast sandwiches," Ilya says as he stands, walking over to them. He picks one up, along with one of the extra bottles of water they'd bought the other day, and carries the meal over to Shane. "Here, breakfast in bed. To make up for a terrible night, and awful morning."

Shane ducks his head, trying to hide the look on his face, but Ilya can see the way the tips of his ears go red. "Thanks," he mumbles, taking the proffered sandwich and drink. "Looks good."

That is a lie, Ilya knows, because the sandwich does not look good. The egg is overcooked and the sausage looks dry, but they eat them anyways because they're both hungry.

They play cards for a little while, blackjack and then poker, Ilya coaxing Shane very gently out of the bad mood he's been in. He's still not his usual self, a clear sign that something is still bothering him, but he attacks the card games in the typical Shane Hollander way — which is, of course, to wipe the floor with Ilya's dead body. Which he does. Ilya is glad they're not playing for money because he'd be broke, with Shane winning basically every hand except for the rare one or two in between.

When it's been enough time and they're both hungry for lunch, they head out to walk up the road. It's a decent walk, and there's a nice breeze that makes it so the summer sun isn't too sweltering, and after twenty minutes they find themselves at a restaurant called Duffs, staring down a laundry list of options for wing sauce.

"You'll regret it if you get anything other than medium," Shane says, tapping the menu where it says in bold letters medium is hot.

Ilya's brows lift. "What, you too much of a chicken to get the hot wings?"

"I'm not a chicken," Shane says, frowning. "I just like enjoying my food, not being miserable the entire time. If you wanna get the super hot wings, go for it. I don't care. But we're not splitting if that's what you're going to do."

Ilya rolls his eyes, but when the waitress comes to take their order, he doesn't order the hot wings. Instead he lets Shane go first, listening as he orders lemon pepper dry rub wings. "Hollander, you are so boring," he says with a sigh, before smiling up at the waitress and ordering ten medium wings, an order of fries for them to split, and something the menu calls pizza logs, which just sounds like it would be delicious.

It's probably too much food for lunch, but it doesn't matter — they eat everything on the table. True to the menu's word, the medium wings are hot, but not unbearably so. Ilya even convinces Shane to try one, and though he makes a face, he finishes the entire wing.

"You can have one of mine," Shane offers in between sips of water to cool off his mouth.

"No, thank you — lemon and chicken do not go together."

The pizza logs are the highlight of the meal, pizza crossed with a crispy egg roll. "When you play road games against Buffalo," Ilya says dramatically with a mouthful of pizza log, eyes rolled back blissfully, "I am coming with so that I can get these again. I think I am in heaven."

"Sure, whatever," Shane says, wiping at his mouth. He lowers his gaze, looking anywhere but at Ilya, and fuck, Ilya feels like he's just put his foot directly into his mouth. He'd done so well about not bringing up hockey, about leaving the ticking time bomb of Montreal alone… but it had just slipped out.

"Do you want to go shopping?" Ilya says quickly, to try and change the subject. "There is an outlet mall down the road, the motel lady said that there are some good shops there. Or we can go and walk around the office supply store next door, buy some fancy pens… a printer, maybe…"

It's enough to break Shane out of the Montreal doom-spiral he'd been going down in his mind, and he looks up at Ilya with the most perplexed look on his face. It's enough to make Ilya laugh.

"I am kidding," he reassures Shane. "We do not need to go to the office supply store. I am sure they do not sell Dunder Mifflin, after all, and I only buy my office supplies from there, so. The point is mute."

"Moot."

"Hm?"

"Moot. It's— it's moot point, not mute."

"Okay, moot point, mute point, whatever. Point is, I do not need a printer and I do need to get some new sneakers at a discounted price, so let's go, yes?"

"Sure. Yeah. Let's go."

—

They do get some incredible deals. Ilya finds a new pair of sneakers, and Shane spends too much money on a new watch, among other things. They do need to haul all their purchases back to the motel, which ends up being a longer walk than they had remembered.

They play a couple more games of cards, and then at some point Ilya dozes off, Shane too. He wakes up a couple of hours later to find Shane propped up against the headboard watching a movie on the television on low volume. Ilya's head is pressed against Shane's hip, a wet spot beneath his lips where he's clearly drooled against Shane's sweatpants, and Shane's hand is in his hair carding through his curls. It feels good, where blunt nails scratch his scalp idly, calming enough to lull him back to sleep.

His eyes open some time later to Shane shaking him awake. "C'mon," he says, "I'm hungry. Let's go bowling."

—

The bowling alley is barely half-filled, with a kids birthday party down at one end and a group of older couples at the other, but there's enough empty space in between that it still feels private. Ilya is winning, but not by much — neither of them are very good at this, and they both throw more gutter balls than they'd probably ever admit.

One of the staff members had come up and asked very politely if they wanted the bumpers to be put up, something that Shane had vetoed almost instantly. "No," he had said to her with a shake of his head, "we're good. Thanks." She'd given them both a smile that seemed to say sure, okay, if that's what you think before walking back to her position behind the desk.

"I wonder if we are having better scores than them," Ilya had commented teasingly, jerking his head down towards the birthday party where the children do have the bumpers up and are having what seems like a grand old time not having their ball bounce into the gutter on every other frame.

Shane had rolled his eyes and picked up his ball. "Shut up," he had said, then had turned and walked up to the lane, lifted his arm back, released the ball, and— "FUCK."

They're midway through their third game, a pizza half-eaten on the small table behind their lane, when Ilya finally works up the courage to speak. "We should probably talk about it, yes?”

There's a long pause, as Shane looks down at the ugly bowling shoes on his feet, before sighing. "...yeah, probably.” He sinks down to sit on one of the seats at the lane, leaning forward to rest his head in his hands. 

"You have been… on edge since we got here," Ilya says cautiously. "Snapping at me when I did nothing, acting like I have gone out of my way to wrong you… did I do something? Besides fucking— besides McGill, because that is not my fault. But I thought… I thought this trip was going okay.”

"No, I know.” Shane exhales. "And it is, okay? I'm having a great time. I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m kind of freaking out a little bit.”

"Just a little bit?”

"Fuck off, Ilya. Okay, fine. I’m freaking out a lot, and I don’t really know how to deal with it.”

"Okay. Then talk to me.”

"What?” Shane looks up at Ilya, and it breaks Ilya's heart to see the way that Shane's eyes have gone watery.

"Talk to me," Ilya says gently. "Tell me what is going on. Please. Let me help.”

"I don't— I don't know. I just feel… fuck, I feel like my brain has been on fire, ever since the draft. And like… you’d think I’d be fine, because I’m living my fucking dream. I’m going to fucking Montreal to play hockey for a living. They’re gonna pay me millions of dollars to play hockey, and I should be over the fucking moon about it. But I’m not. Because you’re not gonna be there.”

"...oh.”

"And you were supposed to be there, and you’re not – and I know, it’s not your fault. Fucking McGill. But like. You told me you were coming, and now you’re not, and I’m. I don’t want to do this on my fucking own, okay?”

"You won’t be on your own," Ilya says placatingly, despite the burning sensation in the back of his own throat. "You will have friends–”

"I don’t want other friends, Ilya. It's supposed to be you there. I want you. I want—”

Ilya’s breath catches in his throat, watching as Shane’s eyes, which had been locked on his, flick down to Ilya’s mouth and back up again. Oh. Oh fuck.

"I think I’m gay.” Despite the fact that there are children screaming their way through happy birthday, despite the celebrations of the older couples as someone bowls whatever the fuck a turkey is, despite the fact that the sounds of pins being knocked over is loud and jarring… Shane's words still seem very loud.

"...Shane, I don’t think this is the conversation we should be having at a bowling alley.” Ilya stands up. "We should– return our shoes, go back to the hotel, and–” The game's not over yet. They're halfway through what is supposed to be the tie-breaker game after Shane had won the first and Ilya had won the second.

"I don’t really give a shit. I think I’m gay, and I think–” Shane cuts himself off and stares up at Ilya, and suddenly the pieces in Ilya’s head start to fly together, the puzzle arranging itself in his mind. "I think I might mmmph–”

Ilya leans forward and presses his palm to Shane’s mouth, his lips moving against Ilya’s hand. Above Ilya’s fingers, Shane glares at him, brow furrowed indignantly. Ilya has, at least, the good sense to pull his hand back just as he feels the first scrape of Shane’s teeth, trying to bite him.

"Stop that–” Ilya grinds out, wiping his palm on the leg of his sweatpants. "Fine. We are done here. We are going to walk back to the hotel and we will talk more there, yes?” He waits a moment for Shane to make eye contact again. "Yes?”

"Yes, fine. Whatever.” Shane bends over to tug off his shoes, lips pursed tightly as he grabs both pairs and walks them up to the counter in his socked feet. The floor is probably filthy, and Ilya wonders if Shane is irritated by the fact that his white socks will be getting dirty, but it doesn’t seem like he cares at the moment. He returns from dropping off the bowling shoes and flops down into one of the chairs, tugging on his sneakers with more force than necessary, bending at the waist to tie them.

Ilya should say something else, but he doesn’t. Instead, he puts his own shoes on in silence, leaving their final round of bowling halfway finished as they walk out the door and turn towards the motel. Shane takes the lead, a few steps in front of Ilya, just far enough that it’s obvious that he’s doing it on purpose. His shoulders are hunched tight, and in any other circumstance Ilya would reach out to touch his arm, his hand squeezing Shane’s bicep gently, a reminder that he is here.

But not now.

Because for a second, for a very brief, impossible second, Ilya had thought that Shane had been about to say that he might have feelings for him. And wouldn’t that just be the icing on the fucking cake.

—

Ilya watches as Shane unlocks the door of the motel room and pushes it open with more than enough force. He thinks Shane would have slammed it shut too if Ilya hadn’t been standing right there, right in the direct trajectory of the door.

Instead, he tracks Shane as he kicks off his sneakers and stomps into the bathroom, shutting the door with gusto. The doorframe makes a disturbingly loud creaking noise.

"Please do not destroy the motel room,” Ilya calls out. "I have to pay for new starter, I do not want to have to pay for damages too.”

"Fuck off, Ilya,” Shane spits out from inside the bathroom. It’s muffled, through the wood of the door and the drywall separating them, but the effect is there nonetheless.

With a sigh Ilya drops down onto his back on the bed, arms spread out to the sides, fingers dangling off the edges. It was supposed to be a queen bed but he thinks it’s probably smaller than that. The thought of having to spend the night in the same bed as Shane makes his heart twitch in his chest, nervous. He wonders if he can get away with sleeping in the car, but then he remembers with a sinking feeling that the car is still at the mechanic's shop next door and so there is no other option.

He waits there, staring up at the ceiling, trying to find shapes in the water spots from long ago leaks as though they're clouds in the sky. Finally, after what feels like hours, the bathroom door opens up and Shane steps out. Ilya can feel him glaring without even having to look at him.

"You're a fucking asshole," Shane says, folding his arms across his chest.

"Yes, what else is new." Ilya shrugs.

"You wanted to talk, so let's talk." The words come sarcastically as Shane sits down on the edge of the bed, springs creaking loudly. When Ilya chances a look down at him, his lips are pressed together so tightly, eyes staring off into the middle distance. It looks like he's braced for impact.

"Okay." Ilya sits up, scooting back so that he's leaning against the headboard. He probably should go the other way, so that he'd be next to Shane. He should reach out and take his hand, should apologize for interrupting at the bowling alley, should ask him to say what he wanted to say.

But some self-sabotaging fear within him has him crossing his legs, pulling himself into a tight ball, as though he's making himself get as far away from Shane as he can get. He tracks Shane's eyes as they take in the movement, going glassy. Fuck.

"I just…" Ilya exhales loudly. "I did not want you to tell me what you were going to tell me in some random bowling alley, surrounded by children having birthday parties and adults who care much too much about their high scores.”

"So you’d rather me tell it to you in this middle-of-nowhere motel room?” 

"I would rather you tell me in private, when it is just us and we can fucking talk. It is… that sort of thing is supposed to be special, important, not… not bowling alley conversation.” Ilya presses his fingers against his eyes so hard that they make squeaking noises. He takes a minute to breathe, and then looks over at Shane, who sits with his head ducked, picking at the side of his thumb.

Shane blinks a few times, quickly. "Okay."

"Okay." Ilya watches him carefully. "So let us talk about your… what is it, gay crisis? That you decided to suddenly have in a bowling alley?"

"It's not— it's been a crisis for a lot longer than the bowling alley, Ilya."

Oh. "Okay. So how long, then."

"A couple of years, maybe. I don't know."

"A couple of years." Ilya sits there as someone pushes him down a well that he hadn't even realized he'd been sitting on the edge of.

"Is there an echo in here? Yeah, a couple of years."

"Years. Years. So when I— when I told you about me, were you—?"

Shane doesn't answer, but his cheeks flush bright red.

Ilya feels as though someone has hit him in the chest with a missile, because what. "So you mean," he says slowly as his mind spins back to that evening in Shane's room when he'd told Shane his deepest darkest secret, "that you— that—" The words don't come, his brain empty, struck dumb.

Shane inhales, then barrels forward. "I just… I thought… I don’t know. I had this whole plan in my head, that we’d go to Montreal together and maybe move in together and then— I don't know, maybe if we both liked each other we could be together, and it was just. It was a stupid fantasy, and it started really small but then it spiraled in my head and I just haven't stopped thinking about it."

He sits back on the bed, closer towards Ilya. "But you don’t like me like that," he continues. "And— and that’s fine, it is.  I’ll get over it, it’s just a stupid crush, it will go away and we can just be friends. I don’t want to lose that.” He reaches out to grip Ilya’s hand tightly, like he thinks that Ilya will get up and walk away, like he will leave Shane here in this strange motel room and disappear forever. "Having you in my life is way more important to me than anything else. We can just… we can pretend I never said anything, and we'll just go back to how it was bef—"

Ilya lunges forward, pressing their lips together in an almost bruising kiss. He deepens it right away, opening his mouth to swallow the startled noise that is pulled from Shane's throat. He tastes like bowling alley pizza, like ginger ale, like Shane, and Ilya can't fucking get enough of it. He feels the tentative brush of Shane's tongue on his own and he allows his hands to slide up Shane's sides, cupping the back of his neck with one broad palm, the other on Shane's cheek.

Shane pulls back, breathing hard. "Wait, what the fu—"

Ilya doesn't let him finish — he kisses him again. He has two fucking years to make up for, after all. He's not going to waste another fucking second.

"Ilya— Ilya, wait, stop—"

Ilya does even though he doesn't want to, his forehead still pressed against Shane's. Their breath mingles together, Shane's exhales hot on Ilya's cheeks. "You do not want this?"

"No, it's— I— you want this?"

"I have had a crush on you for maybe as long as you have had one on me," Ilya admits in the ever-shrinking space between their lips. "I have wanted this for so long, and I thought that you did not. But I— but you do, and I—" He can't hold back anymore; his body physically needs Shane, needs to be close to him, and he kisses him again. This time he meets no resistance, no hesitation, as Shane's lips part and their tongues slip together once more.

Time slows down or speeds up, Ilya isn't sure. At some point Shane ends up straddling Ilya's lap, his fingers buried in Ilya's curls as they kiss. His hips rock forward a little, grinding against Ilya, pulling a groan from his throat. Someone hits fast-forward on the remote and their clothes are on the floor, and then they're in bed together beneath the covers, Shane's face slack-jawed as his forehead bumps against Ilya's chin. His hand moves quickly in between them, palm slick with Ilya's spit.

They're left to bask in the afterglow of it all, their chests heaving. Ilya feels sticky, and he kicks the covers off of them both so that the cool motel air can start to dry the sweat from their skin.

"Holy shit," Shane breathes, staring up at the ceiling. Ilya chances a glance over and can't help but smile at the goofy grin that's taking up Shane's entire face. He's got one hand thrown over his mouth to try and control it but Ilya can see it anyways, peeking out from between his fingers.

"Mmm, yes," Ilya murmurs, rolling onto his side. He leans over and presses a soft kiss to Shane's shoulder. "Holy shit."

—

Ilya's phone buzzes where it sits, tucked into the back pocket of his jeans where they lay discarded in a heap on the floor. He's not paying it any attention.

Hey Ilya, this is Todd. I'm just callin' about your car. We were able to get the part in and it's running great. I also checked your oil and topped off your washer fluid for ya, so you'll be all set for your drive back home. You can come in tomorrow mornin' to pick it up, I'll be in at eight.

—

Shane and Ilya walk up to the mechanic's the next morning just as Todd turns on the neon open sign that hangs in the front window. He lifts a hand in a wave, unlocking the door to let them in.

The Silver Bullet starts right up when Ilya gets behind the wheel, and he can't help but let out a happy sigh. "She sounds perfect," he says happily, leaning in to kiss the steering wheel.

"Weird," Shane mumbles, but his voice is teasing, carrying no heat at all. Ilya feels as tentative fingers reach out to card through his hair, scratching at his scalp briefly before Shane pulls them back. "Can we go to Niagara Falls now?"

It's still early by the time they pull into a parking space at the Falls. There are barely any other cars in the parking lot, and even the park itself is fairly empty. There are a few people here and there that are out walking, some of them paired up and others just on their own, or with their dogs, but it's not crowded like what Ilya had expected it to be based on what he'd found online.

They get out of the car, and Ilya takes a deep breath in. The air is cool around them, a gentle breeze carrying the mist from the waterfall. He can hear it, even though he can't exactly see it from where they've parked. They walk across thick green grass, dodging a few squirrels here and there, until they reach the edge of the pavement. There's a thick metal barricade that runs around the edge of the park, dividing the park from the water beyond.

There's so much water that it's almost overwhelming. Ilya has seen Niagara Falls in pictures before, and on television, but nothing compares to standing next to that much water as it cascades down over the falls and crashes onto the rocks below. It feels close enough that he could easily reach out and touch it, close enough that it might sweep him away with it if he makes one wrong step. He can see where the Horseshoe Falls peaks out further down the gorge, that waterfall twice as large as the one he's standing next to. It seems impossible that there's this much water in the world, let alone just on this river, and he feels suddenly very, very small.

"My mama would have planned this trip better," Ilya says, just loud enough to be heard over the roar of the water.

Shane looks over at him.

"I think… I think she would have picked a better hotel for us to stay at. Maybe planned some other things to do here, instead of being stuck in a motel room all day." Ilya gestures with a hand, over the river that separates the United States from Canada, at the ferris wheel that sits there, the tower that looks like a miniature version of the CN Tower in Toronto, the giant globe housing a Planet Hollywood restaurant. "Would have probably stayed on that side of the river too," he adds with a chuckle, trying to tamp down the bitterness.

"No," Shane says quietly.

"What do you mean, no? You mean to tell me that the last two days have been fun?"

"I wouldn't say fun," Shane says with a shrug. "But… it got me to tell you how I felt, right?"

Ilya exhales. He's not wrong.

"I don't know if I would have said anything if this trip had gone perfectly the whole time," Shane continues. "I think… it was fun to lose myself in it, in this last week together. It was easy to do it, it just felt so… so good to spend time with you like this. And I could pretend like nothing was about to change. But then you mentioned Montreal, and then we got stuck doing nothing in a shitty motel room, and everything just kind of came to a head."

Ilya leans against the metal railing, eyes on the rushing water.

"I think this trip has been exactly what we needed," Shane says. He leans forward, elbows on the railing, and Ilya ducks his head to see as their fingertips brush together, lightly at first, but then Shane tangles his fingers with Ilya's. "And I think you did a great job planning it. I'm glad we did it. I've… well, other than being stuck here, I've had a really good time. With you."

Ilya has told Shane that Russians do not blush thousands of times, to deflect from the embarrassment he feels whenever his cheeks flush pink. But here, he doesn't say that. He lets the red bloom across his cheeks like roses as he turns his head to look over at Shane.

Shane, who is staring back at him, looking so incredibly fond. "I am going to kiss you," he says, giving Ilya only a second's warning before he leans in and cups Ilya's cheek in one big hand, pressing their lips together. It's soft, gentle, and Ilya can feel Shane smiling against his mouth.

"So," Ilya says as the kiss breaks, "are we boyfriends?"

"Do you want to be?"

"Yes." The word is out of Ilya's mouth before Shane even has a chance to finish talking. And it's true. He wants to be Shane's boyfriend so badly.

"I'm not… I'm not sure if I'm ready to come out to anyone else but you," Shane admits. "My parents will be fine with it, I think, but I'm not… I'm not ready yet."

"That is okay." Ilya shakes his head. "We can keep this between us for as long as you need."

"Thank you." Shane reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his phone. "We need a picture here, too," he says, opening up the camera.

This time, they take three pictures:

The first, where they're both smiling at the camera, Niagara Falls framed in the back.

The second, where Ilya's kissing Shane's cheek, lips against his freckles.

The third, where Shane turns his head so that they're kissing properly, Ilya's hand cradling the back of Shane's head gently.

"That one is just for us," Shane says as he stares down at his phone screen, a soft smile on his face. Ilya can't help but lean in to kiss him again.

—

Just a week ago, it had felt like they had all the time in the world. But now, as Ilya taps his fingers on the steering wheel as he merges onto the QEW headed towards Toronto, he realizes that they're out of time.

They aren't going to Toronto, or to Montreal — instead, they're headed straight back to Ottawa. Their extra day in Niagara Falls had delayed them, and so they've got to skip the final leg of the trip. Ilya can't bring himself to regret any of it, though, especially if it's what made it so that he's able to hold Shane's hand across the center console as he drives.

They're headed back through Canada instead of driving through New York, and so the scenery is different. It feels better being back on Canadian soil, saving him the mental calculations he's had to do when trying to ensure he's driving the right speed limit. Instead of having to squint at the tiny numbers on the speedometer, he's able to use the ones he's used to.

Shane plays music from his iPod but it's quieter — they don't sing along, and instead either sit quietly and listen to whatever instrumental is playing over the speakers, or they speak in low voices. Shane is more open to talk about Montreal now, more than just his teammates and their statistics. He tells Ilya about all of the things he'd been keeping from him: his nerves at moving to a new city all on his own, his anxieties about fitting in (or not fitting in) with the rest of the team, the laundry list of sponsors that his mom has lined up and their expectations of him. He unloads everything that has been weighing on him, and Ilya listens, squeezing Shane's hand when he needs reassurance and chiming in whenever Shane asks for it.

But mostly he just listens, giving Shane the time to get it all off of his chest. It makes sense, now, why Shane had been so weighed down. Looking back, it's like Ilya can see the way Shane had been strung so tightly, a string just waiting to snap. And it had been the motel that had done it.

Or — no, not just the motel, apparently. When Ilya brings it up, Shane shakes his head.

"No," he says softly. "I think it was because we'd gone to Fallingwater, and had like… the perfect experience there. Like seriously, I never thought I'd get to see it, and being able to go there was just so fucking cool. And then we get to this dump of a motel, and then the car breaks down, and it just all kind of sent me spiraling."

"Well… I'm glad for your spiral, because now I get to do this—" Ilya lifts Shane's hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

Shane flushes. "Worth it," he agrees with a small smile.

—

"Are you sure you have to go?” 

They’re outside, laying out on the Hollanders' back lawn again. It’s mid-September, the summer heat finally releasing its grip on Ottawa. The sky is slowly getting dark, and the grass feels cool beneath their bare legs. Ilya’s head is in Shane’s lap, Shane’s fingers tangled in his curls. 

Shane has spent the last month training harder than he's ever trained before. He's dragged Ilya with him to the gym, on morning runs, and in a shocking turn of events, onto the ice. Ilya had felt like a baby deer putting on skates for the first time in a long while, but after a few laps he'd found his footing enough to be able to be useful to Shane, helping him with drills and conditioning. It's one thing to see Shane from up in the stands, but it's another to be standing down on the ice as he rockets past, weaving between cones and firing shot after shot towards an empty net. He's a force to be reckoned with; Montreal doesn't know what's about to hit them.

"I’m sure,” Shane says quietly. He’s trying to be brave about it, Ilya can tell, but he can hear the way Shane’s voice wavers. It could be nerves, or it could be sadness, or it could be anxiety, but Ilya knows it’s a combination of the three that has been swirling around in Shane’s head for days and days, growing bigger and bigger like a snowball rolling down a snow covered hill. 

"You will be the Voyageurs’ best player in a month,” Ilya says, injecting as much confidence as he can into his voice. "You will be captain in a year. And you will win the cup in two.”

Ilya can practically hear Shane roll his eyes. "Ilya, come on.”

"I am serious,” Ilya says, rolling his head to look up at Shane. "I will bet you a hundred dollars, right now.”

Shane laughs. "No. I’m not betting. But we’ll see.”

"Yes, we will.”

They lapse into silence, just sitting and enjoying each other’s company. Shane’s hand in Ilya’s hair shifts, traveling lower to brush his fingers against Ilya’s cheek, and then briefly, against his lips. Ilya smiles, playfully chomping at Shane’s index finger, making him laugh.

He fucking loves how Shane’s laugh sounds. He’s going to miss it, very much.

—

Ilya comes over early the next morning to see Shane off. He’s standing in the driveway next to the brand new car he’d purchased with his signing bonus, the back seat and trunk packed to the brim with suitcases and boxes, things Shane will need in his new life in Montreal.

Ilya has the very brief, very reckless thought that he wants to dive in through the open window, find a place among Shane’s belongings, and stay there until Shane parks the car in the parking garage at his new apartment. That way he’ll have to go to Montreal with Shane. 

These two come as a set – do not separate. 

Instead, he watches as Shane hugs his mom tightly, and then his dad. He watches as Yuna smiles softly, holding her son’s face in her hands. 

"Are you sure you don’t want us to come with you?” she asks, not for the first time.

Shane shakes his head. "No,” he says. "I have to do this on my own, I think. Otherwise I won't do it at all.”

David holds Shane for a long time, saying something low and quiet in his ear that Ilya can’t hear, but it has Shane sniffling when the hug breaks, pinching at his eyelashes in the way he does when he’s acting like he’s not about to cry.

He’s doing a good job of it, of keeping himself composed. Until he turns to face Ilya, and his face crumples, and he throws himself into Ilya’s arms. Ilya is reminded of the draft, of how Shane was able to keep himself pulled together until he saw Ilya, and then had allowed himself to break down as much as he was able to.

"I’m so fucking excited,” he says between shuddering breaths. "But I don’t want to leave you.” Ilya can feel the way Shane clings to him, holding him like he never wants to let him go.

"I am just two hours down the road." Ilya squeezes Shane back. "I will come for games, and for weekends, and for anything else — whenever you need me. Just say the word and I will be there." He has to be strong, despite wanting to fall apart in Shane's arms.

"You promise?"

"I promise."

It's just two hours away.

—

Ilya stands in the driveway watching as Shane's car disappears around the corner. He shuts his eyes, listening as the sound of the engine fades, and then all he can hear are the soft chirps from birds nesting in nearby trees. He can feel the way Yuna threads her hand through his, squeezing.

Shane hasn't even left Ottawa yet, but already it feels so much lonelier.

"Come on inside, honey," she says to him softly, her other hand brushing the curls off his forehead. "Let's have some breakfast."

—

The pamphlet arrives just before December. It comes in a manila envelope, stamped with the McGill logo on it. Ilya finds it sitting on his kitchen counter mixed in with a pile of advertisements and coupon books, as though Alexei had brought it in and thought it was nothing more important than junk mail.

Ilya picks up the envelope and carries it over to the Hollanders' house. He makes Yuna open it for him — his hands are shaking too badly. His eyes are on her as she pulls a packet of information out of the envelope, a letter on off-white paper sitting on top of it. Her lips curl into a smile as she reads the letter aloud, but Ilya barely registers the words she's saying or David's arm around his shoulders, holding him tightly. There's a ringing in his ears; it feels like he's floating somewhere above himself, watching everything happen in slow motion.

Yuna sets down the letter and leans in to hug him. Over her shoulder, he looks down and sees the red McGill letterhead, and the bolded Congratulations! text that follows. He doesn't realize that he's crying until Yuna's thumbs are wiping away the tears on his cheeks, and he comes back to himself all at once, slamming into his body with a force that should rocket him off the couch but instead just leads him to take a hitching breath in, before his palms come up to cover his face.

"I did it," he gasps out wetly, his voice thick. "I can't believe I did it—"

"We can," David says softly, his hand heavy and steady on Ilya's shoulder. "Congratulations, Ilya."

"I wish my mama was here," Ilya says, his brain on autopilot. He wants to take it back almost instantly. What if the Hollanders see that as a slap in the face? After everything, after all they've done for him… for him to want her, instead of them?

The next moment later, he realizes he doesn't have to worry. Yuna presses a kiss to his temple. "Me too," she says gently. "But I know that she is, right here—" she taps Ilya's chest, just over his heart. "And she is so, so proud of you."

—

The Bell Centre is loud. It's so much bigger than any of the other arenas Ilya has been in to see Shane play, a sea of red and blue uniforms in the crowd. Ilya thinks that at least half of the fans are wearing Hollander jerseys (okay, that's probably an exaggeration, but it's got to be at least a quarter). The amount of people who have stopped him to tell him how lucky he is that his jersey is autographed and personalized would probably be annoying to the average person, but the joy of getting to tell people that Shane is his best friend usurps any irritation that he might feel.

Shane has done exactly as Ilya knew he would do — the second he took the ice for the Voyageurs, he quickly became their best player. He has scored more goals than anyone else on the team, and is almost universally beloved by Montreal fans and general hockey fans alike (except when their team is playing against him). He has cemented his spot as the 1C, and Ilya can tell there's a cup or two (or more) in his future.

Ilya settles next to David in the seat that Shane thinks will be filled by his mom. For all Shane knows, Ilya is back in Ottawa, working. He doesn't know that Ilya and David have spent the entire day unloading a rented U-Haul into a studio apartment just a few minutes walk from the arena. He doesn't know that in two days Ilya has his orientation at McGill. He doesn't know that Ilya is here in Montreal to stay.

The players skate out onto the ice to do their warm-ups, and Ilya has the joy of watching Shane's eyes trace the stands until he finds the seats that he'd reserved for his parents. He sees the exact moment when Shane realizes that Ilya is there, his eyes lighting up as he lifts a gloved hand to wave eagerly, a wave which Ilya returns with a bright grin. Their seats are only a few rows up from the glass, and Shane finishes his last stretch and pushes himself up off the ice, skating over.

"Ilya! What are you doing here?!" he calls out.

"Is a surprise."

"Best one ever." Shane shifts on his skates, smiling brightly.

"Oh, I need to tell you — I got into McGill," Ilya says gleefully, leaning forward. "Your dad helped me move in to my apartment today."

He gets the joy of watching the words sink in to Shane's brain. His eyes widen, his smile shifting to a look of shock, and then of pure, unbridled joy.

"You did?!" Shane looks like he's going to try and climb over the glass like Spiderman in order to get to Ilya. "Holy shit, Ilya, when did you find out?"

"It does not matter." Shane will kill him when he finds out how long Ilya has known about this, has been planning for this exact moment. "Point is, I am here and I am not leaving, so. You are now stuck with me."

"Best news of my life," Shane says right back.

"Now go win the fucking game, Hollander."

"For you, Rozanov," Shane says, pointing the end of his stick at Ilya as he skates backwards towards the Montreal bench.

—

Montreal wins it 4-1.

Shane scores his first ever hat-trick, and David cries when the third goal horn sounds and toques and hats fly from the stands onto the ice. As Shane skates around the net, he lifts a gloved hand up and points right towards where Ilya and David sit, his mouth split wide in a smile as his teammates crash into him from both sides to celebrate.

The game ends, and before David and Ilya can get a chance to even get out of their seats, Ilya's phones chimes with a text. He shows it to David, who laughs softly, then jerks his head towards a different set of stairs than the one they'd taken to get to where they'd been sitting. They make their way down to the family lounge, David shaking the hand of one of the security guards and introducing Ilya as Shane's best friend, and then they sit down on a leather couch to wait for Shane.

"He'll be in there for a while," David says, one arm over the back of the couch. "With a game like that, everyone's gonna want to talk to him."

Sure enough, it's nearly an hour before Shane pushes through the doors. His hair is still damp from a shower, and he looks exhausted, but he all but barrels towards Ilya, hugging him tightly.

"Good game," Ilya says, just low enough for Shane to hear. "Proud of you."

"Shut up," Shane mumbles. "I can't believe you got into fucking McGill and didn't tell me."

"It was a surprise. I have been planning this for a while. Did it work?"

"Yeah, it fucking did." Shane pulls back to swat at Ilya's shoulder. "I can't believe you're fucking here."

"I'm here too," David says, standing up from the couch with a grunt as one of his knees pops.

"Hi Dad."

"Hey, kid. Great game. That hatty was—"

"I can't believe it either." Shane shakes his head. "It was like their defense was non-existent tonight, I don't know what happened." He shrugs. "Whatever. We going back to your apartment? I can drive—"

Ilya looks over at David, who nods. "We walked here," he says. "So if I can hitch a ride with you boys, then I'll head back to Ottawa in the U-Haul."

"Okay." Ilya smiles brightly. "Thank you again, this was… this is… I cannot thank you enough."

David claps Ilya on the shoulder. "Any time, son," he says, and Ilya knows he means it — both parts of it.

—

Ilya closes the door behind them, toeing off his shoes at the door. "It is not much," he says as he shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it on the hook behind the door, hesitating. He's stalling, almost afraid to turn and look at Shane and see whatever is written all over his face. He hasn't been to Shane's new apartment but from what he's seen in the backgrounds of their FaceTime calls he knows it's huge, all windows and marble, bright and sunny during the day and warmly lit at night.

His own place is nothing by comparison, a small studio with a half-wall that separates the sleeping area from the living area. It's not meant for more than one or two people to exist in comfortably, and it's not set up either — his bed is just an air mattress spread on the floor until he finds a job in Montreal to earn enough money to buy a real one, and his kitchen table is still in the IKEA box it had come in. It's a housewarming gift from Yuna and David, much too nice of them to do for him, but Ilya is also too poor to decline. There are boxes of things everywhere, Ilya's entire life packed up and taped shut, stacked neatly in piles that fill up what feels like half the apartment. He's almost embarrassed at the state of it, which he knows he shouldn't be because he literally moved in a few hours ago, but.

When he does lift his gaze up from the floor, Shane is watching him with a soft, fond look on his face. "I can't believe you're finally here," he says, his voice wavering as he steps forward to pull Ilya into a tight hug. "Fuck, I missed you so much."

Ilya melts into the hug, ducking his face into the juncture between Shane's neck and his shoulder, inhaling. He smells familiar sandalwood and citrus, and the feeling of home crashes over him, comfort and safety and peace.

Home, for Ilya, has always been hard to define.

For a while it had been his own house, with his mother and his father and his brother. But then Irina had died, and Grigori's anger had bloomed like a corrupted flower, and Alexei had grown bitter and angry, and suddenly home had shifted next door, to Yuna and David and Shane. To home-cooked meals and movie nights on the couch, to hockey games and summer evenings on the back porch, to sleepovers and quiet conversation well past midnight.

To road trips, and kisses traded back and forth on a squeaky motel room bed.

Home, he has realized, is here. Shane. Wherever Shane is, that is where Ilya wants to be.

"I missed you too," he says, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of Shane's neck. He feels Shane shiver, skin pebbling. "Can I show you just how much?"

"…on your air mattress?"

Ilya pulls back to look at Shane, who's got his lips sucked between his teeth, trying to hide his teasing grin. "Fuck off, Hollander," Ilya says, rolling his eyes. "Yes, on my air mattress. Now do you want it or no—?" He shifts, his thigh pressing against Shane, his lips curling when he feels exactly how much Shane missed him.

"…okay, yeah," Shane says breathlessly, eyes locked on Ilya's mouth.

Something shifts, and time moves differently — what could be a few minutes later or a few hours later, he's sprawled out on his back on the air mattress sweaty and sated, with Shane curled up at his side, lips pressing gentle kisses to random spots on Ilya's bare chest, leaving wet trails as he goes.

"What are you doing?" Ilya asks in a mumble, too far gone in the haze of pleasure to be more eloquent.

"Constellations," Shane exhales as he kisses another dot on Ilya's skin. "I'm tracing the stars."