Chapter Text
"What if" is a waste
Of precious time and space
It dims the light of this vibrant place
What if every cell in my body changed?
I am the sail, the plank
The mast that breaks and gets replaced
(Wave After Wave - Sleeping At Last)
-
The cottage is different in early spring.
The lake is still half-frozen, large chunks of ice floating in the water. Everything is sort of grey. The evergreens are standing tall between leafless trees, and the grass is still dead-looking where it peeks out between patches of melting snow. There even simply seems to be less wildlife around.
(Ilya googles do loons migrate? when the lake is suspiciously quiet. He learns that they do fly south for the winter, but they should be coming back to this area soon.)
They’ve never been here, this time of year, because mid-April is when they’re supposed to be in the first round of playoffs. They should be ramping up right now, not slowing down— locking in for a long, brutal run towards the cup, as defending champions.
They’re not.
They’re here.
Their season is over.
Ilya stands at the window, watching a pair of crows bounce along the dock, towards the water. He’s been holding a mug of coffee without drinking it, lost in his thoughts, and it’s cooling rapidly in his hands.
Behind him, the house is too quiet.
"Нет. Let him sleep," he tells Anya, when he hears her claws start skittering towards the bedroom. "It’s okay. Наша мишка в спяшке." Our little bear is hibernating.
Anya whines.
Ilya shakes his head.
"Я знаю." I know.
He knows Shane isn’t asleep in there. It’s almost noon— of course he isn’t. He’s awake, probably staring at his phone, reading every article he can find about the Centaurs’ terrible second half of the season, drowning himself in negativity.
Was Hollander’s Broken Leg the Catalyst for Disaster?
Injuries, Trades, and Pressure to Dominate: The Downfall of the Ottawa Centaurs
The Honeymoon is Over: Are Rozanov and Hollander Too Much Star Power for One Team?
It’s all bullshit, in Ilya’s opinion.
They had a really, really unlucky go of things. That’s all. Shane broke his leg in February, bad enough to need surgery, and he was out for months. They finally traded Tanner Dillon— despite being a nice enough guy, he still wasn’t playing up to Ilya’s standards— but the promising young winger from Detroit they replaced him with was slow to mesh his play style with the rest of the team. Wyatt had some problem with his shoulder that had him on and off of IR all season, and their new backup goalie from LA just wasn’t the same.
So they sucked a little this year, and they just missed out on a wildcard spot, and it’s not the end of the world.
At least to Ilya, it isn’t.
It might be, to Shane, who hasn’t missed the playoffs since his rookie year— save for the season he was out with a broken collarbone.
Anya whines again.
"Fine," Ilya sighs. "Let’s go say hi to your dad. Продолжай." Go ahead.
He follows her to the bedroom, opening the door as softly as he can, just in case Shane really is asleep.
Anya leaps onto the bed, landing right on Shane’s belly, startling him into an exasperated huff.
"Hi, honey," he says to her, his voice flat and exhausted, a hand coming up to settle in her fur. "Did your Papa let you out already?"
She answers by licking his face.
"Yes," Ilya says, making his way into the room. "We had a little walk, and got back before the rain started. I think the sun is coming out again."
At least the windows are uncovered in here— Shane might be wallowing in his misery, but he’s not doing it in the dark, which is probably good.
"That’s nice," Shane sighs.
He’s so visibly tense, it looks like it must hurt. He hasn’t relaxed in days— he’s been quiet, emotionless, and tightly-wound.
He hasn’t been this bad since his last season with the Metros.
"Will you come eat something?" Ilya tries, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and carding his fingers through Shane’s hair. "I can make lunch. And coffee."
Shane takes a deep breath. His phone is on the other side of the bed, like he got frustrated and threw it there, and his eyes are fixed on the ceiling.
"I’ll get up soon," he says, unconvincingly. "I’m just resting."
"Mm, yes. Reading mean things about yourself online is very restful."
"That’s not what I’m doing," Shane huffs. "I just— I missed twenty-seven fucking games. We were three wins short of the wildcard. We had more points than San Francisco and Anaheim— if we were in the Pacific division, we’d be playing today. I just think if I’d rehabbed a little faster, maybe—"
"You rehabbed too fast already," Ilya cuts him off. "Any faster, and you would be back on crutches now, because you pushed too hard and made it worse. You have screws and plates in your leg. It needs time to heal."
Shane’s mouth presses into a tight line. He knows Ilya’s right, but he won’t say it.
"No more of this what if bullshit," Ilya continues. "Okay? We had a bad season. So what? Shit happens. We get more time off to reset for next year. Maybe we get some good draft picks. We come back stronger."
Shane remains stubbornly silent, and won’t make eye contact.
Ilya sighs.
"Here’s what we do today," he decides aloud. "I will go drive into town, right now, and get you that yummy sandwich you like from the bakery, and a fancy latte, too. While I’m gone, you get up, shower, and feed the animals. I am taking your phone with me so you can’t look at any more shit online. When I’m home, we eat our lunch and start the new puzzle from your dad. No more of this lying around, being sad."
There’s a little mrrp from under the bed— a reminder that Puck, the black fuzzball of a cat that Shane fell in love with at the pet store recently, has been hiding in here with his favourite person this whole time.
(They’d walked in to pick up Anya’s food, nothing more, but the SPCA happened to be hosting an adoption event, and Ilya had never before seen Shane’s eyes go quite as soft and gooey as they did when he first spotted Puck— who was small and black and round, much like a hockey puck. Shane was still stuck in a walking boot, hobbling on crutches, in the thick of rehab and absolutely miserable… and there was no way they were leaving without that cat.)
"Okay," Shane breathes, though he doesn’t seem too thrilled about the plan. He dangles a hand off the bed, wiggling his fingers to draw Puck out from his hiding place. "Hi baby. You need lunch, huh?"
Puck licks his fingers. Shane finally cracks a small smile.
(That cat is a goddamn miracle worker.)
"See? Your baby needs you," Ilya says. He leans down to kiss Shane’s forehead, and reaches across him to steal his phone. "I’ll be back in an hour. Time to get up."
He tosses the blankets back with a flourish, and stands up to leave the room.
Shane groans tiredly, rubbing his face.
"I love you," he calls, as Ilya goes. "I’m sorry for being a dick."
"I love you, too," Ilya says back, over his shoulder. "And I love your dick."
Shane laughs. Finally.
"Fuck off."
-
It’s still drizzling, so he throws on a light jacket on his way out— one that he hasn’t worn since the fall.
He doesn’t actually stick his hands into the pockets until he’s standing in the bakery, waiting for his order to be ready.
He frowns when his fingers land on something. Not papery like a forgotten receipt, not solid like spare change he might’ve abandoned— flimsy, plastic packaging, almost like a packet of candy.
He pulls it out.
Extra-strength relaxation candy, from herbal extract, the package reads, in Cyrillic.
Holy fuck.
Designed for full-body release and mental quieting. Ideal for those who find it difficult to disengage, unwind, or surrender control.
Promotes a profound state of ease, free from tension, obligation, and overthinking. Expect a heavy, immersive experience.
Take with trust. Stay where you are loved. The deeper the need, the deeper the effect.
He’d completely forgotten he had a second one of these.
That day he’d walked into the little Russian market, looking for comfort food, and desperate for anything to make his bad thoughts a little less loud… the old babushka at the counter slid two packages over to him, after taking one look at his desolate state and insisting she had something to help him.
He’d thought it was hilarious that this tiny Russian lady in her headscarf and floral blouse was offering him edibles, so he bought them. She promised they were stronger than anything the dispensary next door could sell— straight from the old country.
She advised him to take one package that night, and save the other for a rainy day.
The girl behind the counter calls his name, holding up a to-go bag of food and a tray with two drinks. He shoves the candy back into his pocket and heads over to collect his order.
He thanks her, and he walks back out into the rain.
-
The thing is, he and Shane haven’t really discussed what happened when Ilya took those strange gummies, back in the fall.
The whole accidentally turned into a preschooler for several days thing feels a bit like a bizarre dream— the only evidence it really happened is a single photo in Shane’s camera roll: four year-old Ilya asleep on the couch, cuddling his stuffed Chiron toy.
Ilya’s memories of it are hazy, he realizes as he ponders it on his drive back to the cottage. He doesn’t really remember being small; he just remembers feeling safe and loved, and having a lot of fun. He remembers waking up as himself again, feeling incredibly well-rested, and like everything that had been weighing on him before had suddenly lifted. It was amazing.
He thinks of Shane, over the past several days— lost in his head, constantly spiralling, his body rigid with tension and anxiety.
Maybe—
No. He wouldn’t want to. There’d be no convincing him. He’s too practical and logical for this ridiculous magic.
And besides, there’s no guarantee it’d have the same effect on him. When they went back to the store to demand answers, the woman had mentioned someone turning into a bird— Ilya can’t imagine what the fuck he’d do if he was suddenly sitting in the cottage, married to a loon.
(But, he considers, he and Shane are far more alike than they are different. They have similar struggles, similar passions, similar lives in general. Shane’s deeper need is probably the same— a few days without fighting the inside of his own mind, without the pressure of hockey, without any of his real-life, grownup stressors.)
(The candy would probably do the same thing to him as it did to Ilya.)
He almost swerves off the road at the thought of getting to spend days taking care of a miniature version of his husband. Holy shit, that would be amazing.
Maybe, he decides, he’ll just leave the package out and see what Shane says. They’ll probably end up throwing the candy away, but that’s alright. At least he tried.
-
The TV is off when he gets home, but Shane is sitting on the couch and staring at it anyways, clearly zoned out completely.
He hasn’t noticed Ilya come in.
He’s got Puck in his lap, and Anya lying on the floor in front of him, her chin resting on his foot. Every few seconds, he shrugs his shoulders in a jerky motion, like he simply can’t keep his body still.
"Hey," Ilya says.
Shane startles.
"Oh. Hi. You’re back already?"
"Yes." Ilya frowns. "I was gone for an hour."
Shane blinks. Nods.
"Right. Yeah. Has it been that long?" He glances over at the kitchen. "I fed the animals, but I got distracted. I haven’t showered yet."
"Come eat," Ilya sighs, trying not to look too worried. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, fine." Shane stands up, carrying Puck with him. "Just— you know how I get. I’m anxious over nothing, it makes me kinda nauseous. It’s stupid."
He shrugs again, almost aggressively, like he’s trying to shake something off of him. He does this sometimes— gets caught in a loop of the same motion, over and over, until his brain is satisfied.
"I have your iced latte with oat milk and sugar-free vanilla," Ilya says, holding up the tray. "Gay little drink."
"You’re basically drinking a caramel milkshake," Shane scoffs. "Shut up."
Ilya frowns down at his frappe.
"Yeah, also a gay little drink." He pauses, lowers his voice to a whisper. "Shocking news, Hollander… we are gay."
Shane rolls his eyes.
"Very funny."
Ilya unpacks their sandwiches and the pastries he impulse-bought, setting them out on the table. Shane walks into the kitchen for plates… and Ilya hears his footsteps pause when he must come across the surprise on the counter.
"Ilya? What the fuck is this?"
He comes back into view with Puck cradled in one arm, the other hand holding the magical Russian candy.
"I think you know what that is," Ilya offers. "Familiar, yes?"
"Where the hell did you get it?"
"Found it in my pocket. I forgot, um— I bought two, back then. Took one, left the other in my jacket, and have not worn it since then. Found it today. Oops."
Shane’s throat bobs as he swallows.
"You remember what happened last time?"
Ilya fixes him a look.
"Hard to forget getting turned into a baby."
Shane’s mouth twitches. He’s thinking, hard.
He crouches down to let Puck to the floor, then stands back up, staring at the package.
"You felt better, after," he states. "Like… you weren’t in a great place, mentally, then you took it, and it helped you. Right?"
"Yes," Ilya says. "It helped very much. Everything that was worrying me just… it was like nothing anymore. I had no stress, and when I came back to being me, it was like I had the best sleep ever."
Shane is quiet. His brow furrows.
"I was thinking," Ilya continues, "that maybe you—"
"I want to try it," Shane cuts him off.
Ilya blinks.
"What?"
Shane looks at him. There’s something raw there— not panic, necessarily, but maybe pain. He’s been hurting all week, tortured by a brain that just won’t stop. He’s worn thin, under the pressure of his own unmet expectations, only compounded by all the media bullshit he can’t stop reading and watching.
He’s exhausted. He’s desperate.
"I want to try it," he repeats. "I need— I need something. I can’t keep going like this. I feel crazy. My brain won’t shut the fuck up."
Ilya nods. He’d expected that to take at least some convincing.
"Okay."
"It’s constant," Shane continues. "Just, like, commentary— every game I missed, every fucking shift I played, every bad pass or missed goal, and— fuck. I know it’s not rational. I know I can’t change anything that already happened. I know that… but it won’t stop." His voice goes shaky. "Ilya, I need it to stop."
"Okay," Ilya repeats. He walks towards Shane, to wrap him up in his arms. "Yes. I think this will help. I think you should try. Just— you remember what she said, when we went to the store? It might not be the same for you, as for me. It might do something different."
Shane nods into Ilya’s shoulder.
"I know. I don’t care. It can do fucking anything, if it means I get a break from this."
"I hope it makes you little," Ilya muses, rubbing his back. "I want to play with baby Shane. I know from your mom and dad’s pictures— you will be so cute."
Shane snorts softly.
"You say that now, but I was a really annoying kid. You’d get sick of me so fast."
"Sick of you?" Ilya scoffs. "Never. Don’t say such stupid things. I would love little Shane so much."
"Seriously. I was a lot to handle."
"Shane."
"I was weird, Ilya. I didn’t like playing with other kids, and I was always making weird noises and running around and getting into trouble. The whole reason I started hockey so young was because my parents couldn’t get me to sit still or shut the fuck up, and they needed something for me to do. It was lucky I was obsessed with it, because I was a little terror the rest of the time."
Ilya sighs.
"Don’t be so mean to baby Shane. Kids are loud. Kids run around. This is normal. I would be very happy to meet little you, and I will not get annoyed, I promise."
Shane presses his face against Ilya’s chest.
"I hope it makes me into a cat," he mumbles. "I could talk to Puck."
Ilya laughs softly.
"You would be the cutest котенок in the world. This would be good, too. Okay?"
Shane nods.
"Okay. Yeah." He pauses. "Maybe after lunch, I’ll just… try it and see what happens."
"I like this idea," Ilya says. "No matter what happens, I will be right here, taking care of you. No matter what. Same as you did for me."
Shane kisses him, humming softly into it.
"I love you."
"I love you, too. So much."
-
"It gets you very, very high, first," Ilya adds, once they’ve finished eating, settled on the couch with the candy in Shane’s hand. "I forgot about that part."
"Oh, great," Shane huffs. "There’s, like, four candies in here. Do I take all of them?"
"I did."
"Okay. And— right, okay— if it does make me into a kid, we still have that box of clothes in the downstairs guest room, from when the Pikes were little and they’d get all dirty playing outside whenever they visited. Hayd and Jackie started just keeping spare clothes here, and I don’t think I ever got rid of them."
Ilya smoothes a hand over his hair.
"I know. Don’t worry. I will not let you run around naked."
Shane sighs.
"Sorry. I’m just— freaking out a little." He shakes his head. "That’s why I just need to eat it, right? God."
"Just do it," Ilya says. "I’m here. You’re good."
"Okay, fine." He tears the package open, eats all four little gummies, and nods. "There. Done. Can’t change it now."
"Now, we wait."
-
They migrate to the bedroom about twenty minutes later, when Shane complains of being a little sleepy.
"You said this got you high?" he chuckles, curling into Ilya’s side for a nap. "You’re such a lightweight. I don’t feel shit. I’m just tired."
Ilya rolls his eyes. Shane has an absurdly high tolerance, he’s now remembering— when they do regular, non-magical edibles on occasion, he’ll sit there, like, marginally more relaxed than normal, laughing slightly harder at things than he usually does, with an amount of THC in his body that would have Ilya greened out and crying because he can feel his teeth inside of his skull, or something.
"Lightweight?" Ilya grumbles, annoyed. "You know all about this— you get tipsy and turn bright red off two beers."
"That’s different. Don’t talk shit about my Asian glow."
"I am not talking shit. Go to sleep."
"You go to sleep."
"I’m trying to. You keep talking."
"Whatever. I can talk if I want to. This is my house."
"Shane. You said you were tired. Sleep."
"Fine."
-
Ilya comes quickly to consciousness when something smacks him in the face.
"блять," he huffs. Fuck. He peels his eyes open. "What is happening?"
He’s nose-to-nose with a toddler. The kid has dark hair, almond-shaped doe eyes, and a spattering of freckles across his rosy cheeks. He’s grabbing at Ilya’s face with a little hand.
Ilya blinks.
"Shane?"
He’s not sure why he’s asking. There’s no way that’s not his husband staring at him— he’s got all of Shane’s features, just… shrunk down. He’s very, very small.
"Ilya!"
Shane is beaming at him. He’s so little he can’t even pronounce his Ls: it sounds like Eeya.
Ilya feels a smile tug across his face, completely enthralled. It worked.
"Hi, my baby," he coos, instantly melting. "Look at you, Shane. How did you get so tiny?"
Shane crawls up onto Ilya’s torso, so that they’re face to face. He leans in close, touching the tips of their noses together.
He’s got such a little baby face— round cheeks, wide eyes, downy hair. He definitely seems younger than Ilya was when this happened to him, which is an interesting development.
"Shane," Ilya chuckles, settling a hand on his back, and shifting slightly to avoid a pudgy little finger suddenly coming towards his eye. "Hey. You had a good nap? You feel okay? No stress?"
Shane blinks. He’s settled a hand on Ilya’s cheek.
"Good nap." He says it in an adorable imitation of Ilya’s accent, then pats him gently on the face. "No stress."
Ilya laughs softly.
(Adult Shane does that sometimes— he said once that the sound of Ilya’s voice just sits right in his brain, and further, that he gets the urge to feel certain words and sounds for himself. He’s like a living echo, always picking random phrases to repeat until he feels satisfied.)
(When it first started happening, years ago, Ilya had been mildly offended at his accent being mocked, but ever since Shane explained it, he’s been completely endeared by the habit.)
"Very good, Shane," Ilya hums, rubbing his back. "You feel happy?"
Shane nods, bangs flopping against his forehead, still staring at Ilya’s face like he’s inspecting it.
"Happy," he chirps in his sweet little voice.
He is so fucking cute.
"How old are you, мой зайчик?" My bunny. Ilya strokes his hair gently, with the back of one finger. "Do you know?"
In lieu of an answer, Shane furrows his brow and carefully pronounces:
"Zay-chick."
"Bunny," Ilya explains, unsure if Shane will remember any Russian right now. "Because you are so cute, like a tiny little rabbit."
Shane wrinkles his nose, proving Ilya’s point completely.
"M’big."
"Right," Ilya says. "Of course, but still very cute. And you are… three years old, maybe?"
Slowly, Shane raises two fingers, watching his own hand as he does so, concentrating hard.
"This," he says, presenting the number to Ilya. "This many."
"Two," Ilya confirms. Holy shit. "Okay. This is maybe younger than what we thought would happen, I think, but I have no problem with this at all, okay? My sweet Shane. Two years old."
A series of questions cross Ilya’s mind, including: do two year-olds wear diapers? and how many naps should I make him take? and has he really been stressed and anxious about hockey for so many years that his body had to go this fucking young to escape from it?
Shane’s eyes flit down to Ilya’s chest, landing on his necklace. He grabs it in his fist immediately.
"Careful, солнышко." Sunshine. "You can touch, but don’t pull, okay?"
"Okay," Shane echoes. He tilts the cross back and forth in his fingers, watching the sunlight glint off of it. He narrows his eyes a little, observing it intently, then gives it a very gentle tug. "Your mommy."
Ilya blinks.
"Yes," he says, somewhat surprised, but incredibly endeared. "It was my Mama’s. You remember that?"
Shane nods. He’s still holding it, moving it around, transfixed by the way it shimmers.
He suddenly stops, sits up straight, lets out an excited little squeak, and rapidly flaps his hands like he’s trying to shake invisible water off of them.
Then, he leans right back in to grab the necklace again.
"Pretty," he states.
(He can’t pronounce his Rs very well, and it sounds like pitty. Ilya has a sudden urge to spontaneously combust from pure cuteness.)
"You want to get up now, Shane?" Ilya tries. "We can go find you some clothes that fit, then maybe start dinner. Come on, Ilya will carry you."
Shane pouts a little, but doesn’t protest. He cuddles into Ilya’s shoulder as they sit up together, not letting go of the necklace. Ilya stands, cradling him carefully.
"All the way downstairs," Ilya narrates as they go. "We will find you some clothes from the Pike babies. And maybe—" He cuts himself off. Pauses. "Shane… you are very tiny. Do you use the potty yet, or do we need to hope there is maybe some diapers with the clothes?"
Shane’s face folds into this adorable scrunch— a look that is so unbelievably Shane that it makes him look just like his usual self.
"I go potty," he huffs, indignant. "M’big."
Ilya raises his eyebrows.
"You’re sure? Should we maybe make a potty stop right now?"
Shane kicks a little leg against Ilya’s hip.
"No. I want—" He suddenly whips his head around, looking for something, then calls: "Puck?"
Ilya breathes out a quiet laugh.
"We can find your kitty later, okay? Clothes first."
Shane lets out a dramatic groan, squirming in Ilya’s arms.
"Ilyaaaaaa."
"Shane. You are a baby. I am in charge. Too bad, so sad."
He blows a raspberry against Shane’s cheek, which gets a squeal and a giggle out of him.
"Ilya!"
Ilya briefly wonders if it’s possible to explode from loving someone so much.