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    Summary

    “Are you okay?” Shane took a tiny step forward.

    “Hollander.” Ilya’s jaw tightened. “Not here.”

    Standing high in the Russian arena, Shane took in Ilya’s quickening breathing, his tightly shut eyes, his knuckles white as he gripped the railing. His voice came out almost as a whimper: “Shane.”

    Fuck. Ilya was going to fall apart.

    Or: What if Ilya couldn't keep his walls up in Sochi, and instead of pushing Shane away, he completely broke down in the Olympic arena, forcing Shane to pull him into a cleaning closet, hold him through a violent panic attack, and potentially change their dynamic forever?

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