Work Text:
It’s the second hour of not moving when the panic really starts to become unignorable.
Shane’s heading home from university for the holidays, and while he’d normally drive his car has been struggling in the shitty weather, and he’s not going to make his parents come and fetch him. The thought of being trapped on a bus with other strangers for close to three hours hadn’t been appealing, so he’d opted to get the only slightly more expensive train instead. The train ride isn’t long either, only a couple of hours from Montreal back to Ottawa, or so it was supposed to be.
Instead, they’d come to a halt half an hour out of Montreal. It had been fifteen minutes of waiting at a standstill until the conductor had spoken through the staticky intercom, and told Shane and the other fellow passengers that there’s a broken down train a mile down the track from them, they can’t back up due to other trains waiting, and are simply going to have to wait until the train ahead can get up and running again. They don’t expect it to take more than two or three hours, but they’re stuck until then.
So it’s hour two, Shane has read the same page of his book four times now without taking in a single word, and the panic is rising thick and fast.
Luckily the trains aren’t all too popular - being pretty old and decrepit (see: train broken down ahead), so there are only maybe six or seven other people in this carriage with him, and he’s tucked up in the corner by the window, his coat on the seat next to him as the train also only seems to have a “boil” setting on the heaters. There’s essentially no-one in his line of sight who can watch him bend over and rest his head on the seat in front of him; inhale slowly for four, hold it for four, exhale even slower for four.
He’s not sure how long he’s been trying it for, but he doesn’t think it’s working. His throat is thick, the air dry and too hot in his nostrils, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears drowning out the whine of the heaters.
He wants to go back in time, to never get on this fucking train. He wants to go back and tell his parents that he can’t come home for Christmas, make up some stupid excuse about hanging out with friends, or studying, or something instead. He wants to be at home with his parents already, to get this whole fucking thing over and done with, to finally put an end to the anxiety that lives in his lungs ready to drown him.
He stares at the last text he’s sent his parents, telling them there’s a train delay but he’s not sure how long it’ll be, and he’ll text them updates when he knows more. He wants to just text them again, tell them the words that he’s only finally been able to admit to himself in the last month or so, and then switch his phone off and maybe throw it out of the window.
He’s gay.
Shane Hollander is gay.
He likes men.
Maybe if he phrases it in as many ways as he possibly can it will get easier to say.
He’d barely been able to admit it, but growing up in a hockey-heavy environment and all the toxic masculinity and jock-ness that came with it had led to him hiding this part of himself intensely. He’d not gone to the draft due to a knee injury, was hoping to finish this course at university by which he should have had time and then some to be back on top form. It’s going better than planned, despite taking it slower because of his knee he’s captain of his university hockey team and they’re doing really fucking well.
But university had opened his eyes in a way he’d not really understood it could. He’d made friends both on the team and out of it, who’d shown him there’s more than one way to be a hockey player and a human being - even as he’ll likely have to go back into the closet when he goes professional, he’s had enough support and education that he’s understood better who he is, and he can’t regret that.
He also knows his parents will likely be fine with it, knows that they’ll love him and support him anyway, but that doesn’t stop the worry from invading his thoughts, from all of the stupid, scary what-ifs from floating through his brain, reminding him at the randomest, worst moments that he’s not straight, won’t marry a woman and provide his mom with grandbabies and live a ‘normal’ life.
Fuck.
His breath catches and he presses a fist into his sternum as hard as he can, uses the pressure to bring himself back to the present - not that that’s any better, stuck on a goddamn train in the middle of nowhere with potential hours to go yet.
The panic makes his thinking slow, narrow, and suddenly he just needs to get up, get out though there’s nowhere to go.
He stands, stumbles but slides through the internal carriage door into the little pocket next to the main doors, shivers as the winter air leaks through the edges but is glad for the cold cutting through some of the panic fogging up his brain.
He presses a hand to the metal, tries to focus on the shocking cold of it as he breathes in again slowly, stares out of the dirty window to the desolate snowy landscape outside.
A soft whoosh of the carriage door behind him distracts him again and he glances over to see a very attractive man in the doorway, watching Shane with open concern.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and Shane opens his mouth to answer but no words will fall from his lips. His breath is still shaky, the box breathing not as effective as it’s been before, and the stranger’s face goes soft and a little understanding.
“Panic attack?” Shane’s flirted with panic attacks before but not had one like this, so it’s not out of the realm of possibility. Both better and worse is the way the stranger asks, as if he knows exactly what’s going on, more so than Shane himself.
Shane forces a shrug, shakes his head and then nods helplessly, feels tears prickle at the back of his eyes with a little humiliation that someone is seeing him like this.
“Okay,” the blond soothes gently, fingers spread as he holds his hands out in front of him, like he’s soothing a spooked animal. “Is okay. You know how to breathe?”
Shane nods, forces a long inhale though it’s audibly shaky in the quiet of this end of the carriage. He holds it, can see the stranger’s lips move as he counts the seconds silently, and then exhales - too quickly. The lack of control panics him again, he inhales too quickly and the tears blur his vision as he tries to get himself under control.
“Can I touch you?” he hears and he doesn’t know why he nods but he does. One of the hands gently captures the one Shane doesn’t have against the door and brings it gently to press flat over a firm chest, which rises slowly as the stranger murmurs “one… two… three… four…” slowly; stills as he repeats the numbers before he repeats them again as the chest falls under his palm with a slow exhale.
The physical touch helps, gives him something to focus on again as the numbers said out loud seem to lead him better than his own internal counting, and it’s only another minute or two until his breathing is somewhat steadier.
He rubs his sleeve across his eyes, the threat of tears still there but not nearly as prevalent, and meets hazel eyes once the salt water is soaked into his clothes rather than hovering at his eyeline.
“Better?” the man murmurs between counts, and Shane nods but keeps his hand under the strangers, continues to follow the breathing until he’s gone three rounds without a single shuddery breath.
“Good,” the soft praise feels like sunlight in his chest and Shane holds onto it, but gently twitches his fingers for freedom and the hand holding his to the chest drops away instantly.
“... Thank you,” Shane says quietly, and the blond shrugs back.
“I have been there,” he says, and Shane’s heart suddenly aches for him. “Is never nice.”
“This was… is? my first,” Shane admits in almost a whisper. “Especially- not in public.”
“Is worst. Fucking trains,” the man huffs derisively and a tiny laugh pushes its way out from Shane’s chest, surprising them both.
As if they’d summoned something, the speaker overhead crackles. “Sorry for the delay, folks. Unfortunately the train ahead will need another hour or so while a specialist engineer makes his way over. We’ll be sending the cart down the train for complimentary drinks and snacks while you wait, though these will be limited to one per customer. We appreciate your understanding, and apologies again for the delay.”
“Fuck,” Shane sighs, rubs a hand across his face, regrets ever thinking a train home might be a good choice.
“I have cards,” the man says, tilting his head back towards the main carriage, “and a table to myself, if company would help while we are stuck?”
“I-” Shane’s instinctive response is to decline, but who the fuck knows how long they’ll still be stuck on this train, and there’s something about the stranger - not just how he’d been so good at helping bring Shane down from his panic, or how attractive he is, even in sweats and also stuck on a fucking train - that’s piquing his curiosity. “Yeah, okay,” he agrees, and the stranger smiles at him, looking pleased.
“You need another minute?” he asks, and Shane shakes his head, follows him instead back through the carriage. He collects his coat and bag from his seat, but the table is just a couple of rows down anyway; he slides into the empty seats opposite where the stranger sits, a can of diet coke and a book upside down on the plastic table surface.
“I am Ilya,” Ilya says, holding out a hand over the table.
Shane shakes it and gives his own name.
“Is nice to meet you, Shane,” Ilya’s accent wraps lovingly around his name and he ignores the little flutter of warmth in his belly.
Ilya seems to be willing to leave other conversation to the side for now though, as he pulls out a deck of cards instead and asks Shane what games he knows, offers a couple himself that Shane recognises so between them there’s three or four they can try.
The focus on something else helps steady Shane, as does the snack that the staff provide as they push the trolley through the train, looking a little relieved when Shane and Ilya merely thank her for the free can of coke for Ilya, ginger ale for Shane, and the bag of crisps and chocolate bar she hands them.
They tear open the crisps, set them between them on the table so they can both pick at them and do the same to the chocolate as they continue to play Gin Rummy. Ilya’s competitive, almost as much as Shane, and he finds himself grinning even as they’ve spent half an hour playing games, as he and Ilya argue over points and strategy until they’re interrupted by the tannoy again.
“Sorry about the delay folks. I’ve been told that the train ahead has now been fixed, and should be on the move in the next fifteen minutes or so. We’ll be giving them a spare ten to pick up speed and make sure the fix holds, but expect to be moving again within the next half an hour.”
The driver repeats the announcement once more, and Shane relaxes in his seat a little now they’ve finally got a rough end to this. Though, he thinks, glancing at Ilya’s deft fingers skillfully shuffling the cards, he could probably sit here with Ilya happily for a while yet.
“Where are you heading?” he asks Ilya, who glances over the cards at him.
“Ottawa,” he replies, and Shane huffs a laugh.
“I mean, that’s kinda obvious,” he says, “are you going for anything specific?”
Ilya blows out a low breath, some of the lightness fading from his face and Shane almost regrets asking.
“Not really,” he shakes his head, “What about you?”
Shane admits he’s going home for Christmas, making the most of the two week break the university gives them for the holidays. Ilya nods in understanding, and asks about Shane’s family so he tells him a little about his mom and dad, their jobs and their home in Ottawa where he grew up.
Ilya tells him a little too, when he asks, about his youth in Russia, how he’d come to Canada for university - though he’s at the University of Montreal where Shane’s at McGill - on a hockey scholarship.
Shane knows he lights up at that and they end up discussing hockey. Ilya admits he’d been invited to a couple of international competitions that could have led to the draft, but due to a couple of family emergencies it hadn’t worked out, and he’d chosen this route instead. Shane admits similar, though his was a medical issue rather than family thing that had delayed his professional career.
Ilya’s so fucking smart, can match Shane’s hockey knowledge which is pretty rare, even amongst his own teammates, and Shane doesn’t think he’s ever had this much fun talking to someone he barely knows before.
But it’s like hockey unlocks something between them and they divert to other topics: university studies and hobbies outside of hockey and friends. Shane notes that Ilya doesn’t mention much about his family bar the ‘emergencies’ and wonders what he’s doing for Christmas, if anything.
He blinks as the train wheels squeak and it jolts lightly as they finally start moving, and some of the tension eases from his shoulders with the movement.
Ilya’s face dims a little, as he turns to watch the snow-covered fields pass, hands stilling where they’ve been unconsciously continuing to shuffle the deck now and again as they chat.
Shane sends a quick text to his parents to let them know he’s on the move, and he’ll text them again when he’s closer.
Ilya shakes his head when Shane asks him if he’s been to Ottawa before.
“Will you have time to sightsee or anything?” Shane asks, “I can recommend some places, if you like.”
Ilya watches him for a long second with an inscrutable expression but Shane’s not sure what he’s said, or if he’s put his foot in it.
“Sure,” he finally says, and he doesn’t sound particularly enthused but Shane offers a few suggestions anyway; the Rideau Canal, which turns into a public skating rink when it freezes over, a few of the better museums, some of the nice walks just around the town - and the Christmas market should be on, too.
“I do not celebrate Christmas the same day as you,” Ilya says curtly to that, “Russian Christmas is on January seventh.”
“Oh,” Shane blinks. University would have started up by then. “Sorry.”
Ilya shakes his head, blows out another short breath again. “No. Sorry,” he sighs, tapping the cards lightly on the table. “I am being… what is that thing from Christmas film? Green, mean?”
“The grinch?”
“Yes,” Ilya taps the cards again as if in agreement, “Grinch.”
“Do you not like Christmas?”
Ilya shrugs, something half-hearted in it. “It does not mean much to me,” he says, but there’s something in his voice that doesn’t sound entirely truthful. “I do not have any plans this year, anyway, so does not really feel much like Christmas.”
“You’re not seeing your family?”
“No.”
There’s no room for discussion or further questions in Ilya’s response so Shane shuts his mouth, tries to think of something else to ask, but before he can Ilya sighs again, rubs a hand across his face.
“Sorry,” he says again. “I am… I did not want to spend Christmas alone in Montreal, and I will not go back to Russia. So I thought I could visit somewhere new, but now I will just be alone in Ottawa, so. Was stupid plan, really.”
There’s a self-depreciation in the dark curl of Ilya’s lips that Shane doesn’t like.
“It’s not stupid at all,” he disagrees. “I mean, if you wanted, I could show you around or something?”
“You would?”
“Of course,” Shane replies, and he knows he maybe sounds a little too earnest, but he thinks he’d do almost anything to wipe the shadows from Ilya’s eyes. “This has been fun,” he adds, gesturing to the table between them, “I’d hang out with you again. If you wanted.”
“... Yes. I’d like that,” Ilya replies, a new softness in his face that has Shane’s heart thrumming in his chest.
“So, you miss Ottawa?” Ilya asks him after a couple of minutes of quiet, where they break the chocolate bar in half and share.
“I do,” Shane admits. “I mean, Montreal’s nice and all, but I grew up in Ottawa, y’know? It’s home.”
“I thought maybe,” Ilya gestures towards the carriage doors, “You were not so keen to go home?”
“Oh,” Shane realises the panic has fully receded over the last hour or so they’ve been talking and playing cards, relegated to a dark corner of his mind he’d easily forgotten about. “I- it’s not Ottawa, really,” he admits. “I just.” He exhales slowly, watches the snow fall outside the window. If he can’t admit it to a stranger who’s been kind enough to pull him down from a panic attack, how’s he supposed to admit it to his parents? Saying it out loud more should help, right? “I’m gay,” he manages to push out, and glances over at Ilya but there’s no reaction, negative or positive. “I… I’ve not told my parents, yet.”
“They will not be good about it?”
“I mean, I think they will,” Shane fiddles with his empty ginger ale can for something to do. “They love me, I know that. But I don’t know. It’s going to be hard, when I get drafted, to hide it until I retire, but there are no out hockey players right now and I could never be the first. So with that, and just the general… worry, it’s…” he shrugs helplessly but Ilya nods in understanding.
“I get it,” he murmurs. “I, ah. I like both. Women and men,” he admits in a hushed voice, and Shane’s heart leaps from his chest. “Is not, ah, legal in Russia. Can be gay, but cannot promote. Which, if I was drafted and with a man, would mean I would have to hide also.”
Shane nods, the admission leaving him reeling. He’s not alone. Even as it’s a shit situation to be in, just the fact that he knows it’s not just him has a weight lifting off his shoulders that he hadn’t fully realised had been so heavy.
“But I am sure your parents will be fine,” Ilya continues, “From what you said early, they sound very nice.”
“They are,” Shane agrees, feeling a little bad for doubting them but reminding himself of that one quote that ‘fear isn’t always rational’. “You’re not out to your family?”
Ilya shakes his head, the shadows returning so Shane doesn’t push.
“Okay, folks,” the voice comes over the speakers again, “Thank you so much for your patience. We’re now just ten minutes from Ottawa. Ottawa station is our last stop. Please ensure you have all of your belongings as you depart the train. Thank you for travelling with us today, and apologies again for the severe delay.”
Shane can’t believe the last hour and a half has gone so quickly, but he collects the rubbish and takes it down to the bin as Ilya packs away his cards and book, and they return to their seats and just watch each other as the train speeds through the last few miles to the station.
He has the ridiculous thought that he doesn’t want this train journey to end, doesn’t want to disembark and potentially never see Ilya again.
“Give me your phone,” Ilya holds a hand out and Shane unlocks it and hands it over, watches as Ilya types something in and hands it back with a new contact. “If you wanted to give me tour.”
“I do,” Shane promises. “I will.”
“Okay,” Ilya nods, inhales sharply as the train starts slowing to a halt. “Was nice to meet you.”
He stands, collects his bag from the overhead rack as Shane does the same. Shane pulls on his coat and beanie, watches out of the corner of his eye as Ilya does the same.
The train judders to a halt and they step down off the train, the cold air of the station biting exposed skin as Shane shifts his backpack on his shoulders.
“Wait, Ilya-” he calls, as Ilya turns and starts to stride down the platform.
He stops and turns, watches Shane with dark eyes. Shane doesn’t want to lose sight of him, is suddenly worried that if he does he won’t see him again. He wants more of what they’d just had, of Ilya’s laugh as he beat Shane, the teasing remarks, the proud grin as Shane would beat him in turn. Wants more of sitting cosily somewhere together, their knees touching under the table, hands brushing as they invade each other’s space. More of getting to know Ilya, the sharp mind and perceptive responses and inquisitive questions.
“I-” Shane’s never asked anyone for anything like this before, doesn’t really know how to. “I really liked spending this time with you,” is all he can say instead, a little lamely. “I really do want to see you again.”
Ilya continues to watch him for a long moment, until they’re the last two at this far end of the platform. Shane’s breath catches as Ilya steps towards him, eyes never leaving Shane’s, intent and wanting.
Shane tilts his chin up as Ilya doesn’t stop approaching, until they’re chest-to-chest and then Ilya’s mouth is on his and Shane leans forward into it, kisses Ilya like he’s never kissed another person before.
It’s sheer perfection, Ilya taking control of the kiss and leading Shane where he wants to be led, one hand cradling the back of his nape, fingers cold against his skin but mouth so hot as their tongues twine.
“Don’t go to your hotel or wherever. Come to dinner with me and my parents,” Shane blurts as they part, Ilya’s eyes still watching him intently.
“You are sure that is what you want?” Ilya asks, eyebrows creeping up his forehead.
“Yes,” Shane nods stubbornly. “I know we don’t know each other, not really. But I know enough, and I like what I know, and I… I want to know more.”
Ilya sighs softly, leans in to give him a quick, gentle kiss.
“Okay,” he agrees as they part, Shane’s hand caught in the lapel of Ilya’s coat. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Shane echoes, and he knows his smile is maybe a little ridiculous. “Come on then.”
He holds a hand out and Ilya’s smile grows a little as he accepts it, and Shane tugs him down the platform. He’s got a lot yet to work out, he knows, but with Ilya by his side so much of it suddenly seems a little less daunting and he's ready for it.