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Ilya was meant to be making this new Ottawa apartment feel like home. Instead, he was having a breakdown in the kitchen.
It was stupid, really. To get so worked up over such a small thing. He stared into the cupboard with a lump in his throat as tears started to prickle his eyes. He tried to take in a deep breath, counting to five as he had been taught. But it was shaky. He didn’t even make it to three before a whimper tore out of him. Followed by strangled sob.
Anyone else would've brushed it off. ‘Oh, I thought the smoothie machine was in this cupboard, but I opened it and it was just plates and bowls. My memory is so bad,’ they would joke.
But it wasn't a joke to Ilya. He had been certain the smoothie machine had lived there. So certain. And for a moment, when he opened the cupboard door, he didn't recognise any of the kitchenware. Not the colours, or the patterns. And his brain had screamed WRONG.
He stumbled back, crashing into the island, not yet used to the layout of his new place. His heel collided sharply with the solid wood, a jolt of pain shooting through his foot and up to his knee.
Fuck. He grabbed at his knee and pushed his fingers in roughly, overriding the pain with a different sensation. Touch always did that. Helped reduce the pain. Distract the brain.
Fuck. Fuck.
He closed his eyes, trying to block out the room, but all that did was make the loop of memories sharper.
His father, staring at him with blank eyes. Confusion clear in the furrowed brow, the twisted mouth.
The awful man he had known disintegrating before his eyes, until he was no longer his father. But a stranger.
The way his face would fall when Ilya had to tell him that his mother was dead. Over and over and over and over. It was a punch to the gut every time, until Ilya decided to just stop, let him believe that she’d be home soon. Live that fantasy life, just for a few moments. Either way tore Ilya apart.
Then his memory fractured, warped, and Ilya was looking at himself.
Ilya knew that he would be able to cope with something catastrophic happening to his body. It would be terrible, certainly. It would end his career. But he would learn to manage. Losing his mind though, everything that made him who he was. That scared him more than anything.
Ilya could feel his heartbeat rampaging. Not just in his chest, where it stuttered and jumped beats as if it had forgotten how to work. But he also felt the beat in his thigh, his muscle twitching. In his temples.
He had thought about it before, in a peripheral way, that he might get it too. Dementia. Such a small word, really, for such a big thing. A life-changing thing. A life-ending thing. He hadn't let the thought stay though, every time it had tried to creep in he had banished it before it could take root. But he hadn’t gotten rid of it, had only buried it. Where it had been growing and nurturing itself. Biding time. Waiting for this moment, this break in his defences, so it could strom in, latch on, and never let go.
Fuck. He was spiralling. He knew he was. Losing his grip on what was real and what was in his head. He needed an anchor. He needed Shane.
But Shane was two hours away in Montreal. Closer than he had been, certainly. But what did it matter, when Ilya was still here, alone, and falling apart without him.
Ilya suddenly felt the cold of the kitchen tiles underneath his palms, bringing him back into the room. When did he fall to the floor? He hadn't even realised, didn't feel the impact of his knees on the floor. He scrambled up, suddenly alert, adrenaline coursing through him. One word driving him forward: Shane. With shaky steps he walked out of the kitchen and up to the bedroom, finding his phone.
He sat down on the edge of the bed. Wiped a hand back and forth under his chin, then against his trousers. Then he clicked the call button. His foot tapped out the same rhythm as the rings.
By the time the call had rung out he had remembered Shane was at practice. He checked the time and blew out a sharp breath. He was at practice for nearly two more hours. Ilya couldn't last two more hours.
His fingers flew across his phone screen.
If you see this call me
I need you
Fuck, I shouldnt be distracting you
I'm sorry.
You're not even going to see this till after
[Lily deleted 5 messages]
Please call me after practice xoxo
He glanced up from his phone and let his gaze dart around the room. He was looking for comfort, for something that reminded him of Shane. But they hadn’t had time to make this place theirs yet. There was no book and spare set of glasses on the bedside table, or Shane’s sweatshirt flung over a chair. Shane had only stayed a couple of nights in the month he’d been here. Not enough to even leave his scent anywhere.
Suddenly this house didn't feel safe. Ilya needed to get out of here. It felt like a bomb was hiding behind every door.
He was already in the driver’s seat when the thought came to him. Was it safe to drive when he felt like this? With his heart skipping beats and his vision blurry from tears he was stubbornly trying to refuse to fall. He clenched both hands into fists, squeezed as tight as he could, then stretched them open. Curling and opening them again and again, pushing out breaths with the movement, until the tingling feeling that had crept over finally subsided.
Then he just started driving. With no real destination in mind. Storefronts passing by. People passing by. Quickly moving from the quiet residential streets to a main road. Concentrating on his feet moving the pedals and hand on the gear stick.
After about ten minutes, Ilya realised he was blindly following the roads to Shane's parents’ house. The only other place in Ottawa he had been able to truly be himself. The only other place he and Shane felt safe.
The first time they had visited after he'd officially moved, Yuna had corralled a dishwasher loading session to tell him "You're always welcome here, Ilya. I mean it. Not just when Shane's visiting. If you ever want to pop round or you need anything, you come okay. Just you. We will always love to see you."
Ilya had stared hard at the dishwasher so she wouldn’t see the way his lips turned up at the sides at the same time he blinked away tears.
He had never really let himself think about it. Not when he and Shane had been just them, hidden. He hadn't allowed himself to think about Shane's wonderful supportive parents who went to every game they could, who followed him around the world, who were bursting with pride for their son. Who would do anything, give up everything, for him to be safe and happy. So what if sometimes he saw them hugging after games and wished he was there with them. So what if he sometimes glanced at the messages Shane sent to them and wanted the easy comradery, the ‘look after yourself’, ‘you played great’, ‘come for dinner soon, we miss you!’ messages lighting up his own phone.
For a long time he didn't even think he'd have Shane. Not to keep anyway. Not forever. So no, he hadn't thought about having a family too.
He knew Shane could never understand that, to Ilya, home had meant pain and sadness and heartbreak. That it was a place he went to begrudgingly, pulled back by a sense of honour strong enough to overcome the dread. It wasn't a place he was safe to be himself. It didn't provide comfort. It wasn’t filled with happy memories that made him feel lighter as soon as he stepped through the door. It was only when he started seeing home as a feeling, as a person, he understood what the word was meant to be. Why people searched so passionately for it.
Ilya had told Shane some of it. Stories whispered between pillows in the darkness of the night, where they belonged. Shane carding a hand through his curls or gently stroking his hip or the pulse point on his wrist with his calloused fingers. So he was starting to know about it, but someone who had grown up with love could never understand it. Not truly.
When Ilya pulled up outside the house he stopped the engine, unplugged his seat belt. His hand reached out to open the door but then... he paused, and pulled it back.
What if Yuna had just been being polite? They probably didn't think he'd take them up on the offer. He knew they had accepted the idea of him and Shane now, but did they like him, as a person? Or did they just tolerate him, for their son? Ilya bashed his head down onto the steering wheel and let out a harsh push of breath. He shouldn't have come. Of course he shouldn't have. It was a mistake. He swallowed. Struggled with it. Swallowed again. This was Shane’s home and family, not his. He needed to just–
The tapping made him jump and his head snapped up, eyes wide. Yuna was standing outside the car window. She gave a small wave and jerked her head to the right. When he didn't move straight away she did it again.
He got out of the car with surprisingly steady legs, but an unsteady heart.
Ilya swallowed through the lump in his throat. "Hi."
"Hi, Ilya."
He couldn’t even meet her gaze.
"How did you know I was here?"
"We have a very active neighbourhood watch here. I got a call about a suspicious car lingering outside the house,” Yuna laughed. "Come in, David's just in the garden.”
She turned and headed up to the house.
"Okay." Ilya’s feet started moving.
"It's so good to see you Ilya, I hope you're settling in to your new place."
Ilya followed her through the front door and peeled his shoes off at the door mat, placing them neatly beside a pair he knew were Shane's.
Ilya wasn't hearing anything Yuna was saying as he trailed behind her into the living room. Yuna knocked on the sliding glass door and David looked up from where he was knelt by the vegetable patch. A big smile broke out and he waved, before giving the trowel he was holding a little shake and holding up 2 fingers.
"I'll get a cup of coffee on for him while he's finishing up, can I get you anything?"
"Mmm?" Ilya murmured.
"Ilya."
He looked up, meeting Yuna’s eyes for the first time since he got there.
Her brow immediately furrowed and she reached out her hand to squeeze his shoulder. "Is everything okay?"
Ilya pursed his lips. Averted his gaze down to his odd socks. Wriggled his toes. "No."
And then he was sobbing. Raw, unfiltered cries like he'd never done in front of anyone before, not even Shane. They just tore out of him, and he couldn’t stop them.
"Oh, Ilya."
And then he was being held by a mother’s embrace. And he sunk into it. Like the bones had left his body and he was just skin and muscle to mould into her arms. Like it had been waiting for this moment through so many long years.
It made him cry harder. To the point where Ilya felt like he was struggling to breathe. Where he was gulping for air in-between gasps, but never getting enough in.
"You're okay, it's all going to be okay," Yuna kept whispering, her voice soft and low, hand skating up and down his back, centering him. At some point she had maneuvered them so they were sitting side by side on the couch.
This kind of comfort was different to Shane's, when he sat in his lap and wrapped his limbs around him like a koala, getting as close as humanly possible. Physical touch and words of affection. And Ilya would clutch at him, pull at him, letting the warmth flow into him.
A mother’s comfort was different, unshakeable. When they told you it was going to be okay, in that unwavering tone that invited no room for questions, you believed them. Even when they didn’t know what was going on.
Ilya remembered it vaguely, as you do when you're waking from a dream, trying to grasp on to it, to remember, to not let it be forgotten. He didn't remember what he had run to his mother crying about, but he remembered this feeling. And his heart ached for how much he missed it. Wondered at the different person who would be sitting here today, if he hadn't lost her, hadn't had to become a man without her.
He didn't know how long they sat there for. How long he cried. When he could finally breathe again he had tear tracks crusted onto his cheeks. He pulled back from Yuna and shifted, rolling his neck from side to side, it suddenly feeling stiff from being hunched over. He sniffed and raised the back of his hand to wipe under his nose.
A tissue appeared in his peripheral vision and Ilya accepted it without looking up at David. Too embarrassed. Once he'd wiped himself up a glass of water was then thrust into his hand.
A quick twitch of a smile graced Ilya’s face at that. Fleeting, but there. Because it's exactly what Shane did after either of them had a good cry. And now he knew he got it from his dad.
Ilya took a sip of the water, then a long gulp. Keeping the glass touching his lips even in between swallows. He knew he couldn't just sit here forever, using the water as an excuse not to talk. But maybe he could for a few more seconds. Another minute or so.
In the end he didn't have to work up the courage - Yuna broke the silence first. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Ilya blew out a breath, relieved she was giving him the option. He had showed up out of the blue, bawled all over her, got snot on her nice burgundy jumper, and yet she was giving him back the power. Acting like he didn’t owe her anything. When would this type of kindness stop being unexpected?
He shook his head. Opened his mouth, then closed it again. Swallowed loudly.
"English is... hard now. When I'm like this."
It was sometimes an excuse he hid behind, but this time it was true. He felt drained, his brain tired, if that even made any sense. He knew he wouldn't be able to find the words. Sometimes when he was emotional he still spoke in half sentences, and Shane had gotten good at deciphering them. Could even understand some Russian now that he'd started learning it. But it was too much for now, with anyone but Shane.
"Of course, honey." Yuna patted his knee.
"Sorry. I... too much for brain." Ilya raised his hand and wiggled his fingers near his temple.
"You don’t need to apologise, okay? We don't need to talk until you're ready. Or not even at all if you don't want to."
"Okay. But I'm–"
"You better not be about to say sorry,” Yuna scolded. “You’re not allowed, and I mean it. From now on that word is banned."
"But I just showed up here and–"
"Doesn't matter. We love to have you here. Always."
Yuna’s face was so earnest it made tears prickle in Ilya's eyes again.
"Okay?" She raised an eyebrow.
"Okay,” Ilya agreed.
"Okay. Now, what do you need?"
Ilya’s mouth moved before his thought had fully formed. "Shane."
A look came over Yuna's face, one that Ilya knew meant business. She had a mission.
"I can make that happen."
"No he's... I can't ask him to..."
"If Shane was like this, if he needed you, would you get straight into your car and drive to him?"
"Yes." Without even a heartbeat of hesitation.
"Then let him do it for you."
Ilya sighed.
"It's hard." To ask, to be vulnerable, to need someone else the way he needed Shane. To be so far apart. To rely on another human being. To trust him when everyone else in his life had hurt him or left him. To love him fiercely and fully anyway.
He didn't say any of that, but Yuna nodded like she understood.
David piped in then, fingers already flying over his phone. "His practice should finish in about 20 minutes."
Yuna squeezed Ilya’s knee. “Not long.”
David ushered Ilya upstairs, showing him where the bathroom was, handing him a towel and telling him to freshen up. Ilya took a shower, cold enough to almost be painful. He went into Shane’s childhood room and picked out some spare clothes he kept there. Stopping as he pulled a sweatshirt over his head, inhaling the deepest breath he had all day, before his cheeks burned red, embarrassed over sniffing his boyfriend’s clothing.
When he made it back downstairs there was just enough time for Yuna to press a steaming mug of something, lemon tea maybe, in his hand before his phone started to ring.
He almost dropped the tea in his haste to place it down on the coffee table at the same time as pulling his phone out of his pocket.
"Hey love,” Shane said brightly.
Ilya swallowed, preparing to speak normally.
"Shane," he breathed out, voice wobbling. Ilya squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip. Normal had flown out of the window immediately.
"What's wrong?" Shane's voice was sharp, worried.
And then tears were falling again. Because of course Shane knew from one word that he wasn't okay.
"Hey, hey, love. What is it?"
All Ilya could muster in response was a sniffle.
There was some rustling on the other side of the line, then in a quieter voice.
"You're scaring me. Just breathe. Please."
Shane must've still been walking to his car because Ilya heard a few voices shout goodbye, then the beep of unlocking, the thud of a gym bag on a seat, and the slam of a door.
"Ilya, baby."
Ilya murmured a few words in Russian.
"I’m sorry I don't understand," Shane said, and fuck, he sounded distraught about it.
"I..." Ilya shook his head, eyes squeezing shut.
Then, in perfect unison, almost as if they'd agreed it beforehand, Ilya passed the phone to Yuna without even looking.
It was immediately up against her ear.
"Shane."
"Mom? What's going on?"
Ilya could've listened in to the rest of it, was still close enough to hear everything. But he tuned out. Until Yuna was pressing the phone back into his hand.
"Ilya. I'm coming okay. Straight from the rink. Can you hear me? I'm coming."
"Okay."
"Two hours, maybe quicker if I can," Shane said, the ticking of his indicator in the background telling Ilya he was already pulling out of the car park.
Ilya scoffed at that. "Impossible. Your car can't go quick."
Shane let out a small chuckle which sounded both fond and exasperated. "You can still make digs at my car at times like this, really?"
"Always," Ilya agreed.
"Time me," Shane teased, and Ilya barked out a small laugh.
"No." Then: "Drive safe."
"I love you. See you soon."
"I love you.”
Ilya slumped back against the sofa, lips curled up almost imperceptibly. But a smile nonetheless.
Yuna and David watched on, relieved that even just hearing Shane’s voice has seemed to make things better.
“Do you want to help me cook dinner?” Yuna asked.
Ilya considered the offer.
“I’m making a Japanese recipe, it’s one of Shane’s favourites. You can learn and cook it for him at home.”
That got him moving, and he was up on his feet within a heartbeat. “Yes, that sounds nice. I can learn.”
It was a good distraction, and halfway through Ilya suddenly wondered whether Shane had told his Mom to keep him busy, keep him from his own thoughts.
If he had, it was working. Ilya was dutifully noting down every step, every measurement, watching every move Yuna made intensely, as if he was trying to imprint it into his brain.
And it was nice. Being with Yuna like this. Creating something hearty as she spoke of learning this from her mother. Ilya didn’t have any memories of cooking at home like this in Russia, guessed that if they ever had done it was before everything started to go wrong, and he was too young to remember. It healed some small part of his broken heart, this task. Even if Ilya didn’t quite know it.
Once the food was in its last steps of warming through, Yuna called David in.
“Go set the table boys,” she said, and David saluted seriously. Ilya chuckled as he trailed after David, stopping at a drawer in the kitchen before passing into the dining room.
The room was on the small side, but cosy. With a tablecloth already on the table, a few lamps scattered around giving it a soft glow. They had eaten here quite a few times, him and Shane. After that first meal at the cottages, while they were figuring out the logistics of Ilya’s move.
Before Ilya could reminisce further David coughed, clearing his throat.
“Ilya, I want to tell you something. I think it'll feel like I'm coming on too strong. But I think you need to hear it. So I'm going to say it.”
Ilya’s hand paused where we was placing out a fork, but only for a second. Then it was moving again.
“Okay,” he said with a nod, realising David was waiting for his permission to continue.
“Being a man isn't about being the strongest or loudest or richest or most powerful. It’s about being there. For the people you love.”
Ilya’s breath hitched, the topic not what he had expected.
“It's making them feel loved. About helping them become the best versions of themselves. About seeing them, really seeing them, and knowing what you can do to make them happy. To be the person they want to come to on both their best and worst days. To be their safe space. Their person. And letting them be that person for you. That's a man.”
Ilya looked up and met David’s gaze across the table.
“I saw that from the very first day I met you as Ilya the boyfriend, not Rozanov the player. When you were coming up to the cottage before you saw me. The way Shane was so relaxed and playful. I hadn’t seen him like that in years. Then later on at the table when you were talking him down from a full blown panic attack. By the end of that day I was so damn happy. That my son had found love like that. That he'd found you. It's all I ever wanted for him.”
Ilya found his eyes getting blurry again.
“From that day on you were part of this family. You're a son to me. Not 'like' a son. You are my son. I don't know all the details about your life in Russia, how you grew up, but I know that's not the family you deserved. And I know that right now Shane is your whole world. I get it, trust me I do. But I'm hoping that with time, that might expand. And you'll start thinking of me and Yuna as your family too.”
Son. For so long a word that had made Ilya tense, his stomach churn. A word that had come with harshness and disappointment more often than not.
“I know you probably don’t believe it yet, but we’re here for you. We want to see you more, to get to know you better. We want you to feel like you are part of this family, because you are.”
And the scary thing was, maybe Ilya did already believe it. Maybe he did feel like he belonged. He was welcome here, in this home that felt like a warm embrace. After today, he couldn’t really doubt it.
Before Ilya could figure out how to respond, a crash sounded from across the house, and Ilya was bounding towards the front door. He met Shane in the hallway, colliding into him, their arms flying up to hold each other straight away. Ilya burrowed his face into Shane’s hair. Shane tucked his head between Ilya’s neck and shoulder, goose bumps prickling where his breath kissed his skin.
“You came,” was what Ilya ended up saying in greeting.
Shane’s head snapped up, eyes locking onto Ilya’s. His breath was elevated, as if he’d run up the driveway from his car, which he probably had.
“You needed me,” Shane replied, as if it was really that simple. And maybe it was.
“You want to talk?” Shane asked gently, hand snaking underneath Ilya’s sweatshirt to trace patterns over his bare back.
Ilya shook his head. “After food,” he said, silently trying to convey that he wanted a bit of time just to be together first.
“Okay,” Shane slotted his fingers into Ilya’s, giving his hand a tight squeeze, before leading him back through the house towards the smell of home-cooked food and sound of laughter. They didn’t stop touching, one way or another, for the entire meal.
-
A second after Ilya closed the door to the bedroom he had crossed the room to where Shane perched on the edge of the bed. He straddled Shane in one quick, smooth move and kissed him. Deeply. Slowly. Reverently.
Shane kissed him back, matching the pace, the emotion.
When they pulled back Shane gave him a soft smile, both hands reaching up to cup his face. His thumbs brushing over his cheekbones.
“You ready to talk?”
Ilya nodded. Took a breath.
“I think… maybe… I’m not okay,” Ilya declared.
He hadn’t realised tears were falling again until Shane’s thumbs moved to catch them.
Shane didn’t say anything, giving him space, giving him time to turn the jumble of Russian and English words that were flying round his head into something that made sense.
“What if I forget?” he finally gasped, pushing the words out in one great burst, as if he was scared of them.
“Forget what?” Shane asked, brow furrowing.
“You. Us. Every good memory I've ever had. What if I wake up one day and don't recognise your face.”
Understanding bloomed over Shane’s features.
“Oh, Ilya, love.”
One hand moved from his face to grab his, intertwining their fingers. The other stayed where it was, not letting Ilya turn his face away.
“I’m not going to sit here and say that it’s not going to happen. I don’t know the future. But what I can promise is that I love you.”
“But that future person, it won’t be me,” Ilya objected. “I won’t be the person you fell in love with.”
Shane shook his head.
“Haven’t you realised by now that every version of me will love every version of you? No doubts. Me from five years ago loved past you, and me in five years will love future you. I’ll love you when you start to get slow on the ice.”
Ilya scoffed at that, fighting the urge to roll his eyes.
“I’ll love you when you start needing to borrow my glasses. When you start to go grey. I’ll love you when you’re no longer a hockey player, and we figure out what that life looks like, together.”
Ilya squeezed Shane’s fingers, and pushed his head into his hand that was still holding him up. Gazed into the shimmering eyes of the man he loved so much that sometimes it hurt to breathe.
“We don't know what's going to happen, but if your brain forgets, your heart won't. You'll know you’re safe with me, you'll feel it in your soul.”
Ilya sniffled, and Shane kissed him softly on the forehead.
“You’ll always know me, cause I’ll be right there. You won’t be able to forget, I won’t leave you alone. I'll be there, by your side, telling you the stories, our story. So you can live it over and over again. I’m not going anywhere.”
Later, when they had climbed under the covers and Ilya had pressed his back into Shane’s chest, slotting their legs together in the familiar, comforting way, Ilya finally felt his shoulders relax. His jaw unclench. As Shane’s hands drew spirals and left tingles on his stomach, he finally drew in a breath, counted to five, then released it in a slow, strong exhale.
“"It means a lot to me, that you came here,” Shane whispered into the back of his neck. Ilya’s head twitched with the breath on his skin, before he settled again, pushing back even further into Shane.
“Really?” Ilya mumbled, keeping his voice soft, even though they didn’t really need to.
“Yes, and it meant a lot to my parents too.”
“But why?” Ilya questioned. “It's embarrassing."
Shane’s fingers immediately stilled.
"No Ilya. No its not."
"It is. I'm embarrassed. I turn up on doorstep and break down. Can't show face again. Need to sneak out before they wake up," he mumbled, face turned into his pillow.
Shane kicked his foot, and Ilya jumped.
"Coming here was brave. I'm proud of you Ilya."
He scoffed. "Was mistake."
"So you accidently got into your car and accidently remembered the route here and accidently pulled up outside the house?”
"Well no, but–"
Then Ilya was flipped around so he was staring up at Shane.
“Looking for help when you need it is one of the bravest things you can do. I’m glad that you felt safe to come here. That Mom and Dad could look after you when I couldn’t. That you didn’t just stay in the apartment and dig yourself into a hole. And they’re glad that of all the things in the world, you chose them to comfort you. They’ve been working so hard to make you feel welcome. They know we’ve had to hide so much, feel guilty for not letting us be us sooner. They want to do anything they can to make our lives better, now that they know. They love you, like I love you.”
Ilya bit his lip. Shane leaned over and pecked it, a fleeting touch.
“You’re the bravest person I know, Ilya. You’ve lost more than a heart should be able to take, but you’re still the kindest soul. You still light up every room.”
Ilya raised his eyebrow at that, knowing there are a lot of rooms, locker rooms in particular, where a different kind of emotion would come over the people if he walked in.
Shane chuckled, eyes crinkling at the sides. “You know what I mean, I can’t help but smile every time I see you. It’s very distracting.”
Ilya kissed him then, feeling an overwhelming sense of fondness, happiness, despite the day. Feeling protected, safe, and rooted. After a minute, Ilya pulled away. Shane carded his fingers through his curls as they caught their breath.
“You’re my home, Shane. Did you know that?”
Shane’s eyes widened, lips parted.
“Here in your bed, in your arms. It’s the only home I’ve ever known.”
“You’re my home too. I love you so damn much.”
This time, when Ilya whispered a few words in Russian, Shane understood. And he whispered them back.
-
The next time Ilya glided onto the ice for a home game, he knew Yuna and David were there. He tried to scan the seats without being obvious he was looking for someone. After a couple of laps he finally saw them, halfway up the VIP stands, both dressed in Ottawa sweatshirts, hands in the air. Ilya hadn’t even worried about setting aside his tickets for them. Him and Shane were publicly friends now. And no-one would think twice about it. They were just here supporting their home team, as they did before Shane was born and would continue doing as long as they lived there. But Ilya knew they were there supporting him. And it felt nice. More than nice. To know there were people in the stands cheering just for him.
He played better than he had in a long time that night. Clicking with Troy and Luca like they never had before. Knowing where to shoot without even thinking about it. Feeling the buzz in the air, the excitement rolling off his teammates. Feeling that here, on the ice, with this team, was where he belonged.
After the game he had a stream of texts from Shane, but also some in his group chat with all the Hollanders.
D: That was an incredible game, your second goal was spectacular.
Y: How lucky are we to have two such talented sons!
Y: Come for dinner soon Ilya, we miss you
-
A few weeks later, Ilya let himself into their Montreal apartment.
He heard Shane moving around somewhere and shouted a quick hello.
When he got into the kitchen he saw a book on the table. Not a normal book though, a scrap book. He hummed with curiosity, flipped it to the back, then to the front again. It was blank, no words, nothing to say what it contained.
He opened it just as Shane came sliding into the room.
“Wait,” he exclaimed, hand outstretched, but it was too late. Ilya was already reading.
December 2008 - Saskatchewan
The first time we met.
A picture of the Canada and Russia teams with their medals after the final. Shane and Ilya positioned next to each other in the middle, of course.
Ilya looked up at Shane, his mouth falling open slightly.
Shane smiled shyly, his cheeks turning the adorable shade of pink that meant he was slightly embarrassed.
“I wanted to finish it first, but I guess you can have a sneak peak.”
Ilya flipped the page.
June 2009 - LA
A beaming Ilya holding his Boston jersey with his finger held up in a 1. Shane's more subdued smile with his 2 fingers raised.
Shane had cut out the third guy, Ilya didn't even remember his name.
The day I knew I liked you.
Ilya laughed at that, tracing his fingers over the picture, then the words. They so inadequately described that night, the way they had raced each other in the gym. How Shane couldn't stop looking at his thighs, his neck, his mouth.
Each photo was paired with at least a page of Shane's handwriting. Detailing their lives together, one memory at a time. His heart poured out in the ink.
“What is this?” Ilya choked out, almost breathless. His hands felt clammy and he placed the book down, rubbing them on his sweatpants, not wanting to ruin the writing with his sweat.
“Our story.”
“Our story,” Ilya marveled, reflecting on how he always thought he couldn’t love Shane anymore than he already did, then he goes and pulls something like this.
“I thought it would help, to have it all written down. All the pictures from those early days in one place. We didn’t take many ourselves, were too scared, but you’d be surprised how many are out there online. I know you were worried about forgetting, so I wrote it all down. So you’ll always have this.”
Their love story. In black and white. A love captured in moments and Shane’s words.
“I don’t have the words to say how much this means to me Shane,” Ilya said breathlessly, crossing the room and pulling the only person he’d ever loved into his arms.
“It’s not finished yet, not even nearly,” Shane blurted out. “It’s taking a while, to find the photos and print them, and write out what I want to say on my phone before I add it to the book.”
Ilya stopped his rambling by kissing him harshly, grip tightening.
“This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me,” Ilya declared.
Shane shrugged. “I thought it would help, so I did it.”
And in that moment Ilya knew that for the rest of his life he would never have to shoulder anything alone. Would never have to feel pressed down with the weight, with the worries. Because Shane was there, by his side, helping to carry it. And when it got too much, when Ilya stumbled, Shane would carry him too.