chinesebakery



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    The first sound Ilya hears is a thin, discordant symphony of beeps and whirs. Something vibrating. 

    The next thing he hears is…wet. A sort of shaking, gargling sound, that feels like the ugliest crying he’s ever heard. And through it, Shane’s voice. 

    “I’m with him now, mom. He’s— he’s not fine. He’s not. I know—”

    Ilya wants to ask who's not fine, but he can’t feel his own body, his mouth, enough to ask.

    “Yeah,” Shane is saying, only slightly calmer. “I know. He wasn’t breathing—"

    Ilya knows there's a link, between the clinical musicality of medical settings, Shane’s audible, awful distress, and his own physical incapacity. It’s just, it’s so tenuous, and the air around him is so thick, so heavy. It would be easy, to sleep, a little. 

    -
    Footage of the last game between Ottawa and Montreal is everywhere; it’s breached containment from the sports world, and now it seems like everyone is baying for Montreal’s blood. Except, Ilya is oblivious. Not exactly blissfully so, but as the fight for accountability within the league rages on without him, Ilya just wants someone, anyone, to tell him what happened.

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    14 Jul 2026

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    “Hey,” Hollander says softly, settling a hand on Ilya’s back.

    Ilya turns away and fixes his gaze on a spot of chipped paint on the wall, trying to will the moisture trailing down his cheeks back into his tear ducts. “Sorry,” he whispers, shaking his head.

    He can’t actually remember the last time he felt so utterly mortified. This is not at all what he’d envisioned happening when Hollander asked for his room number. He’d guessed that a conversation was on the horizon; Ilya had just imagined it happening after he reminded Hollander exactly what he’d been missing while he was off being Rose Landry’s boyfriend. But no, Hollander always wants to clear the air, always needs to fucking talk, even though Ilya never has the right words for him.

    “Hey,” Hollander says again, somehow even more tenderly.

    The bed shifts, and suddenly Hollander is crawling into Ilya’s lap and cradling Ilya’s face in his hands and kissing him.

    (or, filling in the blanks between Ilya crying in Shane's arms and the bed being absolutely wrecked in the last shot of that scene)

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    13 Jul 2026

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    Luca hadn’t been sure he would go through with the plan. He’d talked himself into it and out of it about fifty times.

    But he's made it this far. He's sitting with Shane Hollander, just the two of them. Now all he needs to do it open his mouth and—

    “Look,” Shane is saying, “if you wanted to talk through coming out, I th—”

    “I can’t figure out anal sex,” Luca blurts.

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    10 Jun 2026

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    He should just forget about Rozanov. Forget about Rozanov coming all over his own stomach as Shane watched, transfixed; forget about Rozanov’s hand curving possessively around Shane’s jaw to pull him in for a kiss. Forget about the dizzying, red-hot bolt of shame and anticipation and fear and arousal that had shot through him when Rozanov stroked two fingers down between his ass cheeks and pressed there—a question, an offer. A promise.

    (In which Shane responds to Ilya’s texts between 2011 and 2013.)
     



    “Stop saying dick pic,” Shane hissed. “This is harassment.” He glared at the bulge in his pants. “You are harassing me.”

    “I do not know what this word means.”

    “How fucking convenient for you.”

    “Aw, Hollander,” Rozanov said, but he sounded a little contrite. After a beat, he asked, “Do you want me to stop?”

    “Don’t you dare stop,” Shane said through clenched teeth, surreptitiously palming himself to take the edge off. It didn’t help.

    “So do you want my dick or not?” Rozanov asked after another beat.

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    29 May 2026

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    Barstool Sports Canada reports that Montreal Metros captain Shane Hollander has started learning Russian from new teammate and Russian rookie Sergei Dovonchezky.

    Ilya has some thoughts. None of them are particularly kind.

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    28 May 2026