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The bar is louder than Ilya wants it to be.
It’s one of those narrow places too close to the arena that smells like spilled beer and sweat. Flatscreen TVs mounted too high on the walls replayed highlights from the game Ilya just completely tanked. Half the people in the room are wearing Montreal jerseys, their excitement barely contained now that half the Metros roster has wandered in. Voices overlap in a sloppy, jangling chorus that hummed through the room.
Ilya sits quietly at the corner of the bar with a half-finished drink sweating against a paper coaster. His shoulders are slumped as he lets himself sulk while he still has permission to. Tomorrow he will be disciplined about it. Tomorrow he will skate it right out of his system. But tonight, he lets the loss sit heavy in his chest.
Across the room, Shane laughs.
It is an unguarded sound, easy and carefree in a way Ilya almost never gets to see in public. When he glances in Shane’s direction, he sees him leaned in toward a cluster of teammates, elbow hooked casually on the bar, hair still damp from the locker room. Someone says something and Shane tips his head back slightly, smiling without thinking.
Ilya watches him longingly, like a bad habit.
Before he’d even arrived to Montreal, they had agreed not to meet up tonight. Shane had an early flight to San Francisco in the morning, and it made more sense to keep the night quiet instead of dragging it late and paying for it at five a.m.
Ilya had begrudgingly agreed, and almost instantly regretted doing so. Now, all he gets is this— the long distance version of wanting. The stolen glances across sticky floors and crowded bodies. The ache of seeing Shane close enough to touch and knowing he can’t cross the room.
A year ago, Ilya would have found someone else in the noise and low light and taken them back to his hotel room. Distraction had always been available if he wanted it.
Now the idea doesn’t even register.
Now all he can think about is soft brown eyes and the scatter of beautiful freckles across Shane’s nose, the familiar tilt of his mouth when he’s halfway to laughing, the way his hands move when he talks. Small, stupid details that shouldn’t matter and somehow matter more than anything else.
So, Ilya stays where he is and stares like a creep instead.
Shane shifts his weight, turning slightly, and for half a second their eyes almost meet. Ilya looks away first, a reflex he hasn’t quite trained out of himself yet. He pretends to be invested in the condensation ring on the bar, leaking out from the paper coaster.
When he looks back, Shane is laughing while Hayden tells a joke. A hilarious one, apparently, judging by the way Shane throws his head back, mouth open and unguarded.
Something small and sharp twists in Ilya’s chest.
He watches the curve of Shane’s smile, the easy looseness in his shoulders, and wonders, irrationally, unfairly, if Shane has ever laughed like that at one of his jokes. Or does that same bright, careless sound belong to other people more easily than it belongs to him?
Even the thought makes him immediately annoyed with himself.
God, Ilya hates this.
He isn’t even sure why he came out tonight. He could have gone straight back to the hotel after the game, ordered room service, and let the loss settle in his bones. He could have spared himself the sight of Shane across the room.
This distant version of Shane, laughing with Hayden, shoulders relaxed, needles at something small and resentful in Ilya, something that wants to hoard that version of Shane for himself. It makes the loss sting sharper, the noise feel louder, the beer taste flatter.
Still, he supposed it was better than the empty alternative.
Because the reality was, if he went back to his quiet hotel room, all he’d do is imagine what Shane might be doing instead. Then, he’d let his mind fill in the blanks with nothing but absence.
At least here, Ilya can see him breathe. He can see the way his hands move when he talks. See the familiar tilt of his mouth when he’s halfway between laughing and rolling his eyes.
Even if it’s from sulking across the room like some kind of self-inflicted punishment.
Ilya drags his thumb through the damp ring on the bar, smearing it into nothing, then finally lifts his eyes again.
Shane is still smiling.
And it still hurts.
But Ilya keeps looking anyway.
The crowd around Shane slowly shifts, bodies trading places as people drift toward the bar or peel away toward the door. A couple of guys Ilya vaguely recognizes as Montreal players slide out of the knot of conversation, replaced by someone he doesn’t.
The guy is already unsteady on his feet, weight swaying slightly to one side as he leans into the open space. He says something loudly, his mouth moving faster than his balance can keep up with.
Ilya’s attention sharpens attentively.
Shane gives the polite version of a smile. It’s tight and brief, the kind meant to acknowledge without inviting more attention. He shifts his stance, angling his body away, shoulders turning back toward Hayden as if to close the door on the interaction.
Good choice, Ilya thinks. Shane has always been the level-headed one.
But the drunk guy keeps talking and wildly gesturing, one hand nearly clips Hayden’s shoulder. He leans in again, says something else, louder this time, and Hayden’s expression flickers— amusement fading into something closer to anger.
Ilya sits up a fraction, the lazy slump of his posture gone.
Shane glances back over despite himself, attention pulled by the change in Hayden’s face, and that’s when the drunk guy shifts his focus fully onto Shane again.
Shane says something Ilya can’t hear. It looks calm but firm, one hand lifting slightly in a placating gesture, the other angling toward Hayden’s elbow like he’s trying to steer him out of the line of fire. Shane’s body turns half sideways, putting himself between them without making a show of it.
For a second, it almost works.
The drunk guy squints at Shane, sways a little, then laughs— a short, ugly bark of a sound. He leans in again, says something else, louder than before. Hayden’s shoulders tense. His jaw sets.
Ilya’s fingers curl against the edge of the bar.
The guy’s arm slices the air between them. Spit flies when he talks now, flecking Shane’s sleeve, catching the light for a split second before disappearing. Hayden says something sharp back.
Shane immediately shifts, one hand coming up like a barrier, shaking his head slightly at Hayden. Not worth it, the movement says, even from across the room.
The drunk guy doesn’t take the cue. His face twists, anger flaring fast and sloppy. He steps closer into Shane’s space, chest almost brushing him, words spilling out in a heated rush Ilya still can’t make out over the noise of the bar.
Shane says something again. His hand presses lightly against the guy’s forearm, an attempt to create space.
That’s when it happens. The drunk guy’s arm snaps forward in a sudden, uncoordinated arc. There’s no warning or wind up. Instead, there's just a blur of motion and the dull, sickening thud of impact as his fist connects square with Shane’s face.
Shane’s head jerks back with the force of it, his balance faltering for half a step as the crowd around them erupts in startled shouts. Hayden lunges forward instinctively, hands coming up.
Ilya is already moving.
The bar blurs into color and motion as he cuts through the space between tables, shoulders clipping past startled bodies, adrenaline burning hot and clean in his veins. For half a second, his attention locks on the drunk guy again, cataloging angles, distance, and momentum.
But by the time he reaches the edge of the scuffle, two Metros players already have the guy pinned, one gripping the back of his jacket, the other locking down his arms as he shouts something incoherent and furious into the noise of the room. A third teammate is yelling for security. The threat is contained.
Good.
Ilya’s focus snaps immediately past them.
Shane is a few feet away, braced slightly against the bar, one hand cradling his face. Blood is already seeping between his fingers, dark and bright at the same time, dripping down onto the counter in uneven drops.
Ilya’s chest tightens hard and fast. He closes the last stretch of distance in two strides.
“Shane,” he says sharply, already reaching for him.
Up close, the smell of iron hits him first. Shane’s eyes are wide, stunned, pupils blown a little too large. His breathing is shallow, uneven, like his body hasn’t caught up with what just happened yet.
“I’m—” Shane manages, voice thick. “I’m okay. I think.”
His gaze skids past Ilya’s face instead of settling on it, unfocused and glassy, like he’s still trying to orient himself in the noise and motion of the room. Someone brushes past behind them. A voice shouts near the door.
Shane swallows hard, blinking like he’s trying to clear water from his eyes.
Ilya doesn’t wait for him to catch up.
He lifts both hands and cups Shane’s face carefully, thumbs hovering just shy of the blood, palms warm and steady against his jaw. The contact is instinctive— meant to anchor and protect.
But instead, Shane startles.
His hands fly up on reflex, knocking Ilya’s wrists away harshly.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Shane snaps, voice pitched tight with adrenaline. “Rozanov— don’t—”
His eyes finally focus. Recognition hits a beat too late.
“People will see,” Shane adds automatically, glancing past Ilya’s shoulder toward the cluster of teammates and the gathering crowd. His hand comes back up to his face protectively, fingers already slick with blood again. “You can’t just—”
The sentence trails off, unfinished, but the message has already landed.
Ilya freezes where his hands were knocked away, fingers curling back toward his own palms like he’s been burned. The rush of urgency drains out of him too fast, leaving a hollow, unsteady space in his chest.
He hadn’t been thinking about who might be watching.
He had only been thinking about Shane.
“I—” Ilya starts, then stops. His jaw tightens. He steps back half a pace without meaning to, giving Shane space. “You are bleeding.”
Shane’s shoulders are still tense, breath still uneven, his body caught halfway between fight and flight.
“I’m fine,” he says too quickly. “Really. Just—just get out of here, Rozanov.”
Ilya blinks. “What?”
Shane flicks a glance past him again, toward the cluster of players, the small crowd still buzzing with adrenaline and curiosity. His voice drops, urgent and strained. “People can see us. You shouldn’t be here.”
Ilya’s jaw tightens. I don’t care, he almost says.
But then he feels the weight of the room— the eyes, the phones already half-raised, the people hovering close enough to notice. The familiar pressure settles into his chest, quiet and unavoidable. He does care. They both do. They always have.
The adrenaline drains out of him as quickly as it came.
Shane watches the shift happen, guilt flickering across his face too late to undo the damage.
“Ilya—” he starts.
But Ilya’s already stepping back.
“I’m sorry,” Ilya says. “You are fine. I will go.”
He holds Shane’s eyes for half a second longer than necessary, something unspoken passing between them. Then, he turns and threads himself back into the crowd. The noise of the bar swallows him almost immediately.
By the time Ilya shoulders through the door and out into the Montreal night, the cold hits him like a slap.
It sinks straight through his jacket, biting at the sweat still cooling on his skin, the sharp air burning the inside of his lungs when he drags in a breath too fast. His hands curl reflexively into fists in his pockets, knuckles aching almost instantly.
He exhales hard, a white cloud blooming and disappearing in front of his face, and starts walking without any real direction, boots crunching against salted pavement.
Idiot.
The word loops in his head. What did he think he was doing? Grabbing Shane’s face in the middle of a crowded bar like they were alone in the bedroom somewhere, like there weren’t a hundred eyes and phones and teammates and strangers around them. Like consequences don’t exist. Like he’s the only one impacted by his actions.
His jaw tightens, heat flaring behind his eyes despite the cold.
Why can he never just think before acting? Why does instinct always beat out common sense? Why does every good thing in his life feel like something he has to handle with gloves on or else he will break it with his bare hands?
He kicks at a patch of dirty snow near the curb, sending a spray of gray slush against the sidewalk.
Nice job, he thinks bitterly. Hollander gets punched in the face and you do the one thing that will make it worse.
He can still feel the echo of Shane’s wrists knocking his hands away, the quick flash of alarm in his eyes before recognition caught up.
People saw.
Of course they did.
Ilya scrubs a hand over his face, breath fogging thick in the cold.
He slows near the corner, the city humming around him, headlights streaking past in wet lines of light. His chest feels tight and stupid and heavy all at once.
He presses his tongue against the back of his teeth, grounding himself the way he taught himself to when the spiral gets loud.
The cold keeps peeling layers off him, and underneath the embarrassment is that familiar voice that never learned how to be kind.
What the fuck is the matter with you?
He can almost hear it— the tone that lived in his childhood home like stale air. The way raised voices meant trouble. The way you learned early how to make yourself smaller so you didn’t become the problem everyone had to deal with. Ilya was never good at not being the problem.
His jaw tightens.
God, what would his father say?
"Ne govori nichego, Il'ya." (Do not speak, Ilya.)
"Ne trogay chuzhiye veshchi v obshchestvennykh mestakh, Il'ya." (Do not touch what is not yours in public, Ilya.)
"Ne uslozhnyay i bez togo neprostuyu situatsiyu, Il'ya." (Do not make things harder than they already are, Ilya.)
And tonight he had done the opposite of all of it.
No wonder Shane had shoved him away.
The thought lands mean and immediate, even though he knows it isn’t fair. Even though he knows Shane was bleeding and startled and running on adrenaline. His brain doesn’t care about fairness when it’s hunting for proof.
See? the old voice says. You still do not know how to behave. You are the problem.
He crosses the street without really registering the light. His hands ache with cold now, fingers stiff inside his pockets.
He thinks of his father’s rigid rules. The way affection had always come with conditions, timing, and risk. The way mistakes were catalogued and remembered longer than apologies.
He had learned young that love was something you handled carefully, or else it disappeared. He had already lost his mother. He had lost his father. He had lost his brother. Ilya was not convinced he would survive losing Shane. And yet, he still could not manage to be more careful.
Eventually, his hotel comes into view at the end of the block, all glass and yellow light and revolving doors. The sight of it pulls a thin thread of relief through Ilya’s chest.
He swipes his key card at the side entrance and slips inside, the warmth hitting his face like a wave. He rides the elevator up in silence, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw still locked. His reflection in the mirrored wall looks slightly wrong— eyes too hollow, face flushed from the cold and the adrenaline.
When he reaches his floor, the hallway feels endless and narrow, carpet swallowing the sound of his footsteps. He unlocks the door, steps inside, and closes it behind him with more force than necessary.
The click of the latch echoes too loud in the quiet room.
For a second, he just stands there.
Then the tremor hits. It starts in his hands— a fine, uncontrollable shaking that creeps up his forearms and into his shoulders. He drops his coat onto the chair and braces one hand against the door, breathing shallow and fast like his body has decided the danger still hasn’t passed.
“Stop,” he mutters to himself under his breath. “You are fine.”
He pushes away from the door and moves further into the room, pacing once, twice, the carpet soft under his boots. He drags a hand through his hair, and exhales hard.
It wasn’t that bad, he tells himself. It was chaotic, yes, but bars always are. People were yelling, players everywhere, security jumping in. Maybe no one even clocked who was there, who touched who, who said what. Maybe it will blur together into just another drunk fight by morning.
His phone is heavy in his pocket, an irritant he can’t ignore anymore. He hesitates for half a second— the smallest instinct to protect himself— and then pulls it out anyway.
The screen lights up. The first thing in his feed is a video.
A shaky, vertical clip, framed badly, the bar lights blown out and the sound distorted by shouting and music. The caption is already halfway cut off, something like: Fight breaks out after—
He doesn’t have to hit play to know.
Shane is there, clear as day, half-turned, saying something with his hands up. The drunk guy lunges into frame. The punch lands fast and ugly, Shane’s head snapping back, the crowd surging in with a collective shout.
The clip loops.
Again.
And again.
The view count ticks upward in the corner of the screen. Thousands already.
Ilya’s stomach drops hard, like he’s missed a step on the stairs. He sinks down onto the edge of the bed without realizing he’s moved, elbows braced on his knees, phone still glowing in his hand like a small, terrible spotlight.
He can’t look at it anymore.
Ilya flings the phone onto the other side of the bed, where it lands facedown in the rumpled duvet with a dull thud.
He drags both hands up into his hair and grips hard, fingers digging into his scalp like he’s trying to anchor himself inside his own head. His elbows press into his thighs, shoulders hunched, breath coming shallow and uneven.
“Fuck,” he mutters into the empty room.
His fingers tighten in his hair until it almost hurts.
Somewhere on the bed, his phone vibrates faintly against the mattress.
He ignores it.
…
Shane locks himself into the bathroom and braces both hands on the sink.
The fluorescent light is unforgiving, flattening everything into sharp edges and pale color. His reflection looks slightly unreal— skin already flushed and blotchy, adrenaline still humming under the surface like a live wire.
He leans closer to the mirror and winces. The swelling has already started to bloom across the bridge of his nose, a deepening shadow spreading outward toward his eyes. The skin there is tender and tight, the beginnings of a bruise mapping itself out in ugly purples and reds. A thin line of dried blood traces down one side of his nostril, dark against his skin.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
He turns on the tap and cups cold water into his hands, splashing it carefully over his face. The chill bites immediately, sharp enough to make his breath hitch. He presses a damp paper towel against his nose and holds it there, leaning forward until the ache settles into something dull and manageable.
The bleeding slows. Then stops.
He exhales slowly, shoulders dropping a fraction as the immediate crisis passes.
Only then does the rest of it catch up.
The shove.
The look on Ilya’s face.
Shane squeezes his eyes shut briefly, pressing the paper towel harder than necessary against his skin.
God, he’d been such an asshole.
He hadn’t even really seen Ilya at first— just hands in his space, adrenaline spiking, his brain still stuck in the moment of impact. But the second recognition hit, the damage had already been done. The instinctive flinch. The reflex to create distance instead of safety. All because he’d been afraid people would see them together.
He drags a hand down his face carefully, avoiding the sore spots.
Ilya had crossed a crowded bar for him. Had gone straight to him without hesitation. Had touched him like he mattered more than anything else in the room, more than the risk.
And Shane had shoved him away.
His stomach twists agonizingly.
He stares at his reflection again, jaw tightening, the guilt settling heavier than the ache in his face.
“Fuck,” he mutters again under his breath.
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone, thumb hovering over the screen for half a second before unlocking it. Lily’s name sits there immediately, recent, familiar, like a quiet accusation.
Shane doesn’t overthink it. If he does, he’ll talk himself out of sending anything at all.
Jane: I’m so sorry.
The message looks small and insufficient the second it sends.
He watches the little delivered checkmark appear, his chest tight, waiting for the three dots that don’t come.
A beat passes. Then another.
His thumb moves again, more restless this time.
Jane: Where are you?
He sends that one too, then sets the phone face-down on the edge of the sink like it might burn him if he keeps looking at it.
The bathroom hums quietly around him— the vent fan, distant voices from the bar bleeding through the walls, the faint drip of the faucet he forgot to turn all the way off.
Shane presses his palms into the cool porcelain and exhales, slow and controlled, trying to steady the thrum of regret in his chest.
He flips the phone back over a few seconds later despite himself, screen lighting up too bright against the dim bathroom.
No response.
His jaw tightens.
Then it clicks— obvious. Ilya had told him the hotel before they’d decided against meeting. He’d texted the name and room.
Shane scrolls back through their messages until he finds it.
A rush of relief hits first, followed almost immediately by a spike of urgency.
He types fast this time, thumbs clumsy with the leftover adrenaline.
Jane: Are you at the hotel? Can I come over?
He hits send and stares at the screen, waiting.
He types again before he can talk himself out of it.
Jane: I’m coming over.
…
Ilya is sitting on the edge of the mattress with his elbows braced on his knees, hands still tangled in his hair, staring at the same patch of carpet like it might eventually give him an answer.
The world has narrowed to a small, rigid loop of breath and thought and quiet.
His brain keeps circling the same useless questions, over and over, like a stuck needle on a record. What did he expect? What did he think was going to happen? How does he still not know how to handle himself after all this time?
He is exhausting himself, he knows it. He’s making problems where there are already enough. Turning one bad moment into a referendum on his entire ability to be normal, to be steady, to not ruin things the second they start to feel safe.
The spiral is familiar. Predictable. Almost boring in its cruelty.
And yet, he still can’t quite stop it.
He stays folded forward, staring at the carpet until the pattern starts to blur slightly at the edges, breath shallow and automatic. Time stretches thin and strange, like it’s lost its usual shape.
Then, three knocks landed hard in the room.
Ilya jerks upright, heart kicking painfully against his ribs, the sound cutting clean through the fog in his head like a blade. His hands fall from his hair to his thighs, fingers curling reflexively, breath catching in his throat.
For a split second, he doesn’t know where he is.
Hotel. Montreal. Loss. Bar. Shane.
The room swims back into place around him in pieces— the heavy curtains, the bedside lamp still off, the faint glow of city light leaking around the edges of the window.
Another knock follows, firmer this time.
Ilya’s pulse hammers, a spike of sharp, irrational alarm flashing through him before his brain catches up. He drags in a breath, slow and shaky, and pushes himself to his feet.
His legs feel stiff, like he’s been sitting too long inside his own head.
He hesitates for half a second, then crosses the room and reaches for the door, hand hovering over the handle before finally closing around it. He exhales once, steadying himself, because he already knew who was standing on the other side of the door.
He opens it.
Shane stands in the hall, the light spilling across his face in a way that makes everything impossible to miss.
The bruise has already darkened across the bridge of his nose, bleeding outward toward the soft skin beneath his eyes in ugly, uneven shadows. The swelling distorts the familiar lines of his face just enough to make Ilya’s stomach lurch. There’s still a faint smear of dried blood near one nostril, the skin around it raw and irritated.
It’s the first thing Ilya sees.
It knocks the rest of the world briefly out of focus.
Shane steps inside quickly, glancing once over his shoulder into the hallway before reaching back to pull the door shut behind him. The lock clicks softly into place, a reflexive movement, private and practiced.
The room goes quiet again.
Ilya is still standing in the doorway space, fingers curled loosely at his sides, his brain lagging half a step behind the sight in front of him. His mouth opens once, then closes again. No sound comes out.
A familiar, unwelcome instinct kicks in.
He braces for impact, like he already knew what the next second was going to bring. Like maybe he can soften the blow if he expects it.
This is the part where Shane looks at him with that careful distance in his eyes. This is the part where he says they can’t keep doing this.
Ilya feels it lining itself up in his chest, a quiet, sick certainty.
Of course this was always going to happen, the old voice whispers.
He swallows, throat tight, already preparing himself for the sentence he doesn’t want to hear.
It’s too complicated.
We can’t keep risking this.
You crossed a line.
You ruined this. Just like you ruined everything else.
He keeps his eyes on Shane’s face anyway, even though every part of him wants to look away first this time.
His shoulders draw in a fraction without him meaning to. His hands curl tighter at his sides, nails biting faintly into his palms.
Shane finally exhales.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
The words are soft. They hit Ilya like a closing door.
Something inside him gives way immediately, a dull, heavy collapse he feels more than hears. Of course. Apologies always come first. The gentle ones. The ones meant to make the ending easier to swallow.
He doesn’t let himself hesitate.
“Is okay,” Ilya says quickly, the words coming out steadier than he feels. “I understand.”
Ilya keeps his gaze fixed somewhere near Shane’s shoulder instead of his eyes. “We both knew this was… complicated,” he continues, forcing the sentence into shape even as his chest tightens. “A very bad idea. It was always going to end like this.”
He shrugs slightly, a careless gesture that doesn’t quite land.
Shane frowns.
“Ilya…” he says. “What are you talking about?”
The confusion in his voice is immediate and genuine, cutting clean through the shape Ilya has already started building in his head.
Ilya blinks, thrown.
“You said you are sorry,” he says cautiously, like he’s checking his footing on unstable ground. “I say, it is okay. I understand ending this, I agree with you.”
“Ilya,” Shane says slowly. “I said I was sorry because I shoved you. And because I said what I said. Because I was a jerk.”
He takes a step closer, brow furrowed now. “I wasn’t here to end things with you— But, is that… I mean, is that what you want?”
The question hangs between them, fragile and exposed.
Ilya’s first instinct is to answer too fast, to smooth it over the way he always does when things start to feel sharp. But the word sticks in his throat. His pulse ticks loud in his ears, the room suddenly too quiet to hide in.
“No,” he says finally, quieter than before. "That is not what I want.”
The admission lands heavy in his chest, vulnerable in a way he hates. He can feel how unguarded it leaves him, how much ground he’s just given up by saying it plainly instead of hiding behind humor or deflection.
“I just thought,” he adds carefully, voice steadier than he feels, “maybe you would. After… what I did. I was… stupid. I’m sorry I did not think.”
He keeps his gaze level even as his pulse hammers, hating how exposed the moment makes him feel, hating how much of the outcome suddenly sits in someone else’s hands.
Shane closes the remaining distance between them, slow enough that Ilya has time to pull back if he wants to. His hand comes up carefully to Ilya’s arm— fingers curling lightly around the fabric of his sleeve.
The contact sends a small, involuntary jolt through Ilya’s chest.
“You weren’t stupid,” Shane says quietly. “You were worried about me.”
His thumb shifts once, an absent, grounding pressure against Ilya’s arm, like he’s anchoring him in place rather than trying to pull him closer.
“It was sweet, actually. But I—I panicked. It scared me for a second, that’s all.”
Ilya swallows, shoulders easing a fraction despite himself. The knot in his chest loosens, just slightly, with the reassurance of the touch. “You scared me, too,” Ilya adds, nodding towards Shane’s bruised face. “All that blood… Are you okay?”
Shane exhales, a small, rueful huff of breath. “Yeah. I mean— it hurts. But I’m okay.”
Ilya’s mouth twitches despite himself, the corner lifting. “You look kind of hot. Like tough guy, or something.”
Shane snorts despite himself. “Yeah? Great. Maybe I should start getting punched more often.”
The joke hangs there for half a beat. This ground felt easy and familiar to Ilya.
But then Shane really looks at him. His expression shifts, the lightness draining out of it.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
Ilya’s gaze flickers back to him, still guarded. “What?”
“Are you okay?”
Ilya hesitates, the practiced instinct to brush it off rising fast. Instead, he nods once. “I will be. I just—” He gestures vaguely toward his own chest. “I did not like seeing you hurt.”
The words land honest but incomplete, a neat box wrapped around something messier underneath.
Shane studies him for a beat longer than comfortable.
“I think it’s more than that,” he says quietly.
Ilya’s shoulders stiffen a fraction, the instinctive armor coming back online. “It is not.”
Shane tilts his head slightly, still watching him, still patient in a way that makes it harder for Ilya to hide.
“You look like you’ve been waiting for something bad to happen since I walked in,” Shane says.
Ilya’s jaw tightens. His gaze drifts away despite himself, landing on the edge of the dresser, the shadow line where the lamp light fades.
“I am fine,” he says, a little too quickly.
Shane shifts his weight closer without fully stepping into Ilya’s space. “I’m really sorry I snapped at you,” he adds. “And pushed you away. That wasn’t fair. But why did you assume that meant I wanted to break up with you?”
Ilya meets his eyes this time, studying the sincerity there, the familiar steadiness under the bruising. He takes a long inhale through his nose before shifting his gaze to the spot just beyond Shane’s shoulder, focusing on a spot of discoloration against the beige wall.
“Because, Hollander,” Ilya eventually says. “That is what happens to me.”
The words settle between them heavily, the air slowly dissolving from the room.
Shane’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
Ilya’s jaw tightens. He keeps his eyes trained on the wall, like if he looks directly at Shane, whatever fragile control he has left will crumble.
“I mean exactly what I said,” he says slowly.
“That’s not true—” Shane starts.
Ilya cuts a glance back at him, sharp enough to stop the sentence in its tracks.
“It is,” Ilya says, voice still measured, still contained, but vibrating with something close to strain. “It is true. Eventually I become… inconvenient.”
Shane opens his mouth again, then hesitates, clearly trying to find the right way in.
“You’re not inconvenient,” Shane says carefully. “That’s— history. That’s before. That’s—”
“That is me,” Ilya interrupts, sharper now. His shoulders lift, tight. “I am the, how do you say… common denominator?”
The phrase lands awkwardly in his mouth, the syllables heavy and wrong, his accent catching on the edges of it. He hates the way it sounds when he says it. Hates that even now, when he’s already laid open, his tongue still betrays him, reminding him that there is always something slightly off, slightly misplaced about the way he exists in a room.
In case he’s fumbled and used the wrong word, he clarifies quickly. “I am the one thing that stays the same,” he says, frustration creeping in around the words. “So yes. It is me.”
The admission feels clumsy and too exposed all at once, like he can’t quite get his footing back.
Shane takes another small step closer, concern deepening. “Ilya— I’m… I’m not sure I know what you mean. Just talk to me… please.”
His tone is gentle, but it lands like pressure right in the middle of Ilya’s chest, causing something to finally give.
“Fine, Hollander, I will tell you!” he snaps, heat flashing up into his voice. “I fuck things up, and people get tired of me! They leave me because I am fuck up! Is that what you want to hear from me? Are you happy now?”
The words come out too fast, too raw, edged with years of frustration he hadn’t meant to open tonight.
He finally looks directly at Shane now, the challenge and the hurt tangled together in his expression.
“So yes,” he says, bitter and exposed. “When you say you are sorry, my brain assumes you are leaving. Because that is the pattern.”
The room feels suddenly too small to contain it.
“And is… okay,” Ilya adds too quickly, already pulling a layer of defensiveness back into place like armor. “Is okay because I fucked up. I did not think.”
The retreat is obvious in his posture, his shoulders tighten, along with his jaw. Shane’s suddenly at arm’s length again. The distance feels safer.
Shane hesitates for half a beat, reading it.
Ilya stands there too, breathing hard, the words already echoing in his own ears, wondering if he has just proven his own point.
Then, Shane takes a small step forward.
Ilya shifts back without thinking, weight rocking onto his heels. His pulse kicks harder, the old reflex flaring.
They hold there for a second, the air tight between them.
Then Shane steps forward once more, slower this time, careful.
Ilya’s shoulders tense, but he doesn’t move away fast enough to keep the space intact. There’s nowhere left to retreat without making it obvious.
His breath goes shallow.
Shane’s voice drops, quiet enough that it feels like something meant only for the space between them.
“There’s no where to run. You don’t have to run…” Shane says softly.
Something in Ilya gives almost instantly.
His shoulders cave inward slightly, the tight line of his posture folding like a structure that’s collapsing under it’s own weight. The fight drains out of him in a rush he doesn’t quite control.
Before he can rebuild the distance again, Shane closes the last inch of space.
One hand comes up to the back of Ilya’s neck, warm and steady, fingers settling into the familiar curve there. The touch is firm enough to anchor, gentle enough not to startle. Shane draws him in firmly, leaving no room for Ilya to pull away.
Ilya’s forehead bumps lightly against Shane’s shoulder as the space disappears.
His breath stutters once— a small, involuntary sound— and then his body gives in to the contact, weight tipping forward into Shane’s chest. His hands hover awkwardly for half a second before settling against Shane’s back, gripping fabric like his life depended on it.
Shane’s other arm wraps around him, solid and enclosing, holding Ilya there like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
For a split second, Ilya just stays there, pressed into Shane’s chest, breath trapped high and shallow like his lungs can’t quite remember how to accept relief.
He tries to draw in a real breath.
Instead, it catches— a sharp, involuntary gasp tearing out of him as his chest spasms around the inhale.
The sound breaks whatever fragile control he still had left.
His grip tightens suddenly, fingers fisting in Shane’s shirt, and the breath that follows shatters into something ragged and uncontained. The composure drains out of him all at once, leaving him shaking and breathless against Shane’s shoulder as the sob finally breaks free.
“Fuck—” His voice cracks immediately. He swallows hard and tries again, failing. “Oh god, Shane—”
The words tangle together, unfinished and useless, the rest of the sentence lost to the sudden surge of emotion he’d been holding back too long. His grip tightens in Shane’s shirt, knuckles pressing hard into the fabric.
And then he’s crying. The kind of cry that shakes loose from somewhere deep in his chest and leaves him breathing in broken pulls of air, forehead pressed hard against Shane’s shoulder like it’s the only solid thing left in the room.
Shane tightens his hold without hesitation, arms closing more firmly around him, anchoring him there. One hand stays steady at Ilya’s upper back, keeping him upright, while the other slides up to the base of Ilya’s neck, fingers threading gently through the curls there.
“It’s okay,” Shane says, voice low and steady. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
Ilya’s shoulders shake harder for a moment, a broken sound tearing out of him as he clings tighter, like he’s afraid if he loosens even a fraction the floor will disappear again.
Shane stays exactly where he is.
He keeps his arm firm around Ilya’s back, hand warm and steady at the base of his neck, brushing slow, repetitive passes through the curls there. He doesn’t rush him. He doesn’t try to shape the moment into anything cleaner than it is. He just breathes with him, steady and patient, letting Ilya borrow the rhythm until his own starts to catch up.
Gradually, the sobs lose their sharp edge.
The sounds soften into uneven inhales. Ilya’s grip on Shane’s shirt loosens in small increments, fingers uncurling one by one as the urgency drains out of his body.
After a beat, he pulls one hand free and swipes clumsily at his eyes and nose with the back of his sleeve, sniffing hard, embarrassed by the mess of it.
“I—I’m sorry,” he mutters thickly, not quite lifting his head.
Shane shifts back just enough to see his face, keeping one hand steady at his back so the contact doesn’t disappear all at once. With his free hand, he reaches up and gently wipes the lingering tear tracks from Ilya’s cheek with his thumb.
“You don’t have to apologize.”
Ilya sniffs again and drags the heel of his hand across his other eye, smearing whatever Shane didn’t quite catch.
“You know…” Ilya says quietly. “Russian’s are not known for being so emotional.”
The words come out flat and observational— like he’s stating a mildly disappointing statistic about himself.
He exhales through his nose, a short, uneven breath. “This is very bad advertisement for my people.”
It’s a deflection, thin but deliberate. An attempt to tuck the mess back into something smaller and manageable.
Shane’s mouth curves into a small, quiet smile.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t tell anyone.”
His thumb makes a slow, absent pass at Ilya’s back, grounding.
Ilya huffs a weak breath through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself, and lets his forehead rest briefly against Shane’s shoulder again. The deflection takes just enough of the edge off to let the room feel breathable.
Shane shifts his weight and gently guides them backward toward the bed, one hand steady at Ilya’s back. They sit against the headboard in an awkward tangle at first before Ilya settles, curling in close without thinking, shoulder tucked into Shane’s chest, knees drawn in slightly like he’s trying to make himself smaller.
Shane adjusts instinctively, one arm wrapping fully around him, holding him close and solid, his chin brushing lightly against Ilya’s hair.
The quiet stretches.
“I do not know what is wrong with me,” Ilya murmurs finally, voice low and almost lost against Shane’s shirt.
Shane tightens his hold just a fraction. “Ilya, nothing’s wrong with you,” he says quietly. “And fuck anyone who’s ever made you feel like there was.”
Ilya exhales slowly, the tension easing a notch as he lets the words settle. His weight sinks more fully into Shane’s side, his shoulder pressing closer, his breathing starting to even out.
Shane’s hand moves in slow, steady passes at his back, grounding, unhurried.
“I don’t want to keep hiding,” Shane adds after a moment. His voice is low, thoughtful, like he’s admitting something to himself as much as to Ilya. “Not with you. I don’t want to keep pretending you’re not the first person I want to see after my face gets caved in at the bar. Or after a game. Or… in any situation, really.”
Something tight and bright swells unexpectedly in Ilya’s chest, sharp enough to make his breath catch again. He turns his face into Shane’s shirt, hiding it instinctively as the feeling spills over, tears slipping free again, despite himself.
Shane’s arm tightens around him, protective and steady, his chin resting lightly against the crown of Ilya’s head.
Ilya doesn’t trust his voice enough to answer.
Eventually though, his grip loosens slowly, fingers relaxing their hold as the urgency drains out of his body. He shifts until he’s more comfortably tucked against Shane’s side, cheek pressed into the warmth of his chest, breathing finally evening out into something close to normal.
After a beat, Ilya exhales a soft, tired sound that’s almost a laugh.
“You know,” he murmurs into the fabric of Shane’s shirt, voice muffled, “this is not how I planned to spend my one evening in Montreal.”
Shane huffs quietly above him. “Yeah? Had other exciting plans?”
“Many,” Ilya deadpans. “Very glamorous. Crying was not on the list.”
Shane’s chest shifts with a small, restrained laugh, his arm tightening just slightly around Ilya in response.
“Sorry your plans got ruined.”
Ilya tilts his head a fraction, comfortable now, the corner of his mouth faintly lifting where Shane can’t quite see it.
“Is fine,” he says. “You are the only plan I want to keep.”
“Yeah,” Shane says quietly. “Same.”
Ilya exhales against his shirt, something between a breath and a quiet hum of contentment. His weight settles more fully into Shane’s side, the last of the tension finally draining out of his frame. One knee bumps lightly against Shane’s thigh as he adjusts, finding a position that feels sustainable instead of braced.
The room hums softly around them— distant traffic, the low, ordinary sounds of a building full of strangers who have no idea this small, private thing is happening.
Shane’s hand keeps moving in slow, absent arcs at Ilya’s back.
For a few quiet seconds, neither of them says anything. Ilya’s breathing evens out further, the steady rise and fall of Shane’s chest grounding in a way his nervous system finally seems willing to trust.
The thought sneaks in anyway.
He swallows. There’s a brief hesitation— the smallest hitch of breath that betrays the risk in the question before he can stop himself.
“Will you… stay here tonight?”
The words come out softer than he intends. Almost provisional. Like he’s already bracing for the possibility of a no, already reminding himself that Shane has a home, a life, an early flight in the morning.
Ilya keeps his face tucked into Shane’s chest, not quite ready to look up and see the answer.
Shane doesn’t hesitate. “Of course,” he says immediately.
His arm tightens slightly around Ilya, solid and certain, like the answer had never been in question at all.
Ilya’s breath slips out in a quiet, shaky exhale he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His shoulders soften further, the last thin edge of worry finally dissolving.
“Okay,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
Ilya nestles a fraction closer, trusting the weight of Shane’s presence in a way that still feels a little brave every time.
Shane’s hand resumes its slow, steady rhythm at his back.
Neither of them feels the need to say anything else.