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The first thing Ilya registers when he wakes up is that he’s sore all over—for a moment he can’t help but smile, Cheshire cat wide, remembering exactly what he got up to in Shane’s little sex apartment last night.
Boston had won, 3-2, it was a hard fought game and Shane had been a treat to take apart, all fussy and mean—hissing like a cat, until Ilya coaxed him, first onto his knees, eyes fluttering as he took Ilya’s cock into mouth, and then later on, Ilya had taken him in bed, kissing his way down his body, watching as Shane unfurled bit by bit.
It was always a treat, a privilege to be able to do this, to have Shane like this, incandescent in a way Ilya only otherwise sees on the ice. Every time they fuck, it feels near impossible that it can feel that fucking good. But it does, every single time, and it nearly makes Ilya sick to his stomach; somehow, Ilya’s smile grows even wider, fond in a way he refuses to examine.
Then—suddenly, he is jerked out of his daydreaming, when a car, much too close for Ilya’s comfort, wizzes by, loud and startling. For a moment, Ilya is confused because the hotel room he had for the game was definitely not on the ground floor, then it registers, Ilya isn’t in his hotel bed at all, not even in his hotel room, but on a concrete floor.
Which—what the fuck, what in the ever loving fuck??? Ilya tried to shout, but nothing but a whispered hiss came out. Wait: hiss, a hiss?
He must’ve hit his head, Ilya thinks, that has to be it, his body feels wrong, scrunched up and sore still, he looks around, and sees a set of stairs that he recognizes, Shane’s apartment. This was the walk-up. Did Ilya fall down the stairs? That would be a little embarrassing, the sex with Shane was mind-blowing sure, but to have it be so good that Ilya took a tumble?
He realizes he needs to get up, get going before god-forbid Shane finds him, Ilya Rozanov, best hockey player in the world, fallen down the stairs? He groans but it comes out as a weird garbled sound. He shifts a little, getting his four paws under him—wait, he freezes.
Hiss? Paws?
What?
Ilya looks down at himself, and where he expects to see the fit body of a hockey player, he sees fur. He tries to push himself up, heart pounding in his ears, but he can’t get his feet—paws under him, his gravity feels off, his head spins, and he squeezes his eyes shut, this can’t be real he thinks.
He wills himself to actually wake up, thinking this must be some weird fucked up dream, but when he opens his eyes again, he’s still looking down at paws. His paws, fuck, he has paws.
Before he can react anymore, maybe do something drastic like bash his head against the concrete until he actually wakes up, he hears a noise echo, a door opening. Instinctively, his ears twitch and flatten against his head, fuck he can move his ears. It must be Shane, fuck, it has to be, Ilya scrambles, legs clumsy as he tries to move, to hide, he can’t let him see him like this, this isn’t, he can’t—
But before he can do anything, before he can even shift, he hears footsteps descending and he freezes, fur standing up, then, the footsteps freeze too, a sharp inhale, one Ilya definitely shouldn’t be able to hear, then a soft, “oh, hello?”
Shane sounds almost confused, Ilya looks up at him, he looks confused, beautiful as ever too, Ilya’s heart thumps, which is dumb, he just saw him, but he also sounds so, so soft, and immediately without even meaning to, Ilya relaxes, he tries to say hello back, but what comes out instead is a pitiful, meow.
Fuck. What the fuck.
It makes Shane smile, and for a beat, then two, he just stands there, as if contemplating, then he takes the rest of the steps down to where Ilya is—Ilya as a cat, that is. And wow, Shane is huge, he looks huge, Shane crouches in front of him, offering his hand towards Ilya. Ilya scowls, wondering what the fuck he is supposed to do with that. Hollander really? He wants to say, then, as he blinks at Shane’s offered hand, he remembers, he is supposed to sniff it, he thinks, that’s what you do with unfamiliar animals. Let them smell you, familiarize yourself.
Something deep in Ilya, a deep-seated instinct he thinks rises in him, and he inches forward, paws still clumsy under him now that he is balancing four, short legs. He takes a deep breath and rumbles, Shane smells mouth-wateringly good, he smells amazing, Ilya wants to rub himself off and roll around in it. He can’t decipher it all, but he can smell sharp ginger, mixed with a mint, then something unnamed, something warm and comforting. Safe.
Ilya can’t help the small sound that escapes him as he pushes forward letting Shane’s hand gently caress his head, it feels so good, Shane coos, and it’s so, so, unlike Shane Hollander that another sounds escapes him— “Hollander,” he yowls, fuck he’s a cat, he’s a CAT!
Shane laughs quietly, “Hey buddy,” he whispers, “what are you doing here?”
Ilya tries to respond, but again, all that comes out is a garbled meow. All at once, he feels miserable, he’s a cat, he can’t communicate with Shane, and he doesn’t understand what’s happening, it’s probably some fucking Etsy witch that cursed him, “Hollander,” he howls, it sounds pitiful and scared. God, fuck—Ilya feels miserable, what the fuck is he supposed to do?
He howls, indignant, burrowing closer into Shane’s hand, trying to communicate his anger at this whole mindfuck of a situation, but it just sounds abso-fucking-lutely miserable.
That seems to spur Shane into action and Ilya’s whole gravity shifts as Shane scoops him up, cuddling him close to his chest—which, in any other instance Ilya would be thrilled, in fact, even through his misery, he feels a trill of satisfaction burst through them at being so close to Shane, but it’s muddled through the fear and horror he feels at the fact that he’s a cat, and he’s small enough to be squished against Shane’s chest.
“Hey, hey—” Shane whispers, “it’s okay, you must be so scared.”
And all Ilya can do is sigh, you have no idea, he thinks.
—-
Shane brings him to his apartment, which Ilya would find odd, Shane Hollander, neat-freak down to his bones, bringing some strange cat into his apartment; but he’s too busy rubbing up against Shane, seeking comfort—which kudos to Shane, allows him. He holds him until Ilya feels calmer, almost sated, frizzled nerves rocked into submission.
“How did you get in here?” Shane murmurs nearly to himself, he’s rocking softly, almost subconsciously and Ilya feels jealous of himself getting to have this weird, tender moment, which is insane, he knows. But Shane is murmuring softly, intelligible until Ilya catches his own name, “you must’ve gotten in when Ilya left.”
Ilya chirps in surprise, realizing, sickeningly, that this was the first time he’s heard Shane say his name, his first name, and all at once, the calm that Shane lulled him into disappears. Shane just said his name, in passing, sure, but he said Ilya’s name, and that’s what his stupid fucking brain decided to focus on instead of the fact that he’s been turned into a fucking cat for literally whatever fucking reason, fuck.
A burst of panic pushes through him again, remembering the situation he’s in. He squirms in Shane’s arms, distress soaking his bones, which Shane, he thinks mistakes it as discomfort. He puts Ilya down, onto the floor, of course not his couch—at least that is something normal, and Ilya stumbles a little, before finally getting his paws under him.
He sniffs, looking up at Shane, who’s looking at him with a curious look on his face.
“You don’t have a collar.” He says.
Of course he doesn’t, because Ilya isn’t a fucking cat, he’s a man—a man that Shane knows intimately. He’s the motherfucking Captain of the Boston Raiders. No one owns him.
For a moment he contemplates though, maybe when he’s back to his human self, Hollander could get a collar, that would certainly add to their already mindblowing—-fuck, he needs to not get distracted. He couldn’t have at least been turned into a dog? A big one, intimidating, like he was in real life, like a rottweiler or something? Fucking etsy witch, he bets it was some Montreal fan cursing him so he couldn’t play.
“You can explore,” Shane follows-up with, “just don’t make a mess.” He speaks as if he’s talking to a human, it’s unbearably cute. Ilya hates how fond he feels, even as a fucking animal. Resigning himself, Ilya tests out a few steps, one, then two, getting used to walking—he might as well indulge a little. As a human he would never truly snoop or be able to snoop in Shane’s apartment, and even though this isn’t his actual home, it’s still a part of Shane that Ilya has barely seen. He is so used to coming here after a game and immediately latching onto Shane, barely coming up for air until they were both satiated.
He lets himself take a loop around the place, gingerly placing one paw in front of the other—he hears a huff behind him as he paws around and sees Shane’s lips pulling up—god, Ilya must look fucking foolish as hell. At least Shane doesn’t know it’s him. The whole place smells like Shane, it’s comforting, and Ilya starts to feel relaxed, he takes a few more laps around the main living area, sniffing into Shane’s couch, his pillows, nearly purring when he smells the cologne he wears, deep in one of the throws on the sofa, mixed in with Shane’s pheromones?
Whatever, it doesn’t matter, but it makes Ilya want to curl up there forever. For the first time all day? Night? Whatever, since he was turned into a fucking cat, he relaxes. He likes that even after he leaves Shane’s apartment his scent lingers. Like a reminder that Ilya was here, even if no one else in the whole world knows, even if Shane can’t even smell it himself. Maybe this isn’t so bad, he thinks hazily, he wouldn’t mind sinking into these comfy cushions and—
“Hey—” Shane’s voice bursts through his consciousness.
“Hollander! What the fuck!” Ilya yells, momentarily forgetting he’s a cat. Shane smiles at his mewl of indignation.
“Sorry, sorry,” He says, and if Ilya could, he’d roll his eyes. Shane is so Canadian, “you’re getting a little sleepy there, buddy.” Shane comes to crouch in front of him, and wow, Ilya’s eyesight is good as a human, but as a cat, it’s amazing—Shane’s freckles look insane like this. Shane reaches out carefully, as if expecting Ilya to reject his advances, as if he’d ever, human or cat.
Shane rubs his hand over the fur of Ilya’s head, and holy fuck, it felt so good. Ilya butts his head into Shane’s hand, encouraging, and Shane laughs, whispering “okay, maybe, I’ll let you stay the night.”
Ilya barely registers the words, the feeling of Shane’s hand softly passing over his head and now very sensitive ears felt like heaven, Ilya could drift like this—sink into it, he hasn’t felt a touch this gentle since…well, it didn’t matter because Ilya felt so safe and content that a purr escapes him, it’s embarrassing, it nearly surprises Ilya out of his stupor, Russians don’t do this, cat or not. But maybe just this once…he can press into Shane’s palm, just for a little while.
He starts to drift again when Shane suddenly pulls away, Ilya huffs in discontent, and meows up at him, but Shane stands up, arms hanging by his side, back to looking unbearably awkward, “right,” he says, “let me go find something for you to sleep on.”
He comes back with a blanket, the one that Ilya recognizes from the end of Shane’s bed, and lays it on the ground, folded neatly, “you can sleep here,” he says, “and then tomorrow, we can figure out what to do.”
Ilya didn’t move, the couch was pretty comfortable, he stretched, before settling further into the couch cushion beneath him. He only just closed his eyes again when he heard Shane sigh and suddenly Ilya was airborne,
“Sh, shhh, it’s okay.”
Ilya was deposited onto the blanket on the floor with an angry huff, and he was ready to argue again but Shane just pet him again, and sweet and awkward as ever, said “goodnight. Sweet dreams.”
And really, how was Ilya supposed to argue with that?
—-
He wakes up early, with the sun streaming in, he knows it’s early, barely morning, because he doesn’t even hear Shane up. Ilya stretches and yep, still a cat, it was too hopeful to think this was all an insane dream.
But he can’t get back to sleep, so he explores a little more, he still feels a little off balance, which pisses him off because Ilya has never quite felt that, as a hockey player, balance was key, but as a newly turned cat, apparently he doesn’t just absorb the natural born instincts cat should have.
He sniffs around the place a little before coming to the stairs he knows lead up to Shane’s bedroom. They look intimidating, bigger than ever, he considers just staying where he was, but the thought of seeing a sleepy Shane in his bed spurs him on. It’s something he’s never had the chance to see, and although it feels a little like taking advantage, but, Ilya is selfish, especially when it comes to Shane.
But when he tries to take a step onto the stairs, he slips down, tumbling as his paws slide, he tries again, and slips again—Ilya growls, but it comes out as a frustrated purr. It takes him nearly four tries to finally figure out how to coordinate all four paws, and then it’s a slow ascent, which pisses Ilya off. He fucking hates this.
He finally get in front of Shane’s bedroom door, it’s closed, but not all the way, and Ilya can hear soft snuffling inside—he didn’t know Shane snored, fuck. Ilya took a deep breath, embarrassed at how hard his heart was beating, and pushed his way inside.
Shane snuffles again, moving at the sound of the door opening and Ilya freezes. When he’s sure that Shane is still fast asleep, he tiptoes forward, even though his paws make no sound, just in case. He stops before the bed, and without thinking twice, he jumps—only to barely miss getting on the bed. He sighs, then takes a moment or two, then finally coordinates his paws and stupid fucking tail enough to get on it—then slowly inches forward.
Shane remains fast asleep, as Ilya pads across the bed, the usual tenseness in his shoulders is gone and his face is slack, he looks beautiful like this, peaceful in a way Ilya only ever really sees after he’s wrung an orgasm or two from him, Ilya has to stop himself from reaching out to caress his face; he didn’t think that Shane would be too happy about being woken up to a a paw in his face. Ilya watches Shane breathe, in and out, in and out, and can understand that it might be a little creepy to do so, but he feels like that as a cat, he can probably get away with it.
It’s addicting, watching Shane rest, he’s radiating warmth, and Ilya feels himself being reeled in, his eyes start to grow heavy, senses dulled by Shane and his soft scent encompassing the whole bed. Maybe it won’t hurt to curl up here, just for a little while and bask in Shane’s warmth.
—-
When he wakes up again, he’s curled up against Shane, still a cat, but he’s cuddled in close and he feels safe and comfortable, so for a moment he lets himself bask, pretending he’s still himself and Shane let him stay the night—he wonders briefly if this is what it would be like, an easy sleep next to Shane’s warm body. He almost wants to fall asleep again, but then there’s a slight movement beside him, he nearly bolts when he realizes that he can hear the shift in Shane’s breathing.
Ilya doesn’t move fast enough and Shane is blinking awake, his doe eyes fluttering softly, fuck, fuck, he’s beautiful, Ilya is screwed, he’s fucked, he’s a cat and he’s fucking focused on the way soft sunlight is catching Shane’s deep brown eyes and highlighting his constellation of freckles. Ilya needs to figure out why he’s a cat, not focus on how he wishes this is what he woke up to every single day for the rest of his life.
And yet.
Shane seems to realize that he’s not alone in bed all at once, a surprised smile pulls at his lips, “oh—” his voice is raspy, it’s delicious, Ilya is struck with simultaneous joy and misery at hearing what Shane sounds like when he wakes.
“Hello,” he says. Ilya can only meow in response. Shane gives him a soft pet, Ilya purrs, which continues to be embarrassing.
Shane huffs a soft sound of amusement, “your eyes,” he murmurs, “they’re so blue, they remind of…” he trails off, thought lost in the morning sun as he shakes his head, letting go of Ilya to stretch, body twisting and releasing; all at once, Ilya suddenly wants to bite, and maybe he should, something in his shivers, it wouldn’t be absurd as a cat, to just clamp down on Shane’s thick bicep, his stomach grumbles at the thought, and then, at that moment, he realizes, he’s really fucking hungry.
—-
It takes some intense meowing and pawing for Shane to realize Ilya’s plight, “Hollander,” he had demanded (whined), “Hollander, Shane, feed me, feed me, feed me, Shane!!!”
Shane had gotten up right away, barely staying a moment in bed to bask, he did check his phone though, quickly, and frowned a little, which had Ilya a little curious but then continued on. Ilya followed him out of bed, his balance finally stabilizing, and even he can admit, as he follows Shane up to his ensuite washroom, that it feels pretty fucking satisfying. He smirks to himself, only to have Shane close the door in his face. So Ilya waited outside, reluctantly being patient, tail flicking dispassionately.
He sighs to himself as he waits, listening to the sounds behind the door as Shane gets ready for the day. It’s a little intrusive, he knows, his hearing is so much better as a cat, but if he’s going to be stuck like this for however long, he might as well make the best out of it. It’s dumb and it’s stupid, he had hoped that when he woke up, again, that he’d be back in his human form, second time’s the charm or whatever. He’s had vivid dreams before where everything had felt incredibly real, but no, here he is waiting to be fed outside of Shane’s washroom.
It should make him angrier than it is, but it has been an intense few weeks, months—well years really. It’s been nonstop and Ilya has started to look at these little pockets with Shane as an oasis in the ever moving galaxy of his life. He is grateful to be in the NHL, to not be relegated to the frozen heart of Russia and the KHL, but sometimes he wishes he were happier about it all.
Fuck, it’s stupid that even as a cat he’s maudlin.
Shane comes out quickly and finally properly acknowledges him, “hey kitten.” He bends down to scoop Ilya up, “I’m surprised you have let me do this so easily,” he comments, almost absentmindedly, as if Ilya wouldn’t let Shane do literally anything and everything to him, “I know you’re probably hungry or thirsty, or both—”
Ilya meows in agreement, nuzzling into Shane.
“I don’t have any sort of pet food though, so we’ll have to figure that out, I guess.”
Ilya isn’t mad about that, he wasn’t about to eat that disgusting wet stuff anyways.
—-
Shane prepares food for both of them, it smells like salmon, which makes sense. Ilya knows Shane has some sort of food regimen he follows at all times. He’s started to catalogue it, unwillingly at first, but now, it feels like Ilya can’t get enough information about Shane. He remembers watching that documentary of Shane at his cottage, it’s saved on his DVR, over and over—on lonely nights, or horny ones, when he’s trying to convince himself not to do something stupid like booking a flight to Montreal, jerking off to the curve of Shane’s ass, or more lately to his sweet, doe eyes.
He doesn’t know how to describe it, he can’t in English, but it feels like some sort of gluttony. Like he can’t get enough.
Shane finally feeds him, giving him unseasoned salmon, it’s unfortunately delicious. Then, Ilya, being Ilya, follows him after he’s finished his own food, climbing onto the table where Shane is eating and reading something intently on his phone. Shane looks up at him frowning, as Ilya probes close to his food, “Hey! You can’t be up here, get off, get off!!” He lightly pushes at Ilya lightly, who grumbles, he may have eaten but Shane’s food looks so tasty.
“No!” Shane says and picks Ilya up, who yelps, before putting him on the floor. Ilya hisses, pawing at the legs of Shane’s chair, “Hollander,” he doesn’t whine, but demands, “come on, please!”
Shane ignores him and so Ilya has to be a menace, if he can’t be there as a human, he can make sure Shane feels his presence as a cat, so he hops up onto Shane’s lap, then winds him way up to his shoulder, pawing at his face, and Shane groans, but he has a slight smile on his face this time, and he gives in, feeding Ilya a small piece of salmon off his plate—but not before he licks it, removing any possible spice—Ilya nearly purrs out of his skin when he eats it, grossly ecstatic that he’s touching something Shane’s tongue has. It’s disgusting.
He slinks off after that, content to curl up on the sofa while Shane finishes.
Then, for the rest of the day, he sticks by Shane’s side. Shane has a day off, partially, Ilya knows because he’s a creep and searched up Shane’s schedule, and he also knows Shane would never be this relaxed if it was a game day.
Relaxed is a little generous as Ilya watches Shane move smoothly through increasingly complicated yoga moves, which yes, Ilya even as a cat, appreciates, in fact, he wonders if this is what the meaning of feral feels. His eyes follow the curve of Shane’s strong thighs and the curve of his ass. It’s immensely distracting to Ilya's attempt to sunbathe. Once he’s done, Ilya follows him to the bathroom, faced with another closed door as he showers. Which, rude.
He puts on his reading glasses at some point after, looking soft and smelling fresh, and Ilya trips over his paws. It’s stupid how bad Ilya wants him and can’t do anything about it. Shane then curls up on the couch with what Ilya can see, a very boring book, but he can’t really tell because he thinks it’s in Japanese.
Ilya is once again content to curl up and ignore his reality, leeching off Shane’s warmth. The day is spent in a soft haze, when Shane moves, Ilya does too, when Shane sits on the sofa, Ilya cuddles into him. When he goes to drink his gross green smoothie, Ilya is pawing at his feet. When he goes to the washroom, Ilya follows, waiting patiently at the door. When Shane cooks dinner, he begs for scraps, turning his nose up at anything that isn’t Shane’s food. He ends up licking his bowl clean, he tries to lick Shane’s fingers clean too, but Shane frowns uncomfortably at him, so Ilya relents.
When it’s finally time for bed, Ilya pretends to settle down on the blanket on the main floor, but he waits it out, and is climbing up the stairs, nearly bounding, finally used to the cat body, and pushes his way into Shane’s room, where he curls up next to Shane, lulled by the sound of his breathing.
That night he dreams;
Ilya wakes to a steady stream of sunlight peeking through the blinds, his arm is numb, but the rest of his body is warm. He is moulded into another strong, warm body—Shane, he would know his body anywhere, without a doubt, it fits perfectly with his. He can’t help but nuzzle in, breathing him in, lips lightly tracing his neck, kissing the delicate skin there.
“Mmmm—” Shane hums, shifting slightly back into Ilya’s arms, melting into him, his ass brushes against Ilya, pushing against his morning wood, and god does it feel good. Ilya could stay here forever, low arousal thrumming his veins. He pushes his hips forwards in a small grind, arms tightening as he trails proper kisses down into Shane’s shoulder blade.
“Good morning moya lyubov,” Ilya whispers, loathed to break the sweet haze. Shane shivers in his arms, humming quietly and turns in his arms. Ilya doesn’t try to kiss him, not yet, he knows how much Shane hates it before brushing, but he can’t help but duck his head into his neck, leaving whisper soft kisses against his pulse point, basking in the way Shane’s hips pushed sweetly against his.
“Ilya—” Shane said, just his name, nothing else; it was the most beautiful thing Ilya has ever heard, he could drown in the soft syrupy way Shane’s voice wrapped around his name, like it was something he was tasting inside his mouth—like it was all he wanted to say. It’s the only language Ilya needs to know.
Ilya’s hands drifted down, brushing down Shane’s back, hips and his ass, pulling him impossibly closer, he pulls his head back from Shane’s neck, blue eyes catching brown, “I like this, waking up with you, is nice.”
Shane blushed, Ilya’s heart stuttered, Shane’s freckles glowed under his pink cheeks, “me too, I wish we could—”
Then Ilya wakes up, heart pounding, still a cat, and suddenly, he’s devastated, angry all over again. Stupid, fucking stupid, he thinks to himself. He’s still curled up next to Shane, but his heart is pounding. He needs to figure out why the fuck he is a cat, and how the fuck he turns back into a human—which he knows, will be remarkably hard as an animal with no opposable thumbs or language that humans would understand.
Shane wakes up shortly after Ilya did, interrupting his wallowing, and smiles, “good morning,” he sounds so soft and so amused, Ilya feels slightly sick, “I see you snuck in here to sleep.” He pets Ilya, then he’s sliding out of bed, “you can sleep, we will figure out a game plan later.”
Ilya isn’t sure what game plan he is referring to, but he knows Shane does have a game today, and even though it’s at 7PM, he’s going to be out of the house most of the day, he knows how Shane is on game days.
——
Shane goes through his morning routine, and yes, Ilya still finds a way to trail behind him the entire time, then suddenly, it’s noon, and Shane is petting him goodbye, leaving Ilya alone for the first time since he turned into a cat.
He spends the day alternating between trying to open Shane’s laptop, and testing out his newfound stability as a cat, he finally gets a glimpse of himself in the mirror in Shane’s bathroom—having clawed his way up using the towel rack, and is a little disappointed—he thought he’d at least be a little intimidating, but no, instead he seems a slim body, with light, almost blonde fur and black paws, his eyes are still very blue, almost like ice. So what if Ilya is a little vain, he knows he’s hot, hundreds of people, men and women both have told him that.
He sighs, and avoids that bathroom for the rest of the day. He lets himself explore more freely now that Shane isn’t here as a distraction, he licks, and sniffs and paws at things. He passes by Shane’s laundry basket, and contemplates climbing into it and curling up there surrounded by Shane’s sweaty clothes, but after a moment of deliberation, he thinks that’s probably too much.
He finally gets Shane’s laptop open, and with significant trouble, paws in Shane’s password, and then tries to search things up. He only gets as far as “cat curse,” and “am now cat” before he slams the computer closed in frustration because all that keeps coming up are cat memes and gifs.
He figures out how to turn on the TV with no opposable thumbs and flicks his way to Shane’s game, and curls up, Montreal is facing New York tonight, then Boston in three days—Ilya doesn’t know what’s going to happen then if he’s still a cat—he doesn’t even know where his phone has gone, or his clothes.
Has anyone even noticed his absence? Probably not. Whatever.
Ilya curls up on the couch, in his new favourite spot, and watches the rest of the game.
Montreal wins the game, and Ilya huffs in amusement, that dinosaur Scott Hunter is no match for Shane. He greets Shane at the door when he comes home, he’s freshly showered and carrying his hockey bag on his shoulder; Ilya’s heart aches in his chest. Shane looks happy to see him, eyes aglow with the fresh win, he bends down and starts to pet Ilya.
“I should really bring you to a shelter,” Shane murmurs, still petting him. Ilya panics and mewls, body starting to shake in distress, because of Shane did that, what would even happen, how would Ilya ever figure this out, what if someone tries to adopt him before he becomes human again? Ilya hisses, paws butting at Shane, he thinks he’s successful in his glare when Shane sighs.
Shane looks at him intensely for a moment, before a small smile lights up his face, “but maybe, I guess, it wouldn’t be that bad to keep you for a few more days, Ilya is going to be so confused—” he pauses, then frowns, “if he even comes by, he’s been weirdly silent these past few days, I hope he’s—” Shane stops there, just sighing, “why am I even talking to a cat? Let’s go have dinner, buddy.”
A wave of relief washes over Ilya, but then, he thinks, heart aching that Shane must really be lonely if he’s allowing Ilya to stay.
—-
They settle into a routine, kind of, Ilya feels a little insane, it’s been two days and he’s no closer to finding any answers. But Shane and him have settled into a rhythm. Shane goes to do his many responsibilities—he’s busier than Ilya ever imagined, meetings, photoshoots, ads as Ilya creeps around the apartment. He makes Ilya food; yesterday he had come home with a few toys and some wet mushy stuff that Ilya thinks was meant to be food, but Ilya turned his nose up at it, he has standards for fucksake, and so Shane just made him smaller portions of whatever he ate.
He sees Shane look at his phone periodically, checking for something, then always frowning or huffing when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, Ilya can’t place it, but Shane almost looks disappointed any time his phone chimes, like he’s waiting for something or someone. Ilya always tries to distract him more when that happens.
They watch hockey too, when Shane isn’t busy, or has a moment to just chill in the few days, Ilya sits himself beside him as he listens to Shane list statistics and commentary throughout the game, he adds in his own commentary, mostly trash talk in between Shane’s comments, and even though it came out as chirps, it makes Shane smile.
It was nice, when Shane was home, Ilya would monopolize his attention, demanding pets and caresses as he followed him around. He would hiss and whine and yell, “Shane, Shane, Hollander!” Until Shane would do his little huff of amusement and stop what he was doing and pay Ilya attention. He pretends to knock things over, and really does knock a glass down once, just to be a menace when Shane takes too long to pet him.
It feels good, better than good, to be able to demand Shane’s attention without consequence or second thoughts, he gets to have his eyes and hands on him without hesitation. It is the complete opposite of their situation as humans, always careful, always in dark, hidden rooms, never too much, always holding back.
And although, as a human, Ilya could seek comfort in any body he wanted, men, women, he could snap his fingers and he would have people at his feet; and yes, he indulged often, losing himself in sex and the heat of another body, but it wasn’t the same as this. This simple connection, this sweet attention, the intimacy of a touch that isn’t inherently sexual.
Ilya can’t remember the last time he’s felt this. Shane is always so careful, so intentional with his touches, sure, but always so, so careful, and even though Ilya hates to admit it, it devastates him, in a way no one and nothing ever has.
Now, when Shane comes back from his multiple commitments, and seems slightly off, shoulders too tense, eyes a little unfocused, hands busy, Ilya can crawl to Shane, curl up on him, nuzzle his head into his chest, drape himself over Shane, purring, sweet and low (he finally got over the embarrassment), until Shane is calm again, petting Ilya’s soft fur, nuzzling right back. He even sleeps fully on top of Shane’s chest, listening to his heartbeat slow, he thinks privately, that being a cat, especially like this, isn’t so bad.
Ilya basks in the feeling of being touch-drunk and the centre of Shane’s attention, it feels good, it feels right. But then, he’s struck with the fact that he wants to talk to Shane, or Shane leaves and he can’t follow, then he’s reminded all over again. He loves that he can be freely affectionate, but he wants that as Ilya the human, not Ilya the fucking cat. He wishes suddenly that he could somehow show Shane that he is Ilya, or at least, the universe could be on his side one fucking time and leave him a hint as to way he’s stuck as a fucking cat.
—
On the fourth day, Montreal faces Boston, Ilya watches from the couch, and no one explains his absence, but it’s very clearly there. Montreal wins again, but Shane doesn’t play as well, or as strong as he usually does when facing Boston. Ilya tries not to think that maybe it’s because he isn’t there
Shane comes home late that night, stumbling, his cheeks are flushed, he’s a little more than tipsy, and Ilya chirps, a little concerned. Even when Shane wins, he doesn’t usually drink, he doesn’t really even like to drink.
Shane sighs, sinking to the floor right as the door closes. Ilya starts to crawl over, ready to offer comfort or really anything Shane needs, but freezes when Shane starts to speak.
“Kotik,” Shane says, softly, almost hesitant, and Ilya nearly chokes, because he knows that word, he doesn’t even have to translate it to English in his brain because Shane just spoke Russian; котик, kitten. Shane just called him kitten, and for a moment Ilya thinks he recognizes him, but he doesn’t. Shane is definitely just a little drunk. “Psspssps—come here,” Shane whispers, reaching out, then blushes.
Even though there’s no one else in the room, except Ilya, but, Ilya doesn’t count right now. Except maybe he does because he’s frozen in place, how does Shane? What??—for a moment he thinks Shane recognizes him, but then he continues, “I—uh,” Shane is flushed, freckles stark against his pink cheeks, “I don’t know why I am embarrassed in front of a cat.” He murmurs, almost to himself.
“Kotik,” he says again, “Ilya—” Shane groans, “fuck, why am I explaining myself? You don’t even know who that is. You don’t even know what I’m saying.”
Ilya is still frozen in place, unable to look away, as Shane powers on.
“He called me that, a few times while, um—and, I searched it up, kitten,” he says, and blushes harder, “that’s what it means, and um—you kind of, you remind me of him. Which is embarrassing too.” Shane is rambling, it’s more than Ilya has heard him speak in a long while, “it suits you, and you need a name, if I am going to keep you, for a little while,” He says, and Ilya’s traitorous, sick with want heart, stutters in his chest. “So uh—Kotik, yeah, maybe that’s what I should call you.”
Shane goes quiet again for a moment, then when he speaks, he sounds so fucking sad, “he wasn’t playing tonight, he wasn’t there at all, I couldn’t see him, and I—I don’t know, I felt sad, which is stupid. We aren’t anything, but I was—I guess I was worried, I was off my game the whole night, even Hayden noticed. I think I’m in—” Shane doesn’t continue, he just sighs and shakes his head as if defeated; he picks up his phone, thumbing it open as if expecting something, then locks it again.
Ilya climbs into his lap, heart in his throat, wishing he could tell Shane that he was right here, wishing he could hold him, comfort him, make it known that Ilya is here and is thinking about him, is always thinking about him, Shane looks so sad and Ilya wants to tear the world to pieces, he hates this, he hates that he can’t do anything but nuzzle in close.
Shane nuzzles into him, face in his fur, holding Ilya close, his breath hitches, but he doesn’t cry. They stay like that for a long time.
—
Finally, Shane pulls away and looks at his phone again, Ilya chances a glimpse at his phone, and his heart stops and starts at the amount of notifications that fill the screen, and all of them being about Ilya—articles about his absence, which—if he was honest he hadn’t thought about how it would be explained away. Apparently his agent had come up with something.
Shane frowns at the notifications as Ilya looks over his shoulder—he looks sad, almost disappointed, and then, “I—I,” he hiccups a little, “it’s stupid, it’s so stupid, you remind of him, I already said that, whatever, fuck, why does everything do that? Why would a cat—” He mutters to himself, “I wish—I want, fuck, it hasn’t even been that long, we haven’t talked for longer, but—I just want to know if he’s okay.”
Ilya watches as Shane goes to “Lily” in his contact, thumb hovering over the call button, then, with slight hesitation, locks the phone again.
“Stupid,” Shane mutters, “fucking stupid.”
He starts to stand up, arms still around Ilya, a little wobbly, and says, “Kotik—” his accent is atrocious, “let’s go to bed.”
—
Once in bed, Shane murmurs softly, all sleepy and drunk, “you’re a great cuddle, but I want him. I want Ilya—” He murmurs, and all Ilya can do is cuddle in closer as Shane drifts off to sleep.
—
The next day Shane wakes up slowly, and is quiet for the rest of the day. He still goes though his routine, still drinks a gross looking smoothie, still feeds Ilya, but his energy is low.
In the evening, he curls up on the couch, and turns on the TV, Ilya is curled beside him and to his surprise, Shane turns on the movie Moonlight, which is a little weird because Ilya knows that his comfort watches are hockey documentaries and games specifically from the year 1993.
He pets Ilya almost absentmindedly, quiet throughout the first half of the movie, then, suddenly, he scoops Ilya up, hiding his face in his fur, and says, “Can I tell you a secret?”
Ilya just pushes in closer, a little confused. “Of course,” he chirps, “tell me,” he says, "I want to know all your secrets, all of you," he thinks, feeling a little icky, knowing that he’s about to hear something Shane would probably never tell human Ilya.
“I miss him, more than I should.” Shane says, face still hidden, even as the movie plays, “I think I want him more than I should. It’s only been two weeks since we’ve talked, only a month since we’ve hooked up, but this time, it feels different. I just, I miss him.”
Ilya really is going to burn the world to the ground. He needs to be human again, he can’t keep doing this, he can’t keep hearing this. He needs to tell Shane that he misses him too, that he’s started to need him like he needs air.
“I think Ilya would love you, he feels like a dog person, but I think he’d love you—like I’m starting to—you and him are so alike.” Shane laughs, and it sounds a little too self-depreciating for Ilya’s liking, he thinks he would actually hate a cat that acted like him, because that would mean having to share Shane, and he already barely gets him, he couldn’t share him with a cat.
“I don’t even know why I am watching this, it just makes me want to have it all, to stop hiding, but then I see what these characters go through and think maybe, I’m just being crazy, why do I matter in the grand scheme of things? Ilya and I aren’t even in—” his voice breaks, “we aren’t in love.”
Oh.
Ilya wants to scream, to shake him, to yell and kiss sense into Shane—because he does matter, he matters more than anything in this whole world, and Ilya does, he hates himself for letting it get this far, but he does, he really does fucking love him. He loves Shane Hollander, and it sucks and it’s the best thing in the world, and he hates that he’s realizing this as a cat—well, he’s known for a while; maybe from the very first time he saw Shane’s freckles and his sweet smile when they were barely 18.
“I miss him, and I think—” Shane sighs, “I think if he were here, I’d want him to tell me that he misses me, that he wants me—Kotik, you’re a good listener you know—” Shane says, “I feel like I am falling with no safety net and it’s all tangled in my head. I love you.” Shane whispers, it’s quiet, and sweet, and Ilya feels like he’s going to explode.
“I love you,” he says again, then laughs, “I’m saying this to a fucking cat,” he laughs a little louder, “that’s what I want to say to him, it’s been 7 years, and I think I’ve loved him this whole time, I love you—” Shane pauses, a beat, then two, kissing Ilya lightly on the forehead, “Ilya, I love you.”
—-
Several things happen at once, the lights flicker, and Ilya thinks lightning flashes across the sky, and then, he blacks out. When he comes to, he’s naked and balanced on top of Shane—who lets out a terrified yell, and then Ilya, unused to being a human again, falls off him and onto the floor.
“WHAT—THe fucking FUCK!” He yells, scrambling.
Shane is looking at him wide-eyed and terrified, and all Ilya can do is gape—and then, he starts laughing.
Of course, of fucking course, he laughs, and he knows he looks crazy, he was just a cat, he was a cat and Shane just said he loved him. It suddenly all makes sense, some etsy witch cursed Shane, not Ilya, it has to be, she probably wanted Shane to fall in love, but he was already in line, or maybe Ilya was cursed, but it didn’t matter. Not really, because Ilya is here, and Shane loves him and the world isn’t ending, and fuck, fuck, Ilya is a human again.
He looks at Shane again, who’s mouth is gaping and Ilya just says, “Hollander, hello.”
Shane looks like he’s about to pass out, “Uh—you, um, you’re, Ilya—Rozanov? Naked?”
Ilya laughs, “you broke it.” He waves his hands, stretches his toes, he’s naked, he’s human, “you broke the curse.”
“The…” Shane pauses, still wide-eyed, in shock, “curse?”
Ilya leaps up, crawling up into Shane’s lap, and Shane god bless him, lets him, still frozen. Ilya is much bigger as a human, but it doesn’t stop him from straddling him. Ilya cups Shane’s beautiful, gorgeous face in his hands and leans down, kissing his forehead, then cheeks; Shane’s eyes flutter close, and Ilya kisses his eyelids too, then his lips, as soft as ever, then says, “hello, moya lyubov, I missed you too.”
“Wh—” Shane stutters.
“True love’s kiss, a confession—” Ilya murmurs, eyes locked on Shane’s beautiful freckles, “it must be. My biggest wish.”
“Your what?”
“Yes.” Ilya smiles, then kisses Shane properly.
They kiss for a long time, and Ilya is surprised Shane hasn’t hyperventilated yet. But he thinks he must be distracted. He has a hot Russian man, who was a cat, in his lap, kissing him like it’s simultaneously the start and end of the world. The kiss starts out sweet and soft, Ilya wants to savour this moment, he wants to treat Shane right. But then Shane makes a small sound, a whimper, and Ilya can’t help but push forward, and keep pushing until Shane is flat on his back.
He kisses Shane harder, hands going to cradle his jaw, and they stay there, trading long, dirty kisses, tongues slipping into each other’s mouths. Ilya is growing hard, he knows Shane is too, it’s been too long, and god, he wants this, he wants this so bad. His bare cock rubs against Shane’s stomach, and fuck does it feel good, but they can’t yet, not before Ilya does what he needs to do.
He pulls back, and Shane whines, his eyes are blown wide with desire and Ilya almost, almost forgets and dives back in, but no, he steels himself, and looks Shane in the eyes, “Ya tebya lyublyu,” he tests out, then says, “I love you, Shane, I love you too.”
Shane gasps in surprise and says, “you’re hard.”
Ilya laughs, “I am, because I am horny and in love with you.”
“I love you—” Shane says, and then blinks, then blinks again, as if waking up, “you were a cat.”
“I was.” Ilya murmurs, already leaning back in, “and I love you.”
And then, they don’t speak for a while.
——
Later, much later, sprawled in bed, Ilya explains.
“So you were cursed into a cat.” Shane says matter-of-fact. Ilya knows, usually Shane would be more rattled, but Ilya got a few mindblowing orgasms out of him, so he’s basically putty.
“I was.” Ilya says, “it was a little fun, I liked being your cat, I missed you though.”
Shane’s eyes widen, “wait, holy fuck wait, that means you heard everything.”
Ilya smirks, smug as ever, “you likeeeee me.”
Shane’s eyes narrow, “Shut up!” Then, he gasps, “You knocked over my favourite water glass!”
Ilya laughs harder, and leans in, kissing Shane hard and with purpose, he kisses him until he’s melting back into the mattress, until they’re both hard again and rutting against each other, he kisses him until they’re panting and coming, and then kisses him some more and says, “I love you.”
——
CODA:
A few months later, Ilya gives into what he later explains as “leftover cat instincts” and tests out if Shane’s sweaty clothes actually do smell as good as they did when he was a cat, and yeah, they really do.
“Gross, Ilya!!” Shane yells, when he catches him. Ilya just tackles him onto the bed.