Chapter Text
Shane's POV; Ottawa. July 2011
The antique shop smelled like old wood and lavender and something indefinable that Shane had learned to associate with Margaret's place.
He'd been coming here since he was a kid, trailing behind his mother while she searched for "character pieces" for their home.
Margaret, an older Italian woman, had always been patient with Shane—let him touch things, answered his endless questions about provenance and craftsmanship, never made him feel weird for caring about the details.
Now she was helping them furnish a home that didn't exist yet for an adult version of Shane.
A house still being built on a respectable amount of land that had been nothing but goldenrod and dreams three months ago.
"This table," Margaret was saying, her weathered hand resting on a beautiful oak piece, "is 1920s. Solid. Good bones. Needs some refinishing, but that's easy."
Shane nodded, made a note on his clipboard. "Dimensions?"
She rattled them off. He wrote them down carefully to his clipboard.
It was a comfort to him.
Shane had learned that about himself years ago—when things felt chaotic, when the world pressed in from all sides, when his brain threatened to spiral into the endless cataloguing of variables he couldn't control, the simple act of holding something solid helped.
The clipboard had papers. The papers had notes. The notes had measurements and calculations and a checklist of items to verify about the property they were standing on.
Beside him but never far, Ilya was examining a set of chairs, his large hands gentle on the delicate wood.
Everything was normal. Everything was fine.
Then it wasn't.
It started like it always started—a tightening in his chest.
Then the world getting slightly too bright, slightly too loud.
Then his heart, hammering against his ribs like it wanted out.
Shane gripped his clipboard. Stared at his notes, not seeing anything.
Tried to breathe.
In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
The numbers weren't working.
Margaret was still talking, her voice a distant hum now.
Ilya was still examining chairs.
The shop was full of beautiful things and Shane couldn't see any of them because his vision was tunneling, because the walls were closing in, because—
"Shane?"
Ilya's voice. Close. Too close? Not close enough.
He wanted Ilya to crawl under his skin and into his chest to force his heart to stop racing
"Shane, look at me."
Shane couldn't.
He couldn't move.
His body had locked up, frozen in place, clipboard clutched to his chest like armor.
"Hey, Margaret," Ilya said, his voice calm, steady, the kind of voice that could anchor ships in a storm. "Can you give us a minute?"
"Of course, dear." Her footsteps retreated. A door closed somewhere. The world shrank to just this moment, just this space, just Ilya.
Then Ilya was there. In his space.
He took the clipboard from Shane's nerveless fingers, set it aside on a nearby table. Then he guided Shane backward—gently, firmly—until Shane's shoulders met the solid wood of the wall.
Ilya stepped into him, chest to chest, his body a warm, solid barrier between Shane and everything else.
There was nowhere to go, nowhere to retreat for Shane, nothing but Ilya and the wall and the overwhelming pressure of everything.
Ilya's hands came up.
Framed his face.
Calloused palms against Shane's cheeks, rough from years of hockey, from months of self-defense training, from all the ways they'd learned to protect themselves and each other.
His thumbs pressed gently against Shane's cheekbones, a familiar pressure, an anchor.
"I have you," Ilya said quietly. His face was inches away, close enough that Shane could see every fleck of gold in his dark eyes. "Breathe with me."
Shane tried.
Failed.
His chest hitched, stuttered, wouldn't cooperate. A sound escaped him—something between a gasp and a sob.
"I know," Ilya murmured softly. "I know. It's really hard. Try again, okay? For me. Just one breath. Just one."
Shane tried again.
His lungs expanded partway, then seized.
"Good," Ilya said. "This is good. That was half a breath. Now let it out."
Shane let it out.
It came out shaky, ragged, but it came out.
"Good. You're doing so good, Shane. Now again. In with me. Watch me."
Ilya took a slow, deliberate breath.
Shane latched on to the request and watched Ilya's chest rise, watched the way his nostrils flared slightly, the way his lips parted.
He tried to match it.
Got maybe two-thirds of the way there.
"Good." Ilya's thumbs kept moving, back and forth, back and forth. "Hold with me."
They held. Two seconds. Three. Four.
"Out with me, Shane."
Shane let it go.
This one was smoother.
Less ragged.
"Better," Ilya said. "You are doing so good, milashka. Now again. In with me."
They breathed together.
In. Hold. Out. In. Hold. Out.
The rhythm was steady, hypnotic, the only thing in the world that mattered.
Ilya's warm hands on his face.
Ilya's steady eyes on his.
Ilya's measured breath matching his own.
Shane's heart started to slow.
The tightness in his chest began to ease, millimeter by millimeter.
"That's it." Ilya's voice was soft, full of something that might have been pride. "You are coming back. I can see you coming back, baby."
Shane blinked.
The world was still blurry at the edges, but the tunnel was widening.
He could see more of Ilya's face now—the worry lines between his brows, the slight tension in his jaw, the way his eyes never stopped searching Shane's.
"You're worried," Shane whispered. His voice was rough, barely there.
Ilya's mouth quirked. "I am always worried when you go away. But you are coming back. That is the only thing matters right now."
"I'm sorry."
"No." Ilya's voice was firm but gentle. "No sorry. Just breathe with me."
Another cycle.
In. Hold. Out.
Shane's lungs expanded more fully this time.
His shoulders dropped an inch from where they'd been creeping toward his ears.
"There you are," Ilya said softly. "There is my Shane."
Shane felt tears prick at his eyes.
Not from sadness—from relief.
From the overwhelming gratitude of being seen, being held, being brought back from the edge by someone who refused to let him fall.
"I'm here," he managed.
Ilya kissed his forehead. "I know. You are always here. Even when you go away, you come back. You always come back."
"How do you know?"
"Because I know you and I know you love me." Ilya said it simply, like a fact. "And people who love me do not leave forever. They fight. They come back. They let me help them."
Shane's breath caught again, but this time it wasn't panic.
It was something else.
Something warm.
"Another one," Ilya said. "Just one more. Then we can stop."
They breathed together one more time.
In. Hold. Out.
Shane's lungs expanded fully. His heart rate was almost normal. The world had stopped spinning.
"Better?" Ilya asked.
Shane nodded. Swallowed. "Better."
"Good." Ilya didn't move. Didn't drop his hands. Just kept those dark eyes fixed on Shane's face, reading him the way he always could, the way he'd learned over ten years of loving him. "You are here. You are safe. I have you."
******
They were twenty years old.
Twenty.
They had just finished their first season in the NHL. They had broken records, Shane won a Cup, independently they made history.
They had also received death threats, filed many lawsuits against outlets that were responsible for unleashing waves of death threats towards them, and learned more ways to kill a man with their bare hands than any twenty-year-old should know.
They felt a hundred years old.
The season had been relentless.
Games, travel, training, media.
The self-defense classes, squeezed into every available gap. The meetings with Margo and Keiko and Priya, plotting strategy, reviewing contracts, planning for a future that kept getting more complicated.
The pressure of being symbols, of being first, of being watched by millions of people who either worshipped them or wanted them dead.
And underneath it all, the simple, terrible truth: all they wanted was to play hockey and love each other but the world wouldn't let them.
Shane's anxiety had always flared when he felt out of control.
And lately, he felt out of control all the time.
"I'm okay," he said. The words came out rough, scraped raw.
Ilya didn't move.
Didn't drop his hands.
Just kept looking at him with that steady, patient gaze that had been there since they were very young.
"You are breathing," Ilya said. "You are standing. You are here. That is enough."
"I ruined our furniture shopping."
Ilya's thumb traced his cheekbone again. "You did not ruin anything, Sir Canadian with all your sorry. Margaret understands. She has known you since you were small. She has probably seen worse from you."
"She probably thinks I'm crazy."
"She probably thinks you are human." Ilya's voice was soft, certain. "Because you are. Human. Allowed to struggle. Allowed to need help. Allowed to fall apart in antique shops while your fiancé holds you against a wall."
Shane almost laughed. Almost. "That's specific."
"I am specific person." Ilya's mouth quirked. "You know this."
Shane closed his eyes. Leaned into the touch.
Let himself feel the warmth of Ilya's hands, the solidity of the wall behind him, the steady rhythm of Ilya's breath matching his own.
"I hate this," he whispered.
"I know."
"I hate that my brain does this. I hate that I can't control it."
"I know."
"I hate that you have to take care of me."
Ilya's hands stilled. The room went very quiet.
When Shane opened his eyes, Ilya's expression had shifted—something fierce underneath the calm, something that burned in those cerulean eyes.
"Listen to me, Shane Hollander," Ilya said quietly. His voice was low, intense, the voice he used when he meant every single word. "You do not get to decide what I do or do not do. You do not get to decide what is too much for me. You do not get to sacrifice yourself on the altar of 'protecting Ilya.' I don't consent to that shit."
Shane blinked.
"I love you," Ilya continued. "All of you. Every single part. Including the parts that struggle. Including the anxiety. Including the moments when you need me to hold you against a wall and force you to breathe with me. That is not a burden. That is not a chore. That is love."
"I just don't want to be a burden."
"You are not." Ilya leaned closer, forehead almost touching Shane's. "You are everything. You are the person I chose. You are the person who chose me. We do not get to opt out of the hard parts. That is not how this works."
Shane felt tears prick at his eyes.
Hated them.
Let them fall anyway.
"When we were sixteen," Ilya said softly, "and you had that panic attack before the Prospect Cup final, do you remember this?"
Shane remembered.
In their hotel room when they were representing Team Canada.
The weight of expectation.
The fear of failing in front of the world and everyone they knew.
Ilya had found him hyperventilating on the bathroom floor.
"I did not know what to do," Ilya continued. "I was terrified. Not of you—for you. I thought I was losing you. I thought I was not enough to help you."
"But you did help me."
"Yes. Eventually. After I researched. After I learned. After I made myself useful." Ilya's thumb traced his cheekbone again. "But here is the thing, milashka. I would have done it a thousand times. I would have done it ten thousand times. Because you are worth it. Because loving you means learning how to love you. All of you."
Shane's breath caught.
"You are not a burden," Ilya repeated. "You are the person I love. The hard parts are part of that person. I do not want you without them. I want all of you. Always."
The tears spilled over.
Shane couldn't stop them.
"I love you," he said. It came out broken, raw, everything he had. "I love you so much Ilya."
Ilya kissed his forehead.
Then his left cheek, tasting salt.
Then his right. Then the tip of his nose.
Then, very gently, his lips.
"I love you too," Ilya murmured against his mouth. "Vsegda." Always.
******
They stayed like that for a long moment, Shane pressed against the wall, Ilya's hands still framing his face, the antique shop humming quietly around them. Shane's breathing evened out. His heart slowed. The world stopped spinning quite so fast.
"I'm sorry," Shane said again.
Ilya's eyes narrowed. "What did I say about sorry?"
"That you don't want them."
"I do not need them actually. I want you to breathe. I want you to be kind to yourself. That is all."
Shane took a shaky breath. Let it out.
"I'm trying."
"I know." Ilya's voice softened into something tender. "That is why I love you. Because you try. Even when it is hard. Especially when it is hard."
"I learned that from you."
Ilya's eyebrows rose. "From me?"
"You never quit. Not when you were nine and scared and didn't speak the language. Not when your—" Shane paused, choosing his words carefully. "Not when things were bad with your father. Not when the league tried to make us hide. You just keep going. You keep fighting. You keep loving."
Ilya was quiet for a long moment.
His eyes were bright.
"You see me," he said finally. "You always have."
"Of course I see you. You're the most important thing in my world. Plus we are getting married."
Ilya kissed him again.
Slower this time, deeper, full of everything they couldn't say.
When they pulled apart, Shane was smiling. A real smile.
"Better?" Ilya asked.
"Yes." Shane nodded. "Better. Thank you."
Ilya shrugged, a glint of humor in his eyes. "Is nothing. Just holding you against wall in antique shop. Very normal activity."
Shane laughed. It felt good. "We should probably go find Margaret. Apologize for disappearing."
"She does not need apology. She needs us to buy furniture." Ilya stepped back, finally dropping his hands, but stayed close. "You ready?"
Shane took a breath.
Checked in with himself.
The anxiety was still there—it was always there—but it was manageable now. Quiet.
"Yeah," he said. "I'm ready."
******
When they emerged from the back of the shop, Margaret was rearranging a display of vintage lamps. She looked up, smiled warmly, and said absolutely nothing about the redness around Shane's eyes or the fact that they'd been gone for twenty minutes.
"Find anything you like?" she asked.
Shane cleared his throat with pinked cheeks that made his freckles stand out more. "The table. And the chairs. The set of four. We'll take them."
Margaret nodded. "Excellent choices. They'll look lovely in your new home. That table has good bones—it'll last you fifty more years, easy."
Shane thought about the house—still just a foundation, still just plans and permits and dreams.
But fifty years.
Fifty years of meals around that table.
Fifty years of Ilya across from him, of dogs underfoot, of children they hadn't even met yet.
Fifty years of this.
"Perfect," he said.
Margaret smiled—a knowing, gentle smile. "I'll remove them from shopping floor and keep them in storage until they can be delivered once your house is ready. No rush. Good things take time."
Ilya slipped his hand into Shane's. Squeezed.
"Thank you, Margaret," Ilya said. "For everything."
She waved a hand. "Go on, you two. Enjoy your day. And Shane—" She caught his eye with a kind smile on her face. "You know where to find me if you need a quiet place. Always."
Shane nodded, throat tight. "Thank you."
******
They walked to the parking lot together, Ilya's hand warm in his.
The lot was small, tucked behind the shop, shaded by old trees. Their rental car was the only vehicle there. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling the pavement in gold.
And three girls were standing beside the car.
Shane tensed.
Old habit.
Instinct.
Ilya's hand squeezed his—I'm here, I've got you—but neither of them pulled away.
The girls were young. Thirteen, maybe fourteen. One held a flip phone with a camera. All three looked like they'd just seen their favorite players in the flesh.
Which, Shane supposed, they had.
They were after all the best players in the NHL right now.
"I'm so sorry," the tallest one said immediately, words tumbling out. "We didn't mean to—we just saw you going in there and we couldn't—" She stopped, apparently overcome. "We waited!"
The second girl stepped forward, elbowing her friend gently. "We're huge fans. Like, actually huge. We watched every game this season. Every single one. My dad thinks we're obsessed."
Ilya laughed—that warm, surprised sound that never failed to make Shane's heart flip. "Obsessed is good. Obsessed means you care."
The girls exchanged a look of pure delight.
The third girl was smaller, quieter.
She hung back a little, but her eyes were steady.
When she spoke, her voice was soft but clear.
"My brother is gay."
The words landed like stones in still water.
"He loves hockey." Her voice wobbled slightly, but she kept going, determined. "He was really sad because he thought he'd have to give it up. Give up loving it. Because of all the—" She made a vague gesture. "The awful stuff people say. The jokes. The comments. The way everyone talks."
Shane felt Ilya's thumb trace circles on his hand as a method to sooth him.
"But then you two." The girl's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "He watches every game. He has posters all over his room. He talks about you constantly. And he's happier now. So much happier. Because he knows he's not alone. He knows there are people like him who made it. Who are amazing at what they do and didn't have to hide."
The parking lot was very quiet.
A bird sang somewhere in the trees.
"You are so brave," the first girl added, her voice hushed. "Both of you. The way you just—you didn't hide. You didn't pretend. You just were. And everyone saw it and so many people love you for it."
"The people who don't love you can go fu—" The second girl caught herself, blushed. "Sorry. I mean. They're wrong. Obviously."
Ilya laughed again. "Is okay. You can say they can go—" He glanced at Shane, grinned. "—jump in lake if you want."
The girls dissolved into giggles.
Shane looked at Ilya.
Ilya looked at him.
And in that look was everything—the weight of the last year, the exhaustion, the fear, the frustration.
And also the reason.
The point.
The why.
Ilya let go of his hand. Walked over to the smaller girl. Crouched down to her level, ignoring the way his knees cracked.
"What is your brother's name?"
The girl blinked. "Marcus."
"Marcus." Ilya nodded, completely serious. "You tell Marcus that Ilya and Shane say hello. You tell him we play hockey for him. For all the Marcuses. Okay?"
The girl's eyes spilled over. Tears ran down her cheeks, but she was smiling. "Okay."
Ilya pointed at all three of them. "You are good friends. Good sisters. You keep supporting him. You keep being loud. You keep telling people that love is love and hockey is for everyone. The world needs more people like you."
The tallest one was crying now too.
The second one was taking photos with shaking hands.
The third—Marcus's sister—was smiling like the sun had come out just for her.
Shane walked over. Stood beside Ilya. Let his hand rest on Ilya's shoulder.
"Can we get a picture?" the second girl asked, her voice hopeful. "For Marcus? He'll literally die. He'll actually die."
Shane glanced at Ilya.
Ilya grinned.
"One picture," Ilya said.
The girls scrambled into position.
The second girl held up her phone.
Then Ilya added: "One picture is not enough for Marcus. We take several. So he can choose favorite."
The girls squealed.
They took pictures.
Five of them, different poses, different angles. Shane standing stiffly at first, then relaxing as Ilya pulled him closer.
Ilya making silly faces in some, being serious in others, always with his arm around Shane.
The girls squeezed in, beaming.
After the last photo, the second girl lowered her phone, still shaking.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you so much. This is—he's going to—" She couldn't finish.
The smaller girl—Marcus's sister—stepped forward. She looked up at them, two hockey players who towered over her, and didn't flinch.
"You're not just brave," she said quietly. "You're important. You're proof. My brother needed proof that he could exist in this world and be happy. You gave him that." She swallowed. "So thank you. From both of us."
Shane felt something crack open in his chest. Not painfully—more like a door, letting in light.
"Tell Marcus," he said, his voice rough, "that we're just getting started. We'll be here for a long time. Tell him to keep watching."
The girl nodded, tears still falling.
Ilya crouched down again. "One more thing. What is your name?"
"Chloe."
"Chloe." Ilya smiled—that real smile, the one he saved for moments that mattered. "You are good sister. Best sister. Marcus is lucky to have you. You remember that."
Chloe nodded. Wiped her eyes. "I will."
The girls left eventually, still crying, still waving, still clutching their phones like they held treasure. They walked backward for a while, not wanting to turn away, until they reached the sidewalk and finally disappeared around a corner.
Shane and Ilya stood in the parking lot, alone again.
******
They didn't get in the car right away.
Instead, they leaned against the rental, side by side, watching the empty street where the girls had vanished.
"Marcus," Shane said.
"Marcus."
"He's out there somewhere. Watching us. Feeling less alone."
Ilya nodded. "That is why."
"Why what?"
"Why we do it. The meetings. The training. The press conferences. The death threats. All of it." Ilya turned to look at him. "For the Marcuses. For the Chloes. For the kids who need to know they are not alone."
Shane thought about his own childhood.
The loneliness.
The feeling of being fundamentally different, fundamentally wrong. If someone like him had existed back then—someone visible, someone unapologetic—would it have been easier?
He didn't know. But he knew it would have helped.
"When I was little," he said slowly, "I used to think there was something wrong with me. Not just the anxiety. The way I felt about—" He gestured vaguely. "Everything. Boys. The future. What I wanted."
Ilya waited.
"I didn't have anyone to look at. Anyone who was like me and also... happy. Successful. Loved." Shane paused. "I want to be that for Marcus. For all of them."
Ilya pulled him close. Kissed his hair.
"You already are," he said simply. "You do not have to try. You just have to be you. That is enough."
Shane leaned into him. Let himself be held.
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
"For everything. For the hands-on-the-face thing. For learning the grounding techniques. For being you. For being mine."
Ilya's arms tightened. "You do not have to thank me for loving you."
"Yes I do."
"No." Ilya kissed his temple. "Loving you is not work. It is breathing. It is like—" He paused, searching for words. "It is like skating. Natural. Easy. The thing I was born to do."
Shane laughed softly. "You were born to score goals."
"That too." Ilya grinned against his hair. "I am very talented."
******
They stood there for a long time, leaning against the car, holding each other. The sun shifted lower, the light turning gold. The antique shop's sign creaked gently in the breeze.
"Margaret's table," Shane said eventually.
"Margaret's table and chairs."
"We're buying them."
"Yes."
"They'll be in our house. Our actual house. Where we'll live. Together."
Ilya pulled back just enough to look at him. "You are stating facts again."
"I'm cataloguing."
"Cataloguing what?"
"Everything." Shane gestured vaguely. "This moment. This day. The girls. You. All of it. I want to remember."
Ilya cupped his face again—gentle this time, reverent. "You will not forget. This kind of day, you do not forget."
"I know. But I want to remember exactly. The way the light looked. The way Chloe smiled. The way you crouched down to talk to her like she was the most important person in the world."
"She was. In that moment, she was."
Shane nodded. "That's what I want to remember. That's who you are."
Ilya kissed him. Soft. Sweet. Full of everything.
When they pulled apart, Shane was smiling.
"Ready to go home?" Ilya asked.
"Home?" Shane looked at him. "We're in Ottawa. We're already home."
Ilya shook his head. "Home is not city. Home is—" He pressed his hand to Shane's chest, over his heart. "Home is here. With you. Always."
Shane felt his eyes prickle again. "You can't just say things like that."
"Why not? They are true."
"Because then I want to kiss you, and we're in a parking lot, and Margaret might be watching."
Ilya glanced toward the shop window.
Margaret was definitely watching.
She was also definitely smiling.
"Let her watch how I love you," Ilya said. And kissed him again.
******
They drove home in comfortable silence, Ilya's hand on his thigh.
Shane's phone buzzed. Then Ilya's. Then both.
Keiko: Contracts finalized. You're officially richer than most people your age. Don't spend it all on furniture.
Priya: That photo with the girls is EVERYWHERE. The internet has decided you're the sweetest couple in sports history. I'm not arguing.
Margo: Another lawsuit settled. Another donation made. The haters are running out of money. Keep being yourselves.
Yuna: Dinner at seven. Irina made pierogies. Bring the clipboard. Bring Ilya. Bring yourselves.
Irina: Ilya, tell Shane he needs to eat. He looks thin. Pierogies fix everything. This is science.
David: Proud of you boys. Always. That is all.
Shane read each message.
Felt the weight of them.
The support.
The love.
"It's a lot," he said.
"Yes."
"But it's good a lot."
Ilya squeezed his thigh. "The best kind of lot."
Shane smiled. Looked out the window at the city that had raised them. The streets where they'd learned to skate. The playground where they'd met. The houses across from each other where they'd grown into who they were.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "The best kind."
******
That night, in his childhood bed, Ilya's arms around him, Shane let himself rest.
The anxiety would come back. It always did. The pressure would continue. The noise would keep going. There would be more meetings, more training, more moments when the world felt too heavy to carry.
But here, in the dark, with Ilya's breath warm against his neck and the promise of a future home waiting, none of it mattered.
"Are you cataloguing?" Ilya murmured.
"Always."
"What are you cataloguing about?"
"This." Shane shifted, turning to face him. Even in the dark, he could see the outline of Ilya's face, the shape of him. "You. Me. This bed. This house. The girls today. Margaret's table. The lot with the pond. The dogs we're going to get."
"Four dogs."
"Four dogs." Shane smiled. "All of it. I'm cataloguing all of it."
Ilya reached out, traced his cheekbone in the dark. "Good. You should. This is good stuff."
"The best stuff."
They lay there, foreheads together, breathing the same air.
"I love you," Shane whispered.
Ilya pulled him closer. "I love you too. Vsegda." Always.
Outside, the street where they'd met was quiet. The house where Ilya had first appeared—scared and bruised and so brave it hurt—stood dark and peaceful.
In the morning, there would be more. More life. More love. More everything.
But tonight, there was this.
Two boys from Ottawa.
Home at last for the summer, between hockey seasons.
Holding each other through the dark.
It was enough.
It was everything.