Chapter Text
April, 2017.
Shane Hollander is perfect.
He’s the best in his field. Sports commentators hold off on calling him in the peak of his career because they know he’s only getting better. His body has been sculpted to high heaven from years of training and discipline. His reputation is squeaky-clean; the poster child for model minorities.
There’s just one teeny, tiny little flaw. Aside from the whole undefined-salacious-gay-love-affair-with-his-highly-publicized-sworn-rival thing.
Shane Hollander is not a mind reader. And he’s in love in something with an emotional brick wall that grows three slabs thicker every time someone knocks.
“Let’s hunt some fucking Bears!”
The Voyageurs cheer and jostle one another as they make their way out of the locker room, gear clunky and skates laced tight. The energy before a Boston game is always electric, especially on home ice, the thick stench of bloodlust hanging heavy in the frigid rink air. It thrums in Shane’s veins too, but there’s an additional thrill fluttering against his chest when he emerges from the tunnel. There’s nothing he craves more than a good fucking game of hockey against worthy opponents. Especially when he skates circles around those so-called worthy opponents and crushes their hopes against their losing scoreboard.
Shane glides onto the ice like he’s stepping into his second skin. The opposing team has already started their warm-ups. Shane’s eyes dart around nervously, trying not to look where his heart is pulling him, and then trying even harder to not look like he’s not trying to look at someone. But then his traitorous heart tugs his gaze to the corner of the rink, where it finds bright blue eyes and a head of golden curls.
Well. Maybe there’s one thing he craves more.
Said craving is currently on his hands and knees on the ice, knees splayed out as he stretches his hip flexors. His legs oscillate in and out, pulsing in an all-too familiar rhythm as he maintains eye contact with Shane, unable – or unwilling – to suppress a knowing smirk.
After all these years, Shane likes to think he knows Ilya pretty well – his hockey, at least. Ilya’s personal life is a different story. Getting him to open up is like pulling teeth, and God knows they’ve both already lost enough of those to last a lifetime. Their recent heart-to-heart at the All-Star game is the closest Shane has gotten to unraveling the tightly wound spool of secrets that is Ilya Rozanov, but he still feels the iron walls between them.
Regardless, Shane is intimately familiar with Ilya’s warm-up routine, and the hip stretches Ilya is doing now are out of sequence with his usual pattern. He’s just doing this to fuck with Shane.
He’s good at that.
Shane has never been strong at eye contact, especially not when Ilya Rozanov is trying to eye-fuck him across the ice, so he begrudgingly forgives himself when he breaks first. He hates to lose. Ilya knows this.
That must be why his smile is even wider, giddy even, when Shane looks back over with a smattering of red flushing his cheeks. It’s not from the chill of the rink. Ilya winks obnoxiously, then has the audacity to pucker his lips and Shane scoffs and turns away.
“What an asshole,” Hayden comments as he and Shane start trading saucer passes. “Don’t let him get in your head, okay?”
Shane flashes a tight smile at his best friend. His blush had deepened – Hayden must have mistaken it for irritation. “Of course. Let’s win this one.”
He and Hayden bump helmets before parting to finish the rest of their warm-ups. The preparation time passes in a blur as Shane settles into his game headspace. His pads are perfectly adjusted, his skates are laced up tight enough to place that reassuring pressure on his ankles, and all he can see is ice, ice, ice.
And Ilya.
They’re pitted against each other in the face-off, because of course they are. Their sticks make a satisfying clang as they hit the ice in sync. Shane fights back a grin. He loves this. He loves the challenge. He loves the excuse to hover inches away from Ilya’s face. He loves the reminder that even when they’re playing opposing forces, there’s an inherent harmony between them, like they were cut from the same cloth from opposite sides of the world.
Compatibility. It’s a nice word.
Shane’s pulse races as they wait for the puck to drop. Playing on the same team at All-Stars was its own type of thrill. They’ve spent so long memorizing each other’s strengths and weaknesses that it felt fresh to put that knowledge to use in a new context. Shane always knew he and Ilya would complete each other, but getting the on-ice confirmation that they meld together perfectly is vindicating nonetheless. Shane loves being right almost as much as he loves winning.
Plus, they could celebrate together without drawing the wrong type of attention. It was nice. Freeing. Shane wanted to live in that moment, with Ilya’s lips pressed against the side of his helmet, that bright flash of joy and unity, forever.
It’s why he has a plan for tonight. He wants to capture that fleeting breath where they tuned the world out between their fingertips, and stretch it into a two week getaway at his cottage.
“You look eager, Hollander,” Ilya drawls. Shane can almost feel his breath ghost across his face. He wants it. “Stay in your pants, yes? Is no fun winning when you are distracted like needy puppy.”
“I’m always ready for you,” Shane fires back. It’s supposed to be about the game, about how Shane will never let his guard down on the ice, but something in Ilya’s eyes darkens. His gaze rakes up and down Shane’s hunched body. It can’t be that sexy of a sight, what with the pads bulking him into an unflattering silhouette and the mouthguard bulging between his lips. Ilya’s throat bobs as he swallows hard.
Shane wins the face off.
Flying down the ice like he’s soaring above clouds, Shane allows a twinkle of giddiness to flicker in his eyes, carefully shrouded under the stern, focused furrow of his brows. He fires the puck to Hayden through a narrow passage in the clashing traffic of blades, then loops around to scoop it back up when Hayden gets cornered by Bears defensemen.
Ilya is hot on his heels as he turns. Ilya is always there, stick swiping at his skates, shoulder jostling him off his axis as they battle for the puck. Ilya sweeps it cleanly from under Shane and is off in the next heartbeat, but what Shane lacks in physical brutality he more than compensates for in agility, so it isn’t long before he’s pressed back against Ilya’s side. It’s his favorite place to be.
Yeah, being teammates is special. But being rivals has its silver linings too. The ruthlessness of Ilya’s body slamming his own against the boards like he’s trying to fuse them together, the heady thrill of a good play, the flush of exertion on their cheeks, the sensation of competing against the only other person who knows what it's like to be at the top. The only other person who truly understands.
Shane’s gaze snags on Ilya’s smile. He doesn’t mean to – he was serious about not letting Ilya throw off his game – but he can’t help it. The curve of Ilya’s mouth doesn’t follow the arrogant smirk that usually carries him through winding and bland interviews in his second language, or the toothy grin he uses to charm casual hookups. It’s small. Soft. The tender tilt of his lips that Shane saw in Tampa, after they held each other for longer than they ever allowed themselves before. Shane knows he’s feeling it too, the beat of their hearts in sync.
And then it vanishes.
His mouth drops open with a sharp intake of breath, and he’s darting forward faster than Shane has ever seen him move, not even under the crushing pressure of the draft all those years ago. Stick abandoned and both hands stretched out, it only takes a second for Ilya’s shaking gloves to shove Shane to the side. And then –
Crunch.
A body grazes Shane’s shoulder, sending him spinning to the ground as his skates lose purchase. He lands on his ass first before his body gives out and he smacks the back of his helmet against the ice. Spots cloud his vision for only a moment before he’s up again, hoisting himself onto his hands and knees to gather his bearings. What the fuck was that?
He blearily scans the ice, ready to cuss Ilya out for whatever dirty trick he just pulled. The rink has been thrown into pandemonium, like it often does after a gruesome hit, but it doesn’t sound quite right. Everything is muffled to Shane’s ears, but the fans don’t seem to be spitting and booing like they normally do whenever Ilya does – well, anything honestly. There’s movement around him on the ice, but it’s not the familiar rhythm of a play.
Shane pulls in a stuttering breath, gaze still angled upwards where the other players are standing. He can’t see Ilya. He must already be at the other end of the rink. Did he score? Is it time to switch shifts?
What happened?
“Shane! Buddy, are you okay?” Hayden’s face floats into his vision. His brows are creased with worry. This answers nothing that Shane wants to know, but it makes his heart sink nonetheless.
“Fuck, fuck,” a desperate voice filters through the cotton clogging Shane’s ears. It’s deep, gruff, but the words aren’t edged with the familiar lilt Shane has come to love. “I didn’t see – I don’t know why he intercepted like that! Or why Hollander didn’t move! It was clean, I swear. Roz wasn’t supposed to be there!”
Roz?
“Don’t crowd him Marlow. Let the medics work,” a referee reprimands sharply.
Shane finally shifts his line of sight downward, level with his crouched position. His heart, which beats in a black and gold jersey ten feet across the ice, freezes. Someone is slumped there, unmoving. A ring of medics maneuver the dead weight onto a spinal board. Shane’s stomach churns at the smear of blood left behind on the ice.
When he spots the speckles of red glinting off a delicate chain and crusting into a beautiful golden ringlet, he turns and vomits against the boards.
Ilya, he cries in his mind, because he can’t say it out loud. Can’t crawl across the ice to Ilya’s side, can’t hold his hand as the medics strap him against the board. Is he conscious? If he is, he must be terrified. He shouldn’t be alone.
If he isn’t, that’s even worse.
Tears well up in his eyes. Hayden’s ungloved hand is resting between his shoulderblades, trying to provide the comforting pressure he always seeks in crisis. It only makes Shane feel worse. It’s not Ilya’s hand.
Hayden gently pulls him to his feet, steadying him with an arm slung around his back. He’s trying to soothe Shane like he does when one of his kids throws up in the middle of the night. He normally would shove Hayden off, playfully irritated at getting treated like one of his best friend’s fifteen children, but Shane can’t bear to put up a front right now. Not when his pulse is pounding at his fingertips, desperate to reach toward the body on the ice.
“Il…” he tries to croak out. “I-I–”
“You hit your head, bud. Let’s get you to the bench.” Hayden slowly tracks Shane’s gaze at the lack of response, head tilting with confusion, but he shakes off whatever conclusion he draws. He probably assumes congenial golden boy Shane Hollander is just shaken by any serious injury on the ice, plus his own near miss and resulting damage. “Hey, don’t look. If you’re concussed, the lights are just going to make it worse.”
“No, n-no. I need – I should be – is he okay?” Shane can’t stop cutting himself off with gasps, new worst-case scenarios crashing over him and shoving themselves to the front of his mind with every passing second that Ilya remains motionless.
Blood pools, stark against the pale ice. It’s the only color in the room. It swallows the gold.
“Focus on yourself.” Hayden’s grip tightens. “The medics know what they’re doing with Rozanov. They’ll probably go fix the fucker up in the hospital. He’ll be back to being a dick to you before you know it.”
If Shane had any breath in his lungs, he’d snap at Hayden about time and place, but as it is he doesn’t have enough oxygen to keep himself upright. His knees buckle before Hayden has a chance to stabilize him. The arena goes fuzzy at the edges. The crowd is screaming. Everyone is screaming. Shane might be the only one screaming.
The medics cart Ilya’s body off the ice and no one knows they’re hauling away Shane’s heart with him. Not even Ilya knows Shane’s soul has slipped somewhere into the curve of his skin, scattered across the moles he loves to kiss.
Shane.
The utterance splits Shane’s head apart. When it stitches itself back together, he looks up and finds his heart again, hovering just inches away.
Ilya is kneeling in front of him, blue eyes blown wide. The harsh lights of the rink cast him in a strange glow, curling hazily around the edges of his frame.
It doesn’t make any sense. Ilya is still unmoving but his rigidity doesn’t seem to stem from injury. Confusion clouds his eyes and yet they never stray from Shane’s stricken face. There’s no blood on his head, or in his hair. He’s in his jersey, but the cross he normally tucks safely under his gear rests proudly against his chest.
It glints in the light. Entranced, Shane reaches a trembling hand towards it. The minute his finger should’ve made contact with the smooth metal, a searing pain burns through his muscle fibers and along his synapses. His surroundings flicker in and out.
Ilya’s afterimage is gone, leaving a distinct residue on Shane’s ransacked ribcage. Maybe he was trying to return Shane’s heart.
Keep it, Shane pleads desperately, before his eyes roll back in his head and the world goes blessedly silent.
_____________________
A sharp pinprick of light crosses his vision. Back and forth. Up and down. Top left, bottom right, center.
It clicks off. “You don’t seem to be concussed, but I still recommend you get a check-up at the hospital. And you’re obviously pulled from the rest of the game. Maybe the next one as well. Take it slow for the next few days.” The team’s doctor impassively tucks her instruments back into her kit.
It’s good news. It should be. Shane just can’t seem to feel anything beyond the fear curdling in his stomach and the strange buzzing at the back of his head.
He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring into nothingness, before someone clears their throat. Hayden is leaning against the door frame, arms crossed.
“So,” he draws out as he joins Shane on the bench. “What was that about?”
Shane levels him with a blank stare. Hayden bumps his shoulder. Gently. Hayden always handles him like he’s about to break.
Maybe he is.
“Don’t play dumb with me. I’ve seen you get checked harder before and I know you didn’t hit your head that badly, so what happened out there? I haven’t been puked on like that since the twins were both down with a stomach bug from those snot-nosed gremlins at daycare.”
Shane just shrugs weakly. As much as he loves Hayden, there’s no way he can tell the truth.
I freaked the fuck out because my not-yet, maybe-soon-hopefully boyfriend who I’ve been fucking behind everyone’s backs for years got injured and I think I saw his ghost and I’m afraid he’s dead and I’ll never be able to take him to my cottage and suck his dick on the couch and on the bed and on the dock and in the lake and maybe-soon-hopefully even hold hands while we cook dinner.
“Sorry.”
“Eh, it’s okay. The twins were way worse. Ruby started first, and then Jade joined in like it was a competition.” Hayden soldiers on with trying to lighten the mood. He shoots Shane a sly grin. “I’ll tell you a secret. When they first got sick, the sight of it made me so queasy I ended up throwing up with them. Jackie had to take care of all three of us. She was pregnant, but she was the only one keeping her food down.”
Ah, of course Pike has stomach as weak as his snap shot.
Shane musters up a wobbly smile at the thought. If Ilya was here, that’s probably what he would say.
“She doesn’t get paid enough to take care of five kids,” Shane tries to volley. He’s not sure it will land because there’s a roaring in his ears he can barely hear past, but thankfully Hayden goes with it, shuddering dramatically.
“Don’t even joke. I went to the best vasectomy doctor in the region because we are already up to our ears in diapers and kid’s toys.” He waves a hand. “But don’t worry, we have enough to put the kids through college and for Jackie to buy the fancy perfumes she likes.“
Shane’s mouth opens like he’s possessed. “Really? Montréal pays salary to players with no goals?”
“Woah, dude!” Hayden reels back with a laugh. “You’re taking chirps out of Rozanov’s book now? I know it seems lonely at the top, but I’m nothing to scoff at, y’know.”
Cheeks warming, Shane buries his face in his hands. Where the fuck did that come from? Luckily Hayden doesn’t seem offended, relief from signs of life out of Shane winning over the sting of the dig. “Sorry Hayd, I’m just – I think I’m just in a weird headspace. I know you don’t like Il–Rozanov,” he swallows, fresh tears summoned at the act of censoring Ilya’s name, “but it’s always scary seeing someone collapse like that. And he doesn’t have any family in the area. Or even the continent.”
Hayden is quiet for a moment.
“I uh, I think I read that in an article once? An article that like, featured the both of us, because I don’t…I don’t read articles just about him. Obviously. Unless it’s about his play style, for research, because–”
“Relax, Shane,” he fixes him with a careful look. “Rozanov may be a piece of shit, but you’re not. You’ve known the guy for years, it makes sense that you’d feel…complicated, about seeing something like that.”
Shane nods wordlessly. He wishes he could stand up for Ilya. Wishes he could tell everyone about the way Ilya strokes the back of Shane’s neck when he knows he’s stressed and always stocks his house with unscented soaps that won’t be overstimulating. Wishes he could buy billboards to broadcast to the world what’s beneath the surface of Ilya’s prickly exterior.
But Shane Hollander is a coward. And he’s not sure what he’d write on the billboards beyond those Shane-specific gestures of kindness anyways, because Ilya still hides his face when he cries.
Maybe even he doesn’t know what’s behind that mask.
Maybe no one does.
“Come on, I’ll drive you home.” Hayden herds Shane around the locker room, gathering his stuff and organizing it just how Shane likes it. With a steady hand pressed to the small of his back, Hayden guides Shane out to the car.
“Listen,” Hayden starts as he taps idly on the steering wheel. He’s not making eye contact, probably because he knows Shane won’t meet it. “If anyone’s a fifth kid in the Pike household, it’s you. So if you need anything, just…let me know, alright? Jackie and I are here for you.”
Jaw clenched tight, Shane manages to jerk his chin in acknowledgement. He wonders if Hayden would sing the same tune if Shane demanded he drive to the nearest hospital to search for Ilya’s room.
Probably not.
When Shane settles into the passenger seat of Hayden’s respectable Honda Odyssey, he has the vague thought that the car is very, very, boring.
_______________________
Age range for psychotic break?
How to know if I’m developing schizophrenia, please?
Male athlete mid-20s hearing voices after hitting head please please no please
“Fuck,” Shane groans, fingers tightening in his hair. He throws his phone on the bed, then immediately picks it up and punches can trauma trigger schizophrenic symptoms into the search bar. The results are not encouraging. “Fuck, this can’t be happening.”
It had started slow. Quiet. Shane was pacing a hole in his carefully-curated carpet, nibbling at his thumbnail because reverting back to bad habits is what most people do in crisis. He fielded a call from his mother, nearly beside herself from watching the crash happen live, and barely managed to keep himself together long enough to grit out something about Hayden taking care of him. Shane is injured, sure, probably enough to be benched for a day or so while he’s on concussion watch, but he’s fine, it’s just– Ilya–
Fuck.
Shane ‘chronic planner’ Hollander doesn’t know what to fucking do next. No one in Ilya’s life would know to call him, because no one in either of their lives knows anything about them being…them. He frantically refreshes all the sports news sites he has bookmarked and he’s had Google alerts set for Ilya’s name for years now, but no useful information is coming through. He had to stop frantically calling ‘Lily’ after the fourth voicemail because hearing Ilya’s gruff voice nearly sent him to his knees. He needs to see Ilya, but he doesn’t know what hospital he’s in, or if he’s already been discharged and just can’t call, or if he’s awake at all.
Or if he’s alive.
That thought sends Shane into a fresh spiral. A bead of blood seeps from the edge of his nailbed. Fuck, what if he’s wasting time stuck in his apartment while across the city Ilya is breathing his last breaths and Shane can’t be there because why would Shane Hollander need to–
Hollander.
One word. Just his name. But it nearly pitches Shane to the side because God, why did his internal voice suddenly sound like Ilya?
“Oh my God, Scott Hunter was right all along.” Shane barks out a sharp laugh. “I really am sounding like him, even in my own head.”
Admittedly, Shane is no stranger to hearing Ilya’s voice in his mind. When they’ve been apart for an especially long time, sometimes Shane will read his dry hockey books in Ilya’s lilting accent. It’s not hard to do – Shane has spent almost a decade listening to Ilya’s different voices. The slightly stilted rhythm during pressers when he uses charm to supersede the language barrier. The measured tone of him reading off a cue card at joint events. The playful flick of his tongue around consonants as he chirps across the face-off circle. The soft, breathy, reverent way he whispers his name during their clandestine meetups.
Shane knows what it sounds like when his internal dialogue poorly reconstructs Ilya’s voice. This isn’t that. But it can’t…it can’t be…
Blood drips down the side of Shane’s thumb. All he can see is a gold cross stained in crimson.
Stop. Shane. You are…hurting yourself.
He goes rigid. The thought is weak, echoing from the very back of his consciousness and barely breaking the surface, but it’s there. Unbidden.
It’s not him.
“Oh, I’ve done it now,” Shane gasps as he shakily lowers himself onto the couch. The burst of nervous energy that spurred his two hours of pacing vanishes and his legs can no longer support him. He lets out a disbelieving huff, pushing his hair from his forehead with his good hand. “Being Asian in a racially homogenous sport and gay and fucking my career rival wasn’t enough, right? I had to be fucking crazy, too. This is just great. I’m like the patron saint of minority representation.”
Hence Shane’s frenzied internet searches into the likelihood of him spontaneously developing a psychotic disorder after physical and emotional trauma. One WebMD article and three Reddit threads later has him googling the nearest psychiatric hospital. Hopefully they let him call Ilya from his ward.
Shane is halfway through dialing the number when his hand locks up. It just…stops. Then, robotically, his thumb hits backspace until the digits all disappear.
He swallows hard. Then again. Similarly to the strange voice in his head, he has the deep-rooted instinct that this did not come from him.
“Psychotic break and demonic possession?” Shane croaks out. He stares down at the hand that will no longer obey his commands. It’s like it doesn’t belong to him anymore, all sensations and control cut off from the wrist to his fingertips.
Breathe. You are shaking like little dog.
Maybe the hospital has a priest on standby.
No hospital. Not for that. Get band-aid for your thumb.
The voice is so strongly Ilya, particularly when he utilizes that commanding tone to take care of Shane, that he obeys. His hand goes lax, the connection suddenly restored between his brain and limb. Heart thrumming in his throat, he pulls a first aid from the cabinet and carefully cleans the wound before wrapping a bandage around his thumb.
Good boy.
Shane stares down at the fabric on his finger. It’s pale blue, one of Shane’s favorite colors. It reminds him of the lake at his cottage.
He…still doesn’t know Ilya’s favorite color. Despite scattered and flimsy attempts over the years, they’ve never had the time — or the willingness — to slow down and trade answers to such banal questions.
It leaves a sting in Shane’s chest regardless. He wants to know Ilya like that. Wants it desperately.
Blue. Color of мама’s eyes.
Shane really must be hallucinating, because Ilya’s voice in his head chokes up a little at the words.
мой милый (My dear), you are not crazy. Not how you are thinking. Only crazy about me, yes?
Shane’s breath hitches again. He ducks his head, chin bumping against his chest, and tries to re-center himself. He doesn’t know Russian. He’s tried to catch the phrases Ilya has muttered to him during sex so he can run it through Google Translate because Shane Hollander hates not knowing something, but he’s never gotten the sounds right. He can recognize a word or two, but not enough to conjure it up on his own.
“...Ilya…?” Shane ventures into the stillness. His lower lip trembles, a sob half-formed in the back of his throat. Even as a hallucination, Ilya’s voice is like a balm to his scorched soul. He wants to trap each word in sticky amber, etch them into his heart until the rise and fall of Ilya’s syllables can never leave him.
He prays Ilya hasn’t already left him.
Oh, Shane. моя любовь. мое сердце. (My love. My heart.) I would not leave you like this.
“If this isn’t a hallucination, can you…can you prove it?” Shane asks. He feels stupid talking to an empty room, but he doesn’t trust his own head enough to think it.
Maybe-hopefully-Ilya hums in contemplation. Get me paper.
Shane finds a piece of scrap paper and a pencil and sits down at his table spine straight like he’s about to take a test. A pressure begins to build against his subconsciousness, squeezing and compacting it to make room. Warmth cascades down his arm and pools in his fingers before it ebbs. When it drains, all the feeling fades with it. Something distinctly different settles in the absence.
The pencil in his hand shifts from its once comfortable grip, now pinched more precisely in between his thumb and index finger rather than being nestled in the curve of his hand. The tip meets the paper, and words flow out involuntarily.
Shane. Did you miss me?
Eyes round, Shane just blinks at the page. It’s not his handwriting. The ‘a’ is formed like how most computer fonts use it rather than the abridged version taught in Canadian schools. The ‘y’ is fanciful and curled with a flair Shane does not have the patience or flamboyance for.
With his other hand shaking, Shane searches for photos of Ilya’s handwriting. It doesn’t take long to find fans flaunting their signatures from Boston’s greatest love machine. Some of the Bears have even posted the birthday cards Ilya had written for them. They’re full of teasing jabs, but the curve of the letters are hauntingly familiar.
I-l-y-a. The double-storey ‘a’. The flick of the ‘y’. Fuck. Fuck. It all matches perfectly. Somehow, Ilya wrote this.
His hand moves again.
Ilya Rozanov
Shane squints at it before the voice in his head echoes again.
Autograph for my biggest fan. Will be worth a lot of money when I win next cup.
Holy shit. Shane’s situationship maybe-soon-hopefully boyfriend of almost a decade, the man who has held him at arms length for years despite Shane’s attempts to get him to open up, is now sharing his fucking body.
Is kind of hot, no?
Shane has never been religious. It’s never felt like a hole in his life, but he suddenly wishes he had a god to pray to. Perhaps there’s a patron saint of consciousness in some religion out there that he can start a shrine for. He could use some guidance here. Ancient Reddit threads probably aren’t going to cut it on this one.
Ilya decides to start showing off using Shane’s hand. Beautiful spiralling Cyrillic letters fill the page, which certainly did not come from Shane.
Я не мог просто оставить тебя одну. Ты как испуганная птичка. Не волнуйся, я тебя приведу в порядок. И даже надену сексуальный костюм медсестры. (I couldn't just leave you alone. You are like a scared little bird. Don't worry, I'll fix you up. And I'll even wear a sexy nurse costume.)
As soon as he wrestles control back Shane launches a translation app, clumsily copying the characters with the Cyrillic keyboard he already has downloaded. He quickly gives up and tries to use the camera function to scan the whole passage. Ilya puts a stop to that by seizing his hand again.
Boo, do not spoil my fun. You want to learn Russian? I will tutor you. I have program just for Shane Hollander.
Shane’s possessed fingers fly deftly over the foreign keyboard. He watches with a queasy mix of awe, irritation, and embarrassment as the machine spits out the English translations for Ilya’s ‘Shane Hollander Program’.
Пожалуйста, трахни меня ←→ Please fuck me
Я хочу, чтобы твой огромный, толстый член был во мне. Никто другой не сможет меня удовлетворить ←→ I want your huge, thick dick in me. No one else can satisfy
Да сэр, прямо здесь, сильнее ←→ Yes sir, right there, harder
“This is not the time to fuck around, Ilya,” Shane warns. His words carry no venom. He’s overwhelmingly relieved that Ilya is…somewhat okay, and is able to tease him like he always does. It would feel like normal foreplay if it was coming from corporeal Ilya, not weird demonic possession Ilya.
I am teaching useful phrases. And you love to fuck around.
“Ilya. You don’t get it. You’re inside me.”
Yes, yes. I am expert in that.
Shane scoffs. The chair squeaks with protest as he stands up and starts pacing the room again. Okay. So Ilya’s soul is sharing his body, or something. That isn’t really great news, but at least Ilya is…still here, in some form. This is a start. Maybe he can – contact a medium, or something? Or perhaps the priest is still a good idea. They can exorcise Ilya out of his body and reunite him with his own. Fuck, but what if Ilya’s soul ascends or something when they do that?
Shane, is past your bedtime. Go to sleep. I do not want to share body with Cranky Shane if you do not get your beauty sleep.
“How are you not more worried about this?!”
Eh, you have panic attack enough for two. There’s fondness in Ilya’s tone. We can have joint panic attack in the morning. Now go to bed before I put you there myself.
Shane doesn’t know much about the occult. He does, however, know how to listen to Ilya Rozanov. Obediently, he stumbles through his nightly routine and climbs under the covers.“Can you actually do that?” he says softly. “Can you take over my whole body…?”
Silence stretches in his head. Shane’s lungs squeeze as he waits for a response.
Probably? I am…tired right now. But I think yes. At least briefly.
Shane’s eyes burn with exhaustion, but he has to follow this line of questioning. If they’re going to…coexist? like this, he needs to know the extent of what Ilya has access to, and they probably need to lay out some ground rules. He can’t have Ilya hook Shane’s body on cigarettes or something. Then he’d kill him for real.
Ilya, Shane thinks cautiously. The words are sharpened with intention, rather than the normal passive monologue that lines his internal world. Can you hear me like this? What are you…experiencing? How much can you see? Can you hear my thoughts?
Ha. Of course I know everything. You are thinking about my cock right now.
Shane’s voice pitches high with indignation. “No! Why would I – can you get your head out of the gutter for one second! Why would I be – your cock, really – right now?!”
Liar. Shane can hear the teasing grin in Ilya’s voice. You are always thinking about my cock.
“Oh my God.” He buries his face in one of the numerous pillows strewn artfully across his bed. “This is going to be torture.”
Relax. You are hissy wet kitten. I do not think I can hear all your thoughts, only the ones you try to communicate to me. And…you can not hear all of mine, correct?
“No,” Shane says. He hopes it’s true. He doesn’t know what he doesn’t know, after all.
Ilya’s words come slower, more thoughtful. Finally serious. I think I am sharing your awareness. I can hear what you hear and see what you see, but it feels far away. Disconnected. Like I am passenger in the back seat of your boring car.
Okay, now Shane is pissed. The initial wave of relief has passed, and Ilya is back to getting on his nerves.
Right. So Ilya, why the fuck are you freeloading in my head? Get your own body!
Ah yes, would love to. Truly. I would not choose to be stuck in second best hockey player’s body when I could have access to first best. Ilya pauses. Seems my body is…not safe right now.
Not safe? Shane echoes. What does that mean? Why can’t you go back?
So many questions, Ilya groans. If I knew how to get back I would not be in here. Is nightmare, truly. You are so tense all the time and I cannot even fuck it out of you like this. All I know is that I saw you in Marlow’s path. He was coming in too fast, too aggressive. I do not remember moving, but suddenly I was looking at myself down on the ice. And then…I saw you.
“You took the hit for me,” Shane breathes. His fingers tighten in the blanket. “Fuck, Ilya, why would you do that?”
Ilya is quiet for long enough that Shane is freshly worried that he’s made this all up.
You should sleep.
A sense of emptiness fills Shane’s chest as he feels Ilya’s consciousness shrink away from him. The conversation is over and Shane can’t even chase after him when he runs like this. Apparently sharing a fucking mind doesn’t make communication any easier.
Shane falls asleep with a roiling guilt in his stomach. It doesn’t belong to him.