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It started out as a flinch, a subconscious action that Ilya probably wasn’t even aware he had made. Until Shane caught sight of it, freezing as he did.
Ilya might not be aware of his own actions, but he was aware of Shane’s. He was aware of the way Shane’s eyes slid towards him, the hand that had been gliding through the air with no real direction as he waved away the offer of a sip of Bood’s drink slowly lowering, his brow furrowing as he asked a silent question.
“Are you okay?”
A small crease appeared in Ilya’s brow at that question Shane didn't even need to part his lips to ask. Because, why would Shane not think he was okay? Why wouldn’t he be okay when he has his boyfriend next to him?
(His boyfriend who had only smiled and gave a fond roll of his eyes when Ilya used the excuse of the crowded booth to press his body very closely to Shane’s.)
But then, Ilya’s eyes flickered from Shane’s hurt (and slightly horrified but mostly devastated) features and the hand that he had lowered. That he had safely tucked away under the table– out of sight. But not out of mind– not out of Shane’s mind, anyways.
The frown that suddenly tugged at the corners of his lips, nearly matched the one Shane wore when he pieced together what must have happened. Understood that his body had acted on an impulse that, even though Russia and his brother were in the past (and his father six feet under the earth), Ilya still carried with him. Especially around the people he loved.
Especially around the people that, deep down, he still feared could turn on him and raise a hand to him.
And, for some reason, he would let them.
Because he wanted to keep them, even if it hurt sometimes. Because the other times that were filled with nothing but love instead of familiar disappointment and pain were worth it.
It never happened though, a hand raised to strike him.
(A hand that, sometimes, used to hurt less than a verbal assault did.)
No matter what Ilya did (no matter how many times he truly thought they would do it– because he deserved it), nobody who possessed the Hollander surname ever redded his cheek with a swift backhand.
But sometimes, his body reacted like they did. Like they had, in the past.
Like their hands that moved swiftly through the air like a bullet he was still uncertain if it would be better to try and dodge or not to deliver a reprimand – a correction and a punishment rolled into one – in the only way that his father used to disappointingly point out made Ilya listen. Made him understand and learn from his mistakes. Correct the behavior his father hated.
But some behavior couldn’t be corrected. Some behavior was involuntary, and no amount of reassurances of therapy could stomp it out.
And once again, Shane was bearing the brunt of Ilya’s failure.
Ilya kept his eyes trained on the hand hidden from his view– the hand that Shane was trying so hard to show that it wasn’t a threat to him– it never had been a threat to him. Not like his father’s or brother’s used to be.
“Sorry,” Ilya whispered down to the hand he forced Shane to hide, “I did not mean to…” he trailed off, keeping his voice low to ensure the other people crammed into this booth didn’t overhear.
But it was unlikely they would overhear. Because everyone seemed to be wrapped up in conversations and diverting their attention to everyone else in the booth that wasn’t Shane or Ilya.
Were they always like that? Ilya didn’t know. But Ilya did know one thing: sometimes, they did know how to be polite. To pretend not to notice some things that Ilya was ashamed of.
(And he had a lot of things to be ashamed of.)
And Ilya’s reaction to Shane’s hand that had come just a bit too close to his face – when it had suddenly barreled towards his direction when he was relaxed and totally not prepared for the sudden action – was something Ilya was ashamed of.
And something that always made Shane frown and grow strangely quiet. A quietness that was drowned out by the music in the club – and by the noise from their teammates. Noise that somehow the men had reached an unspoken agreement to increase the volume of their laughs and words. Maybe to try to cover up for Shane’s silence, maybe as a way to distract themselves from the couple…
Or maybe as a way to drown out Shane and Ilya’s words from any ears that might try to pry. The player’s own ears included in that attempt to give the couple some privacy in a club that wasn’t as crowded as it normally was.
But it was still filled with people. People whose eyes still drifted, and sometimes stayed glued to their table for a beat too long. Those eyes may stay on Shane and Ilya, but the other players successfully managed to wrangle those eyes towards them with their boisterous laughter and words that made them much more alluring than the couple.
Shane smiled a smile that wasn't really a smile. Just a tense line, possessing one corner that curved upwards the tiniest amount.
It looked more like a grimace but a smile. And the pinched words that came out of Shane’s lips…
Well, they didn’t sound like they belonged with a smile. But they did sound like they would grudgingly accompany a conflicted (but did not have even the slightest amount of joy in them) grimacing expression his features were twisted into.
“It’s okay,” Shane tersely uttered, words sounding like a lie.
A lie that was so easy for him to tell Ilya. Maybe because he had so much practice.
Ilya’s eyes flickered upwards, almost reluctant to meet Shane’s eyes.
Almost reluctant to see how much hurt was in them– hurt Ilya had injected into Shane’s body with one action that wasn’t so simple.
Almost scared to see what else he would find there.
Almost scared that he would see an exhaustion in those orbs– a certain brand of tiredness that was because of Ilya, and all the baggage that he came with. A tiredness that would soon be followed by some simple words Ilya always knew would be uttered, eventually:
“I can’t do this anymore… Rozanov.”
But, when he finally found the courage to force his eyes to meet Shane’s, he didn’t find a tiredness that seeped into his prophetic nightmares he knew would come to fruition one day.
Ilya only saw gentle understanding. And something else. Something that Ilya couldn’t put his finger on and identity before it suddenly vanished, almost like it was never there.
“It’s okay,” Shane repeated those words like he was trying to reassure Ilya of the truth they held– reassure them both that it really was okay.
That Shane really did understand.
Doubt seeped into Ilya’s features, his gaze darting over Shane’s features like he was trying to sooth himself– trying to make himself find only the truth hidden in every pore of Shane’s flesh.
Ilya’s eyes were quick. But, like on the ice, Shane was quicker. His ability to shift his features to match his words so Ilya would only find the truth he wanted him to see was quicker than Ilya’s ability to (reluctantly) pluck out any lies hidden beneath the surface of his face.
Ilya’s shoulders sagged slightly, a strange kind of relief creeping into his body when he found the reassurance that Shane’s words didn’t bring him. Reassurance that it really was okay.
(For now, at least. But if it happened again, would it be okay? Or would Shane finally come to his senses and throw Ilya away?)
Ilya’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile that was hesitant to bloom because the future was unknown, “Okay,” he breathed out, voice barely a whisper as his body somehow managed to shift closer to Shane.
Ilya had to bite his lip to resist the urge to say more– to add two more weighted words to the already fragile air that hung around them.
“Thank you.”
Because Shane wouldn’t appreciate them. He wouldn’t appreciate Ilya thanking him for forgiveness he shouldn’t have even been searching for.
But Ilya knew what Shane would appreciate. What he would accept now that they were publicly out and surrounded by rainbow flags and a team that accepted them compelled.
A kiss. Just a small, brief, kiss that Ilya slowly pressed to Shane’s cheek.
A kiss that, for some reason, Shane felt was woven with something more. Something almost like gratitude.
Something like–
“Thank you.”
Before the medications, the morning after a night at a club was always harder for Ilya than it was for Shane. After all, Ilya was the one whose chosen weapon to destroy his body and make his mind foggy was alcohol.
But now, with the medication, alcohol wasn’t an option.
(Unless, of course, Ilya wanted to follow in his mother’s footsteps. Something that, deep down, they both knew he thought about doing sometimes.)
Btu mornings were still hard. Mornings in general were still hard, not just after they went to a club with the team to celebrate a win…
Or try to distract themselves from a loss.
Even with the pills, it was still sometimes hard for Ilya to drift out of bed. It was hard for Shane to coax him out of bed when he had more experience coaxing him into bed.
Shane’s eyes glanced between the sun that was high in the sky, the alarm clock sitting on the small table next to their bed and then at the man who (thanks to his stature and build) looked like he would take up all the space in the bed.
But Ilya never did that. In fact, sometimes, it seemed like he did the opposite. Sometimes it seemed like he didn’t want to take up any space on the bed, almost like he was scared. Scared of what? Shane didn’t know.
But he did suspect there was one thing Ilya was scared of: Shane slipping away from him when his eyes were closed and his mouth, or his body, couldn’t persuade him to stay. Maybe that’s why he was currently curled around him like the world's most docile koala. Maybe that’s why Ilya stirred at the slightest movement Shane made. Because if he didn’t do those things, Shane would leave him. Just like he probably thought Shane would leave him if he took up too much space in his life, let alone his bed.
But Shane thought that it was nice, being held like this. If he ignored the lingering suspicions about why he was being held like this.
Shane continued to rake his eyes over the words decorating the pages of the book, one hand holding the battered paperback and the other absentmindedly soothing along the bare arm that Ilya had heavily draped around him.
Normally, that small action would rouse Ilya from sleep. But, right now, Ilya wasn’t asleep. He was just resting, like he did a lot these days.
Sometimes it was easier to just allow Ilya to rest – to stay in bed. And, sometimes, it was nice.
Nice to spend time with Ilya like this. Before the shame became too much – before the shame at that thought and those pleasant and content feelings swimming within Shane forced the Canadian man back out of the bed he had crawled back into after his run. And eventually, those feelings would either force Shane to coax Ilya to follow suit– or allow him to dwell in the bed until he was ready to submerge from the sheets and the comfort that probably wasn’t really comforting.
Ilya shifted slight as Shane turned the page. Shane noticed that movement immediately and, slowly, Shane’s eyes drifted down to the mop of curly hair that, after his father’s death, Ilya had steadily been allowing himself to grow a few inches.
Reaching down, Shane carefully captured a curl and began twisting it around his finger, “Are you ready to get up?" Shane gently pushed the words into the warm air surrounding them, coaxing them to seep into Ilya’s ears in a way that didn’t scare him.
In a way that it didn’t make Ilya think Shane was pushing him to do something when he wasn’t ready.
For a moment, Ilya’s arm curled over Shane’s waist tightened, almost like he was scared that if he uttered the truth Shane would leave him all alone in the bed, “I want to stay with you,” Ilya muttered.
Shane let out a soft hum as he continued twirling the curl around his finger, “We can move to the couch?” He suggested, just to get Ilya out of their bed.
Because sometimes, that was the biggest hurdle, the biggest step Ilya had to take to a day filled with more hurdles and steps…
But smaller. Sometimes, much smaller.
Ilya pushed his face into Shane’s side, nearly nuzzling him as he parted his lips and–
Ping
Was interrupted.
Shane’s brow scrunched up, eyes immediately falling to his phone. After all, out of the two of them, Shane was more popular. His phone usually interrupted them.
But, as Shane;s eyes landed on his phone sitting by the lamp on the small table next to them, he realized something.
That wasn’t the sound of his phone.
It was the sound of Ilya’s.
Confusion marred Shane’s face as his eyes swept towards where Ilya’s phone normally sat, comfortably silent. Completely void of people reaching out.
(Especially at this time, anyways.)
But it was Ilya’s phone that made that noise, Shane was certain of it. Ilya must be too. Before, hesitantly, like Ilya was uncertain if he should tug his head out of its hiding place for something he was unsure even happened, Ilya’s attention moved towards his phone too.
His phone that, for some reason, let out another soft ping.
Let Ilya know that someone was trying to contact him. Just Ilya– not Ilya and Shane. Something that, normally, Shane was the point of contact when people wanted to reach the couple.
Because Shane was more repliable. Because Shane was less of an asshole and much more approachable.
(And because of another reason. Another reason that some people were uncomfortable about, even though Ilya said it was fine. Said that he liked it… sometimes.)
“Who’s that?” Shane asked as he gazed at the phone that Ilya hadn’t touched, completely bewildered but allowing a hint of concern (or maybe panic) to creep into his body.
Because there could be one person who would contact Ilya at this time. But only because it wasn’t morning in Moscow.
“I don’t know,” Ilya muttered as he gazed at the phone like it was something unpredictable and dangerous, voice gruff due to the grime and slightly raspy from disuse.
Shane parted his lips, about to suggest to Ilya that he should check to see who it was– and what they wanted.
But, before he could push the first letter of that suggestion from his lips, he was stopped.
By his phone.
His phone let out an almost urgent ping that caused something uncomfortable to twist in Shane’s stomach.
Why? Shane didn’t know. He didn’t know why his eyes swept towards his own phone and…
Well, didn’t want to reach out, pick it up and see who was messaging him at this time in the morning.
But he had to do that. He had to grab his phone, force his eyes to rake over the message, and maybe even respond.
Because it could be important – it could be urgent. It could be from a sponsor or his mother who was in the midst of negotiating another deal with another brand.
So, Shane sucked in a deep breath as Ilya began shifting away from him– as Ilya began moving towards his own phone that was now letting off a series of steady pings.
The opposite of the pings that Shane’s phone was now shooting into the air like a gun letting out a series of bullets in quick succession that was urgently trying to hit its target.
And, eventually, those bullets did hit their target: Shane’s heart.
(And his wallet.)
“This is bad Shane.”
“I know, mom,” Shane sighed, rubbing a hand over his face that had felt like it had aged so many years in such a short amount of time, “I know,” he muttered when he stole a glance at his mom– his mom who looked like she didn’t believe him.
But, even if she didn’t believe him, she believed in herself. She believed in the process she had created to fix this mess.
She believed in–
“We need a statement.”
She believed in people accepting Shane’s truth. She believed that people wouldn’t think it was a lie.
(She believed that people weren’t waiting for certain things – waiting for something that could be used to cast him out of a world they didn’t believe he really belonged in.)
“Are you okay?”
That question wasn’t directed at Shane.
“Is it true?”
That question was spoken in a hushed whisper to Ilya as Bood’s eyes cautiously (and almost defensively) flickered over to Shane.
“We can help you, man.”
This statement…
Well, that statement was almost sweet. Almost made Shane happy.
After all, if it was true, it was good to know that the team had Ilya’s back. That Ilya had some people in his corner…
Even if it left nobody in this locker room in Shane’s corner, no matter how much Ilya insisted all those rumors were lies.
No matter how much Ilya insisted he was telling the truth, they didn’t believe him.
Or maybe they just pititied him.
Shane had watched that video for what felt like a million times.
That video that had turned his, and Ilya’s, life upside down.
That video that Shane didn’t even know existed until seemingly the whole world knew about it.
(That video that had made Shane into an outsider in the locker room and the hockey world… again.)
Shane tugged his lip between his teeth as his eyes scanned over the video. And then, he waited. Waiting for the moment to come. Waiting for the moment that so many people had watched and analysed and speculated about so many times.
The flinch.
The most famous flinch in the world.
The flinch that, at the time it happened, Shane thought he was the only one who had noticed it.
But, of course, he was wrong.
This video that someone had taken in the club proved he was wrong.
The video that had allowed him to see that night in a new perspective. A perspective he hated.
A perspective that saw a reaction to abuse that Shane had never inflicted on Ilya. A perspective that showed Shane look at Ilya like he had done something wrong– and immediately received an apology.
Lip readers would have pointed out that Shane said that reaction was okay – that Ilya’s apology was sufficient. But body language experts would point out that Shane didn’t really mean those words. And, of course, people would assume that Shane would show how not okay he was about Ilya’s public reaction that had blown up his career.
Shane watched the scene play out in front of him. He watched the way that Ilya was practically trying to placate him with kisses and proximity.
He watched the way he smiled as Ilya kissed him, basically begging him to forgive him like he had been doing so much lately since the video was released, and wished he didn’t.
That night, he wished he didn't do so many things.
And, of course, he wished Ilya didn’t, either.
Hayden wasn’t happy that he was dragged into this mess. He wasn’t sad, or disappointed, either.
He was mad.
Mad when sponsors began dropping him, not as fast as they dropped Shane now that they had an excuse that wouldn’t brand them as homophonic, but still fast.
And, of course, mad that now he was seen as having a hand in one of the most prominent (suspected) cases of domestic violence that still made the headlines.
Because of the video. Not the video from the club that was still circulating and gaining more and more traction on the internet.
But because of another video.
A video of a kiss.
A video that outed two hockey players to the whole world.
A video that was an accident… but now people think it was planned.
A video that ensured that Ilya could no longer go back home to Russia. A video that ensured, with Shane’s help, that Ilya was forced to stay in Canada.
Forced to stay with Shane, probably when he thought about leaving him and making his escape.
“What?” Ilya asked, brow furrowing as he shifted closer to his partner, “What is it?” He asked, unsure if he wanted to know, but still desperate to find out what had caused his partner to freeze and let out a curse.
Shane sucked in a deep breath, his grip on his phone tightening as he slowly pushed the cell towards his partner.
As he slowly pushed the news of the Metros’ latest charity work towards his partner. Charity work… for a domestic violence shelter towards the man who the whole word was convinced was abused.
(Was being kept prisoner by Shane and his cyle of violence and lovebombing.)
Ilya’s eyes canned voer the words that had made Shane’s world crumbled just a bit more, his lips pulling into a thin line before he moved a cautious hand towards Shane’s back.
“It is okay,” Ilya tasted the lie on his tongue as he uttered those words, “Your mom says it will blow over soon, yes?” He tried to reassure his partner.
Even though they both knew his efforts were futile. Even though they both knew that this wouldn’t blow over.
But it could get worse.
“I– I just need some time, Shane.”
Shane nodded, even though Hayden couldn’t see the action.
Even though Hayden couldn’t see, and didn’t want to hear how sorry he was.
How sorry he was that Hayden’s career was taking a hit, too.
How sorry he was that Hayden was being traded.
Or maybe permanently benched.
Ilya talks on the phone more often now. Shane should be happy about that, he really should.
But, he isn’t. Because he knows what the people on the other end of the phone are saying.
“Are you okay?”
“Is Hollander upset?”
“Did Hollander do something?"
He knew what the people on the other end of the phone were trying to convince Ilya to do.
“Leave him.”
Shane’s heart, as well as his body that was bruised from the amount of times other teams had checked him into the boards, ached every time Ilya picked up the phone. And he wondered…
Wondered if today might be the day Ilya leaves him.
If today was that the day Ilya begins to believe the things everyone was saying – the pieces of a puzzle they constructed and formed an image that Shane never intended them to.
Shane’s parents looked at him differently. They tried not to – they tried to hide it – but they still did.
But, for some reason, they still tried to fix his public image. Even when Shane suspected they believed that he hurt Ilya– that Shane had, and still did, hurt Ilya.
But, for some reason, they never tried to get Ilya to leave him.
They just continued to love Ilya – love them both…
Even when they probably shouldn’t.
Shane’s career was swirling down the drain, but Ilya’s was being thrown a lifeline it didn’t even need.
A lifeline from Crowell.
A lifeline out of Ottawa, back to Boston (who was now publicly donating to a domestic violence charity and trying to rival the amount Montreal was donating).
And, of course, away from Shane.
Shane should have expected that, he really should have.
After all, Ilya Rozanov was the first draft pick– he was the first choice everybody wanted (even now). Shane was second.
In Crowell’s eyes, Ilya was probably preferable. Maybe the better of two evils. Because Ilya still liked girls.
And, in the hockey world that Crowell was offering Ilya to step back into and reclaim his former glory (glory that people blamed Shane for snuffing out and squashing the competition), one other thing made Ilya easier to stomach (and easier to accept) compared to Shane.
His skin color.
“I’m not leaving,” Ilya whispered one night into the cool air that surrounded them.
Shane listened to Ilya’s heartbeat slowly thudding under his head, trying to force his lips to part and tell Ilya that he should. That he should leave and abandon the sinking ship before it dragged him so far under the water he would never resurface again.
But Shane didn’t say that.
All he uttered was two words. Two words that had haunted him:
“Thank you.”