Chapter Text
SHANE
Shane found himself on the familiar front step of Ilya’s Boston home once more. He took in the property as he waited for the door to open—a code was something he had apparently not earned, even after seven years. He wondered, not for the first time, if he should just be bold and ask for one. He knew that he wouldn’t. As he looked around, he wondered to himself if he had ever actually seen the place in the late fall. After years of hooking up in their cities, and in whatever city the All-Star game might bring them to, he was sure that he had never been here in late October. He liked it here in Boston, though he’d never admit that either. The air still felt warm, but the leaves were starting to change but hadn’t yet fallen. It felt less sharp than the late fall in Montreal. It was more gradual. In Montreal, fall only existed in the short space between the last hot day of summer and the first harsh snowfall of winter. That felt relatable in a lot of ways.
He wouldn’t be here long. He never was. In the seven years since their first hotel room encounter, they had found a way to fight against the inconvenience of their situation. They circled games on the calendar, hoping for schedules that didn’t force them onto separate flights the second the final buzzer sounded. Sometimes they got lucky. Sometimes they didn’t. It didn’t really matter in the end—they always found their way back to each other for another stolen moment of joy. Joy—he wondered about that too. Was that really what he was feeling or was it just another routine that settled him, even if it would rip him apart the moment it was over. Maybe it wasn’t joy, but he knew that what had started as nothing certainly hadn’t stayed that way, and he could feel it in the way his excitement was buzzing under his skin waiting for Ilya to open the door.
As he was staring into the yard lost in his thoughts, he heard the door open slowly and his eyes found Ilya once more—seven years and this was still his favorite view. It put the fall leaves of Boston to shame. He was as he always was…shirtless, smiling, and gorgeous. Shane’s chest tightened the same way it always had. And then there was no hello, no questions, only hands. The door shut behind him, and it was immediate—familiar in a way that nothing else in Shane’s life was. Like stepping into something they didn’t have to think about.
Ilya always kissed Shane with the same vigor he played the game with. He was always in control, until he wasn’t. At some point there was always a shift where all restraint gave way, and he got the raw and uninhibited passion that pulled Shane in over and over again. A kiss from Ilya might as well have been a gravitational pull—even when he couldn’t have his body, it would consume Shane’s mind until the next time they could be together again. It killed him to go back to half hearted text messages a couple times a month while his heart was being pulled out of his chest by the gravity that was Ilya Rozanov. But here he was once again, hands sliding over skin he could map in his sleep, pulling Ilya closer like distance was something they didn’t have time for. And they didn’t. Tomorrow he would be back on a plane heading to Montreal where the only thing sharper than the fall weather would be the longing to be right back here, while Ilya probably went on with his life like gravity didn’t even exist—floating to his next hookup in another city.
While the kisses normally consumed him, Shane found himself trapped in his thoughts. While he and Ilya bumped up against the glass windows of Ilya’s multi-million-dollar home, the leaves kept grabbing his attention. Seven years, and he had never seen them like that here. Seven years and he hadn’t earned a door code. Seven years, and while he could draw every curve of Ilya’s body by memory, he had no idea what his favorite color was. He had no idea what his father’s name was. He had never even been in half of the rooms of this giant house. There was a break in the kiss then, and Shane’s heart dropped for a moment hoping that Ilya hadn’t noticed his complete and utter lack of presence in this fantastic kiss that was coming months after their last hook up—but Ilya turned his head and coughed instead. A harsh and barking cough. It snapped Shane back in reality, but also made him realize that in seven years, he had never seen Ilya with so much as a cold.
Ilya turned back quickly, planting his lips back on Shane’s. Shane huffed out a quiet laugh against his mouth, not pulling back far. “What was that?” he muttered, voice rough, amused more than anything. “You sound like shit.”
Ilya barely reacted, just rolled his eyes like it was nothing. “It’s a cold,” he said, brushing it off easily, voice a little lower than usual but steady enough. “Relax.”
“Yeah?” Shane’s thumb dragged along his jaw, teasing, unconcerned. “Great timing.”
“Well, you can leave…” Ilya shot back, but there was no heat behind it. Not really.
Shane grinned, shaking his head. “Not happening.”
“Then stop talking and take me to bed.”
Shane lied naked in the bed, staring up at the ceiling with his arm draped over his eyes the way he had so many times before. He found comfort in the familiar sounds of Ilya moving around the space the way he always did after they had sex—it was as if the man thought he could physically wash anything he may have felt for Shane down the drain if he got in the shower quick enough. He could hear him turn off the shower, then the running of hot water on to a washcloth to bring back for Shane. It was all part of the routine.
Ilya’s phone vibrated on the nightstand persistently, but Ilya never moved to pick it up. He probably wouldn’t want whatever woman may be calling him to hear Shane in the background, Shane thought. Seven years, and Shane had never phoned Ilya. He wondered if his calls would go ignored too—probably. The vibrating only stopped long enough for Ilya to return to the room before it began again.
Shane turned his head slightly, eyes following the sound without thinking too much about it. Ilya paused for half a second before answering hesitantly.
He said something in Russian, short and sharp, and then stepped out of the room.
The shift in Ilya’s tone felt immediate. Shane couldn’t understand the words, but he learned years ago that tone didn’t need translating when it came to their language barrier. Whatever was coming through the phone wasn’t calm, and Ilya wasn’t trying to make it sound like it was. His voice carried, tighter now, harder, frustration threading through every word as he responded. It felt like an Ilya kiss—controlled until it wasn’t.
Shane pushed himself up onto his elbows, listening without meaning to.
There were names in there—ones he half-recognized from things Ilya had said in passing over the years. Alexei, maybe. The rest blurred together, a stream of sharp syllables and rising tension that filled the space between rooms. It went on longer than Shane expected, longer than any call like that should have. Then it stopped. When Ilya came back, something about him had changed. Shane had never seen him like this. He was wearing his emotions on his face. He looked both tired and tender, maybe even a little embarrassed. His relaxed post-Shane posture was back to being tense and rigid. Shane recognized that feeling in himself—it came every time he had to walk out the door, or watch Ilya walk out of it.
“You good?” Shane asked casually, knowing damn well that he wasn’t.
Ilya didn’t answer right away. He crossed the room instead, tossing the phone on the end of the bed before sitting down on the edge of it, not committing to crawling in next to Shane, forcing the physical distance between them to match the emotional distance. He glanced over to Shane then ran his hands over his face, trying to decide what to share and what to keep for himself. There was a brief hitch in his breathing after, a quiet cough that he turned away from without comment.
“I’m fine,” he said finally, like he’d decided that was the end of it.
Shane watched him for a second, then pushed himself off the bed. “You don’t sound fine.”
“I said I’m fine, Hollander,” he said, sharper this time.
“Okay… I’m sorry,” Shane said easily, holding up his hands like he wasn’t arguing. Shane sat up to move closer to Ilya as another cough ripped through him. It was a heavy cough from deep in Ilya’s chest and Shane grimaced at the sound of it—and while he would have never turned down the opportunity to be with Ilya, he couldn’t help but dread the cold that he was sure to wake up with in the coming days. He was already making a mental checklist of preventative measures that he would have to tackle on the way back to his hotel. The cough continued, and Shane grabbed the empty water glass off the nightstand and walked to the bathroom to fill it up. He handed it to Ilya.
Ilya looked at him like he was being ridiculous.
“I’m not—”
“Just take it.”
There was a beat where it could’ve gone either way. Then Ilya exhaled through his nose and took the glass, knocking it back in one go like he was humoring him more than anything else.
“There,” Shane said, watching him. “See? Not so hard.”
Ilya moved back on the bed, set the glass down, and pulled the covers over his still naked body. His eyes flicking up at Shane, something unreadable sitting just beneath the surface—leftover from the call, maybe. Or something else entirely.
“Are you done?” he asked.
Shane huffed a quiet laugh. “With what?”
“Taking care of me.”
“I’m not allowed to care about you?”
Ilya tapped on the bed next to him, inviting Shane back to join him. As Shane sat down, Ilya closed the distance between them, kissing his shoulder, and then up his neck. His hand slid up Shane’s chest, steady, sure, his mouth brushing along his jaw in a way that felt deliberate—like a reset button being pressed.
“In this bed, I take care of you.” he murmured, voice lower now, smoother, all the sharp edges tucked neatly back out of sight. “So, stop talking.”
And Shane did.
After a well-earned nap, Shane shifted under the covers and felt Ilya’s body warm against his, his arm was loosely draped over his waist like it belonged there—but this was new and unfamiliar in a way that left Shane feeling uneasy. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. They didn’t do this kind of thing. Nothing about this felt temporary. It wasn’t something they were going to just walk away from in a couple of hours and never want to do again. Fuck. Shane stared at the wall, feeling the rise and fall of Ilya’s chest against his back, and he realized that his own breathing had synced up with Ilya’s without meaning to. He didn’t know if he should sink into it or pull away and get out while he still could. Surely, Ilya hadn’t meant for this to happen either. If not for the phone call interrupting their routine—fuck, shower, leave—there is no way Shane would still be here. Before his mind could even catch up, his body was moving. He began to swing his legs over the bed, but then he felt a hand pulling him back.
“Mmmm. Stay.” Ilya muttered.
“What?”
“Just stay. You have no where to be, do you?”
“But we…”
“Hollander, please.”
Shane turned then and looked down at Ilya’s peaceful, sleepy face. He smiled, “okay.”
Shane stayed where he was, quieter now, watching Ilya in a way he never had before. He had drifted back to sleep wrapped up in Shane, and there was something different about him like this. He was stripped of all the defensiveness and the constant awareness. Asleep, he looked so much softer, almost younger like the version of him that Shane met years ago before the pressures of the league, and his family got to him—before the pressure of Shane. He had to have felt that too, Shane sure did. His face relaxed in a way Shane had never seen, his breathing slow and steady, his body completely at ease like he trusted Shane enough to just let go. It did something strange to Shane’s chest, something tight and unfamiliar, realizing that this was the first time he’d ever been allowed to see him without the defenses in place—and that maybe Ilya hadn’t even meant to let him.
Shane brushed his fingers gently down the side of Ilya’s face, unable to help himself. There was a sheen of sweat across his skin, his hair damp at the temples.
Shane frowned, pushing himself up onto one elbow.
“Ilya,” he said quietly, reaching out to brush his fingers against his shoulder. Shit. He quickly corrected himself, hoping he hadn’t heard, “Rozanov…”.
Ilya stirred quickly, like he wasn’t sleeping all that deeply to begin with. His eyes blinked open, unfocused for half a second before they landed on Shane.
“You’re sweating,” Shane said, not bothering to soften it.
Ilya huffed out a quiet breath, dragging a hand over his face like it was nothing. “It’s hot.”
“It’s not that hot.”
Ilya pushed himself upright before Shane could say anything else, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Shower,” he muttered, already moving, like the conversation didn’t need to exist any longer than that.
“But you already…”
“Yes, but not with you.” Ilya said, cutting him off.
Shane watched him go for a second, then followed.
The shower was… different. They had showered together dozens of times, but it was usually with the intention of blowing each other or using the sound of the water to mask the sounds of their pleasure. This felt like something entirely new. Ilya stood under a steady stream of water, allowing steam to fill the room while Shane stepped in to join him. Instead of being greeted with a kiss, Ilya put his hands on Shane’s waist and pulled him in, resting his chin on Shane’s shoulder. It wasn’t a hug, not really, that wasn’t something they did—but this was a new kind of touch. It was tender and it felt like something that Ilya needed. Closeness without expectation. Shane brought his hands up Ilya’s back, moving them into his hair massaging it gently.
Shane pulled back then to look at Ilya’s face, and he moved in to kiss him. Ilya turned his head away then and barked out another big cough.
“No,” he muttered. “I don’t want to get you sick.”
“Oh, so you are sick?” Shane teased.
“Shut up,” Ilya shot back, putting his head back on Shane’s shoulder.
“Tomorrow’s game is going to be a hell of a lot easier without you on the roster,” Shane mumbled into his hair.
Ilya’s head shot back quickly then, and his eyes darted to Shane’s, looking almost offended. “Hollander, I have never missed a game because of a cold. Russians don’t get sick. I will be playing, and you will be losing.”
“Well, it looks like your Russian immune system didn’t get the memo.”
Shane assumed that when Ilya had asked him to stay, he meant for another round, not for whatever this was. Now he was out of the shower and in Ilya’s clothes, and suddenly the word stay had no set boundaries—a feeling that Shane always struggled with—in this context, it had his thoughts in a fucking blender.
Downstairs was new too, and Shane realized that immediately. He’d been to this house more than once and other than walking through the downstairs to get to the bedroom upstairs, he had never spent any time down there.
They found their way to the kitchen, where Ilya moved through it like he belonged there—which, obviously, he did—but it still felt strange to watch. He pulled things from the fridge without thinking, grabbing bread, cheese, something wrapped in paper that looked like it came from a deli. Shane didn’t feel like he belonged here at all—he wanted to crawl out of his own skin and out the front door, back to where things felt safe and familiar again. He was craving a shitty Montreal fall about now, because nothing that was about to happen here would be good for his mind or his heart.
“You cook?” Shane asked, leaning back against the counter.
Ilya glanced at him briefly. “Sometimes.”
That felt like more information than Shane usually got. How pathetic.
He watched as Ilya worked, putting things together with a kind of quiet focus, like it mattered. Like this mattered. Maybe a lot. The smell of something warm started to fill the kitchen as the pan heated, butter melting, bread hitting the surface with a soft hiss.
It was… nice. Too nice. Shane felt it settle somewhere uncomfortable in his chest.
Shane couldn’t bear sitting at the counter any longer, the silence between them was so loud he couldn’t hear his own anxiety-induced thoughts. He stood and motioned to the space adjacent to the kitchen, “do you mind?” he asked before entering the space.
Ilya smiled widely at him before nodding, “of course”.
He wandered into the well-lit space and noted the wall that stretched the length of the entire downstairs, lined with drawings and paintings. There was a combination of styles and mediums, some with bold color, and others muted and moody.
“I didn’t know you liked this kind of stuff,” he said.
Ilya shrugged slightly, flipping one of the sandwiches without looking up. “You don’t know a lot of things.”
“Where do you get them all?”
“Mmmm, galleries, some are from Russia, some were my mother’s…”
Shane turned and shot him a look. Shane had gathered that his mother was no longer alive by now, through context clues, of course—because why the hell would they ever talk about something so important. This is the first time Shane had even heard him mention that he had a mother. Up to this point, Shane had just invented theories on what kind of miracle brought Ilya into this world. The fact that he had art from her was a sign that he may have actually known the love of a mother, and that made Shane smile.
“Like she painted them?” Shane asked before he could continue with his list.
“Yes, some. Some she collected.”
Shane could tell he probably wasn’t going to get more than that out of him right now, and he didn’t feel the need to push, so instead he asked where the rest came from.
“Some I bought here in Boston. Some I painted. That one is from Montreal…” He continued, pointing at a large painting near the center of the wall. It was a dark image of a Montreal city-scape, painted as if it was taken from the inside of a rain-covered window. The lights streaking across the canvas. It reminded him of the view from his home there. It was somehow a combination of both vibrance and melancholy. Something about that felt very relatable too. Shane stared at it for maybe too long, before it hit him.
“Wait… painted them? You painted some of these?” Shane said furrowing his brows and motioning towards the art.
“Yes.” Ilya said smiling.
Okay… so that conversation is over too, Shane supposed. He tried the equally shocking path instead, “do you know the artist in Montreal?” he asked pointing back to the painting.
“No, not personally,” Ilya said, still focusing on the sandwiches.
“Then why…” Shane began.
Ilya looked at him then, a combination of tenderness and sadness in his eyes, “you know why, Hollander.”
Shane wasn’t sure he did know why. For seven years they had fallen into a routine—a routine that didn’t involve naps, romantic showers, grilled sandwiches, and Shane-inspired art selections that cost God knows how much money. He didn’t know what any of this meant. He opened his mouth to ask, to demand a confirmation, but instead he closed his mouth and turned back to the painting.
“I like it,” he said.
“I do too.” Ilya said, looking at Shane instead of the art. “Now come and eat.”
They ate at the counter, quiet but not tense. Shane really took him in, not knowing if this was something that might become a new routine. He loved seeing Ilya here in the bright light of afternoon, in a place that belonged to him, that had all his favorite things, his art—which was still a mind-blowing new fact for Shane. He had only ever seen Ilya eat at All-Star weekends, where he would hold court and fill a room with laughter. That version of him was special too, but it was never for Shane. This felt like a space that was just for the two of them, like Shane had been invited into a small part of his life that no one had ever had the honor of seeing. Fuck. How was Shane supposed to leave here and go back to the periodic text messages and endless yearning—the man bought a painting to think about him for fucks sake.
Ilya’s cough finally broke their silence. It started small, but it didn’t stay that way. It dragged through his chest, heavier this time, lingering longer than before. He turned away from it, bracing a hand against the counter, and then the second hand, trying to ride it out. It sounded awful and painful in a way that made Shane cringe—again, because he felt for Ilya, but also because he wanted no part of whatever virus that was.
Shane straightened slightly. “Okay, that’s—”
“I’m fine,” Ilya cut in immediately, sharper again.
Shane held his hands up. “Didn’t say you weren’t. Why don’t you go relax. I can get out of here…”
“No,” Ilya shot back immediately, “we don’t play until tomorrow afternoon, Hollander. You said you would stay.”
“Okay.” Shane said, appreciating the clarity and boundaries of stay that he could have just asked for, but knew he never would have.
Shane jumped in to clean up the kitchen before Ilya could fight him on it and they moved together to the couch around the corner. Shane was sure to walk along the art wall just to get a glance into Ilya’s soul that he realized lived there. He was happy to see a combination of dark and light, hoping it reflected his internal thoughts and feelings. He had always known there were some dark spots in Ilya’s life—but it brought him some peace knowing that there was also light, based on the art alone. Shane really hoped his mother was the artist of those happier pieces, he hoped she had a good life.
There was a game playing quietly on the TV but neither of them was really paying attention to it. Shane stretched out along one end, while Ilya sat beside him at first, shoulders still a little tense, like he hadn’t fully settled. It didn’t last long. At some point, Ilya leaned back, then again, relaxing further into the cushions. Then his head tipped to the side, resting against the back of the couch—and then Shane could hear the soft snores coming from beside him. Shane noticed it slowly, the way his breathing evened out, the way his body went heavier, like he’d slipped under without meaning to. The tension that had been sitting in him all afternoon finally giving way. He was asleep. Again. Shane stared at him for a second, surprised. It didn’t feel like something Ilya would do. Just… fall asleep like that, again. In the middle of the day. In the middle of this day.
Carefully, Shane shifted, grabbing the throw blanket from the back of the couch and draping it over him, tucking it loosely around his shoulders without thinking too much about it. Ilya didn’t wake. Shane sat back down slowly, watching him for a moment longer than he probably should have. He knew Ilya couldn’t be feeling well, but he smiled at him anyway. He was grateful to have this time with him, and it felt good to know that he felt safe enough to let himself sleep like this, whether it was intentional or not.
He didn’t know how long Ilya slept, but it was long enough that the light outside had changed again. Long enough that the game had wrapped up. When Ilya finally stirred, it wasn’t gentle. He jerked awake slightly, blinking hard like he was trying to place where he was, what time it was, what he’d missed.
“Fuck,” he muttered, pushing himself upright too quickly.
Shane straightened. “Hey—”
“Why didn’t you wake me?” Ilya snapped, already running a hand through his hair, tension snapping back into place like it had never left.
Shane blinked at him. “You’re sick, it’s fine.”
“I didn’t need to sleep while you are here!”
“You looked like you needed it.”
Ilya let out a sharp breath, standing up now, pacing a couple of steps like he needed somewhere to put the energy. “I don’t need—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening.
Shane watched him, something sinking slowly in his chest.
“I’m not—” Ilya started again, then stopped, shaking his head. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Take care of me.”
There it was again, clearer this time at least. If nothing else, Shane could appreciate that. He swallowed slightly, pushing himself to his feet. “I wasn’t—”
“I don’t need it,” Ilya said, more controlled now, but no less firm. “I’m the one who…” he stopped himself.
Shane raised his eyebrows questioning, but Ilya didn’t respond. “What were you going to say? You’re the one who… what? Takes care of everyone else. Takes care of your family?”
Ilya rolled his eyes now, clearly frustrated by Shane’s attempt at any kind of emotional intimacy. He turned to walk away, though Shane didn’t know where he was going to go, this was his own house—would he just leave Shane standing here alone? Probably. But he didn’t, instead he stopped and bent over to cough again. The cough bordered on debilitating and Shane wondered how one earth he was planning on playing the next day. He could imagine the impact the cold air would have on his virus-packed lungs. For Ilya though, it was as if the cough put the fight back into him suddenly. He turned back around and found Shane’s eyes.
“You stay here for one afternoon, you see my art, and now you know everything about me and my family?” he gestured wildly at his large, lonely home.
“Ilya, I’m not looking for a fight here. It’s okay that you’re not feeling good. This isn’t a big deal,” Shane said his name before he could even filter himself. Ilya noticed, but he didn’t acknowledge it, he just stared back at him, and Shane could tell that he was trying to decide which way he wanted to take this conversation—but Shane already knew, because it was always the same. It would always be the same.
The words sat between them, heavy in a different way now. Shane nodded slowly, even though something about it didn’t sit right. “Okay.” There was a pause before Shane worked up the courage to ask the question, “do you want me to go?”
Ilya said nothing and everything at the same time.
“Okay,” Shane said, “I’ll see you on the ice tomorrow.”
“Goodbye, Hollander.” Ilya said, already moving towards the stairs.
Just like that, Shane wanted to be back in Montreal—but he could already feel that gravitational pull that was Ilya Rozanov. He could go upstairs right now and initiate something physical, and he knew that Ilya would bite, he knew that they would fall right back into the rhythm that they had been building for seven years.
Shane realized then as he sat on a curb in another man’s clothes that they hadn’t built anything—not really. Seven years of hotel rooms, secret hookups, and text messages under fake names and all it had led to was a hollow feeling in his chest and in his mind, as his thoughts and feelings echoed inside of them.
No—he was wrong, they had built something. Walls. Careful and deliberate walls intended to keep the rest of the world out, but they kept each other out just as effectively. Every time something real was about to happen—not even a real, even just a simple fucking cold was enough—they covered it up with something easier. Shane had just learned that Ilya’s real walls were lined with the most meaningful and stunning art—pieces of his life, and even pieces of Shane—but the walls they had built together over the last seven years were covered in silent despair, deflection, and just enough touch to keep the truth buried underneath. There was nothing worth hanging on those walls, even after seven years.
Shane let out a breath realizing there were tears gathering in his eyes, the leaves were shifting gently in the trees around him—the same leaves that made his thoughts swim only hours ago. Maybe this would be the last time he saw those rust-colored leaves lining the streets in this place. He wasn’t naïve enough to think that he could break down Ilya’s walls now, how could he? —he had never been given a fucking code.