Chapter Text
Everything is a blur between waking up on the ice and getting to the hospital. He thinks he can hear Ilya somewhere asking if he is okay, but no one answers him.
He vaguely remembers asking the medics to tell Ilya that he’s okay, but he can’t recall any sort of response to that. He keeps going in and out of consciousness, and every time he reawakens the paramedics seem more and more distressed.
When he wakes up in a hospital room, the bright lights immediately hurt his eyes. He tries to hold up his hand to block them, but he can’t for some reason. He looks down and sees that his arm is in a sling. Huh.
“Oops, sorry. I’ll dim those for you,” a voice from the other side of the room says. When he looks over, squinting to avoid as much light as possible, he sees a nurse coming in through the door. She lowers a slider on the wall, and the lights go down to a much more manageable level.
“What happened?” He asks, his voice cracking. He laughs at that, though he’s not sure why. His head feels funny.
“The doctor can fill you in soon. She’s on her way up,” the nurse smiles. He tries to read her nametag, but the letters are indecipherable.
“Aren’t nurses practically doctors? I’m sure you can tell me,” he insists, then switches to a whisper. He cups his good hand around his mouth. “It’ll be our little secret.”
She laughs, but she doesn’t budge. “Nurses and doctors are not the same, but I promise you won’t have to wait long, Mr. Hollander.”
“Please, Mr. Hollander is my father. Call me Mr. Shane.” He pauses, tries to think for a second. “No, wait. That’s not right either.”
The nurse seems to think he’s funny, at least. He tries to read the name on her badge again, but he can’t make sense of it. She must notice, because she tells him that her name is Ana.
The doctor comes quickly, introducing herself as Dr. Campbell. She tells him he has a fractured collarbone and a pretty serious concussion. He’s also apparently on painkillers, which is why he feels so loopy.
He learns that his parents are here, though they’re not in the room. His mom is on the phone rescheduling a few commercial shoots, and his dad left to get them coffee from a nearby cafe.
Once his parents are back, the doctor will have them sign the release papers, and he’ll be allowed to leave with them tomorrow morning. He apparently isn’t allowed to fall asleep again yet, which is very mean, because he’s really tired.
Dr. Campbell and Ana leave the room, and he’s left alone for a bit. He tries to remember what happened, but it all blends together. There was something he wanted to tell Ilya, but he can’t pinpoint what it was.
As if summoning him, Ilya shimmies through the door of the hospital room, closing it behind him like he’s trying to be sneaky.
“Ilyaaaa,” Shane sings. Ilya immediately starts shushing him, which is quite frankly rude, but Shane will forgive him because he loves him.
Wait, was that what he was supposed to tell him? No, that was later in the plan. It was something else.
“I, um, I just wanted to…” Ilya takes a deep breath, then restarts. “Are you okay?”
“Concussion and a fractured collarbone. Out for the playoffs. But—”
“Could have been worse,” Ilya finishes for him.
“Could have been worse,” he confirms.
“Marlow feels terrible, he did not mean to hurt you.”
“I know. Part of the game. We all get our bell rung eventually, right?”
“Right.” Ilya looks sad, though, and Shane doesn’t like that.
“Hey,” he calls. Ilya doesn’t come any closer. Rude. Maybe he didn’t hear him. He repeats himself. “Heeeey.”
Ilya rushes over, still shushing. Seriously, what’s with all the shushing? Shane forgives him again though, because Ilya takes his hand and that’s much better.
“Yes, better,” he smiles, closing his eyes. Nothing can be that bad when Ilya is holding his hand.
“You scared me,” Ilya confesses, and Shane feels like he could melt into a pile of goo. Ilya was scared, which means Ilya cares. Which means Ilya might say yes about the cottage.
The cottage. Yes! That’s what Shane was supposed to tell Ilya. He was going to invite him to the cottage last night. Oh god, last night. He stood Ilya up, didn’t he?
“I’m sorry I didn’t text you last night,” Shane apologizes, closing his eyes against the light. He feels calmer now that Ilya is here. Ilya will take care of him. That’s what soulmates do.
“No, it’s okay,” Ilya breathes, and Shane feels gentle fingers caress his cheeks. At least Ilya isn’t mad about it, then. But still, Shane didn’t get the chance to invite him last night, so he needs to do it now.
“I was excited about last night. I’m mostly mad at Marlow for fucking that up,” he smiles, and when he looks up at Ilya, his face is drawn tight with concern.
“He feels really bad.”
“You know, I had a whole plan to ask you something,” Shane continues, but when he looks up Ilya doesn’t look curious at all.
“Maybe it’s better if you just rest now,” he says, but that’s not better at all. Shane’s brain may be all over the place, but he’s not letting Ilya leave this room without an invitation to the cottage.
“I was gonna ask you—”
“Hollander.”
“—will you come to my cottage this summer?” When Shane looks up, Ilya doesn’t look convinced. Maybe he needs to be clearer. “Don’t go to Russia. Come to my house. We’ll have so much fun, it’s so private, no one will know.”
“Hollander, you know I can’t do that.” Ilya is being stubborn then. Shane continues without missing a beat.
“We can have a week, or even two. We’d be completely alone. Together,” he whispers the last word, then remembers a line from the little speech he’d prepared last night. “Haven’t you ever wanted more time?”
Ilya pauses, then after a moment grimaces. “Maybe. Maybe.”
Shane nods at that, excited. Maybe isn’t no. Maybe could be yes! He can work with maybe.
Ilya looks pained as he gazes down at Shane, and Shane wishes he could do more than just hold his hand. Ilya sighs. “I missed you. Please never scare me like that again.”
“I won’t, I promise,” Shane smiles. He feels like he’s floating, he’s so happy. “I missed you, too.”
Ilya goes rigid, turning towards Shane slowly with a tense look. His eyes are a mixture of confusion, hurt, and fear. Shane is confused. What’s going on?
“Did you understand me?” he asks, voice grave. Shane giggles at that. So that’s what’s going on. Ilya is being silly.
“Of course I did, the drugs aren’t that strong, Ilya,” he teases. Ilya’s jaw tightens, his face losing its color. He drops Shane’s hand. It takes Shane another second to figure out why he’s so suddenly closed off, but then it hits him.
Ilya was speaking Russian.
He looks betrayed, and Shane thinks he can see tears in his eyes before Ilya turns his face away. Oh no, oh no, no, no. Fuck. He’s nowhere near present enough to know how to fix this, but he has to try.
“I was gonna tell you,” he swears, but Ilya doesn’t look convinced.
“Tell me what? That you understand Russian? That you’ve been laughing at me all these years while I told you my secrets?” Ilya's voice is rough, betrayed.
“I would never laugh at you,” Shane argues. “You have to know that.”
Ilya shakes his head, looking towards the door. He won’t look at Shane, hiding his face. Shane thinks he can see a tear escape. “Yes, well I thought I knew a lot of things. Seems I was wrong.”
“Ilya, please, I can explain,” Shane tries, but Ilya is already backing up. Shane feels panic creep in through the haze of the painkillers. The monitor beside him starts beeping as his heart rate skyrockets. “Please, Ilya, don’t go.”
Ilya pauses at the door, his back to Shane. “I can’t talk right now. I need to think.”
Shane feels tears burn the edges of his vision. He wants to get up, pull Ilya into his arms, but he’s not even sure he can walk right now. There must be something he can say, some words that can fix this whole thing. But his concussed, drug-addled brain won’t cooperate.
“Please,” he begs. “I’m sorry. Please don’t shut me out.”
“Get well soon,” Ilya says in Russian, and then he’s out the door.
Fuck. Shane is full-on crying now, and the machine next to him is beeping even louder. Stupid, stupid, he’s so fucking stupid. He had his soulmate all along, and it took him nine years to realize it, and now he’s lost him because of it.
No, it’s even worse than that. Because even at the beginning, he could’ve told Ilya about the Russian. But he’d been scared. So fucking scared. He thinks that even at seventeen, he must’ve subconsciously known that sharing that fact would mean something.
But he’d waited too long, and now he’s lost him. Shane’s lost his one chance at happiness with the man he knows is his soulmate.
Ana rushes in, along with several other medical staff. They frantically check his pulse, his temperature, trying to figure out what’s got his heart rate going so fast.
He can’t tell them, the words trapped inside with whatever’s left of his heart. Another nurse races in with his mother in tow, and soon he’s being hugged and comforted. She probably thinks he’s just overcome with emotion about the season-ending injury.
He doesn’t tell her otherwise. He just cries in his mother’s arms, feeling lost.
Shane’s parents bring him to their house in Ottawa.
He’s silent for the whole drive, a little angry that his mom won’t give him his phone. Yes, technically the doctors said he needs to limit screen time, but he’s also twenty-seven years old. He doesn’t need his mom to babysit him like that.
Or maybe he does, because he knows the first thing he’ll do is call Ilya, text Illya, order a fucking carrier pidgeon if that’s what it takes.
She doesn’t give him his phone back until she gets him settled on the couch, his body exhausted from the physical and emotional whirlwind of the last twenty-four hours.
“Twenty minutes,” she warns him, then leaves the room to get his old bedroom set up. His dad is in the kitchen making lunch, listening softly to something on the radio. It’s too faint for Shane to make out, probably by design.
He unlocks his phone. There’s some texts from his teammates asking how he’s feeling, a text from Rose, another from his dad wishing him good luck on the game. Nothing from Ilya.
Shane looks around to make sure no one is within listening distance, then presses Ilya’s contact on his phone. Dialing - Lily.
It goes straight to voicemail. He hangs up, tries again. Voicemail. He keeps going like that for a while, in a ceaseless cycle.
Dial, voicemail, end call. Dial, voicemail, end call. Dial, voicemail, end call.
After the eighth time, he tries leaving a message. He listens as Ilya’s prerecorded voice warns that he won’t listen to any voicemails, sounding bored. He has to try, though.
The tone beeps. “Ilya, it’s Shane. But you knew that,” Shane stumbles a bit. Maybe he should’ve prepared what he was going to say. “I know you’re mad, and hurt, and that’s all so valid. I, well, I can’t explain exactly why I didn’t tell you. I was scared, I guess.
“But now I’m scared I’m going to lose you. I am so sorry, Ilya. Please just—please call me back,” he begs, getting choked up towards the end.
He hangs up, switching over to their text chain. He sees the last string of texts they sent each other, and he wants to throw up.
Lily [5:38 PM]
I feel bad for you.
Jane [5:39 PM]
What? Why?
Lily [5:41 PM]
Because we will make you cry. And then tonight I will make you cry again.
Jane [5:45 PM]
Well one of those doesn’t sound too bad.
Lily [5:48 PM]
You say that now. 😈
Jane [5:49 PM]
Is that a threat?
Lily [5:50 PM]
It’s a promise.
Lily [5:51 PM]
Warmups are starting. See you soon. 😘
Such a flirty, fun exchange. For a moment, he lets himself imagine how the night would’ve gone had he not been injured. Montreal would have won the game, and then when they got back to his apartment, Ilya would have edged him for hours in retaliation, until he was sobbing for him to just fuck him already.
After, they would lay in bed and cuddle, and Shane would ask Ilya to stay the night. He’d mention his cottage, talk about how relaxing it is, then invite Ilya along. He had a plan.
He had cried last night, but not in the way he’d hoped. Shane cried in the hospital for so long that he felt like he couldn’t possibly have any tears left. But even now, laying on his parents’ couch, his eyes start to burn again.
He drafts a new message to Ilya.
Jane [11:46 AM]
Ilya, I am so sorry I didn’t tell you. I was scared. I was a coward. You deserve better than that. I never wanted to hurt you, but then I did anyway. I want you to know that I didn’t listen to your voicemail. I couldn’t. You said all that stuff thinking that I wouldn’t understand it, and I’d never betray your trust like that. I know that’s hard to believe after everything, but it’s true. I know you may need time. That’s okay. Call me any time. The invitation to the cottage still stands. My feelings for you haven’t changed. Good luck at the playoffs.
He reads it over several times, rewrites some sentences again and again.
“Alright, Shane, screen time is over,” his mom calls, walking down the stairs. Has it been twenty minutes already?
Frantic, he hits send. He watches as the text goes through, hoping that the final version was good enough. Once it sends, the bubble is green, not blue. Which means either Ilya’s phone is off or…he doesn’t want to think about the other option.
His mom takes his phone away. He doesn’t even fight it. All he’d do is stare at their text chain, rereading over and over again. The final kiss emoji from Ilya feels like a slap to the face now.
A week goes by with no word from Ilya.
Shane gets his phone back, and just as he suspected he would, he scrolls back through their old messages. Eventually he goes so far back that he reaches the first message from when he first got this phone. It’s from Ilya, trying to convince Shane to come over after a game to hook up.
Lily [11:03 PM]
Come on, Hollander. I know you miss me.
God, Shane really does. Not just the sex, either. He misses talking to Ilya, laughing with Ilya, all of it.
He tries to distract himself, doing puzzles with his dad, taking walks with his mom. They watch hockey together once he’s cleared for longer screen time, and his mom tries to cheer him up by criticizing different plays the teams are doing.
Usually Shane would be all about it, but right now his heart isn’t in it.
When Boston has their playoff game against New York, he tries his best to act uninterested. But the truth is that every time Ilya is on screen, it feels like a sip of cold, clear water in a desert.
“He’s playing with bruised ribs,” his mom comments, and Shane looks over at her.
“What?”
“Rozanov, he’s playing with bruised ribs,” she repeats, pointing at the screen, where Ilya is skating away from a check looking worse for wear. Shane is angry, suddenly. Ilya is putting himself in danger of a worse injury, all for what? Pride?
He doesn’t give himself time to think. He pulls out his phone and sends another text message.
Jane [8:56 PM]
You shouldn’t be playing with bruised ribs, asshole.
He sends it, then immediately regrets it. The message before was his heartfelt apology, ending with an offer to give Ilya space. The follow-up to which is a text that calls him an asshole and bosses him around. Jesus.
The sent bubble turns blue, though, so at least there’s that. He knows he isn’t blocked.
Later that night, Shane struggles to fall asleep. He has a light headache from watching the game, but he hasn’t told his mom out of fear that she’d turn it off. He could probably get up to grab a couple painkillers—over the counter now—but he’s too tired.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand next to him, and he grabs it expecting another call from Hayden about how terribly the team misses him.
Incoming Call - Lily
He scrambles to sit up in bed, picking up immediately. “Hello?”
“How did you know I bruised my ribs?” Ilya asks in a deep timbre, and Shane wants to cry at how good it feels to hear his voice again.
“My mom noticed. We were, uh, watching your game,” Shane answered. After a moment, he adds, “sorry about the loss, by the way.”
“Is okay,” Ilya responds. “Scott Hunter needs a Cup before they force him to retire for being too old.”
Shane laughs, smiling like an idiot into his dark bedroom. He wants to ask Ilya about so many things, but he forces himself to go at Ilya’s pace.
Ilya wastes no time. “So you understand Russian, then?” He asks in Russian.
“I do, yeah,” he confirms in English, nervous.
“Your soulmate speaks it, I assume?”
“Yeah, uh,” he resists the urge to say you do. “He does.”
“Ah,” Ilya responds, switching to English. “And you did not listen to my voicemail?” Ilya sounds nervous, and Shane is glad more now than ever that he stopped himself from listening further.
“Correct,” he answers, then stumbles a bit. “I mean, technically, uh, technically I listened to the first twenty seconds, but once you started speaking Russian I turned it off.”
“That is good,” Ilya says, but he doesn’t elaborate. They sit on the phone together in a tentative peace, quiet other than the sounds of their breathing. Shane is afraid to say anything more.
Eventually, Ilya speaks. “What does your mom think about New York?”
He’s changing the subject, but that’s okay. Shane is happy to talk to Ilya about any subject, and hockey just so happens to be one his favorites. “She thinks they’re gonna win the Cup.”
Ilya groans on the other end, and Shane laughs. “Weren’t you just the one saying Scott Hunter deserves a Cup before retirement?”
“Ah, ah, ah,” Ilya corrects. “I said he needs a cup. I said nothing about deserving it.”
“Oh, I see. So you were just trying to make yourself feel better about losing the playoffs,” Shane teases, and he can hear Ilya laugh on the other end.
“You are asshole, Shane Hollander,” he accuses playfully. “The whole world must know this.” Ilya’s voice gets louder, though Shane can tell he’s pulled away from the speaker to not overwhelm his ears. “Attention everyone, Shane Hollander is asshole!”
Shane feels giddy, like a high school boy talking on the phone to his crush. He missed Ilya so much, but he doesn’t say so. He’s still afraid of scaring him off.
“How do you feel?” Ilya asks softly.
Like I miss you. Like I love you. Like I need you. But of course he’s asking about Shane’s injury, not about his feelings for Ilya.
“Better. Still can’t look at a screen for too long, and I’ve been getting headaches, but I should be out of the sling by the end of next week, so that’s something.” And he knows he shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, but he can’t help it. “It’ll be nice to not be in a sling while I’m at the cottage.”
“Mm,” Ilya hums, but he doesn’t add anything more.
“Do you…” Shane steels himself for rejection, then forces himself to be brave. “Do you think—would you still want to come?”
Ilya is silent on the other end, and Shane feels like he’s going to throw up. This is the moment, he thinks, where he’ll finally find out if he’s really forgiven.
“I don’t know if that is a good idea, Hollander,” Ilya eventually sighs. Shane’s heart sinks, but he doesn’t give up.
“What was it you said to me once? Everything we do is a bad idea,” Shane challenges, and Ilya laughs sadly on the other end of the line.
“I’m not saying no, Shane,” Ilya says. Shane. He called him Shane again. Shane feels hope spring to life in his chest for the first time in a week.
“But you’re not saying yes either?” Shane guesses.
“I will think about it,” Ilya promises, and for now that has to be enough. For now, Ilya is talking to him again, and even though he hasn’t said Shane is forgiven, they’re clearly moving towards that direction.
“Okay. Goodnight, Ilya.”
“Goodnight, Shane.”
Two weeks later, Shane is watching the Cup finals with his parents while texting Ilya. His parents are rooting for New York, while Ilya is mostly making jokes about Scott Hunter being old. It’s the best night he’s had in a long time.
Jane [9:45 PM]
I can’t believe New York is about to win the Cup.
Lily [9:46 PM]
They had to take pity on Scott Hunter eventually.
Jane [9:47 PM]
Come on, even you have to admit that he played great this season.
Lily [9:48 PM]
Yes, he played good.
Lily [9:48 PM]
For dinosaur.
Shane laughs at his phone, and when his parents give him a questioning look, he tells them that Rose sent him a funny text about the game. It’s not entirely a lie. Rose did text him to tell him that she’s watching the game. An hour ago.
The timer hits zero, and the rest of the New York players explode out onto the ice. New York really did it. They won the Cup.
Shane watches as Scott Hunter shakes the commissioner’s hand, then takes the cup and raises it over his head. He skates around the rink with it, and the announcers on TV start talking about just how historic this win is.
Eventually, Hunter hands the Cup to Carter Vaughn, and turns to scan the crowd. Some of the players’ families are taking to the ice, but Shane knows from attending a few charity events that Scott Hunter doesn’t have any living family.
Scott looks nervous, though, and while Shane’s parents chat about the game, he leans forward and watches as Scott gestures to a man in the crowd. The guy is young and attractive, though not necessarily Shane’s type. Is he a friend?
He texts Ilya.
Jane [9:52 PM]
What is he doing?
Ilya texts back immediately, which means he’s probably watching and wondering the same thing. Shane wonders if he’s alone or with people.
Lily [9:52 PM]
I don’t know.
His parents look back to the TV as the guy from the crowd hops the boards, joining Scott Hunter out on the ice. Scott guides him by the hand back to the center of the ice, and Shane zeroes in on that contact. Is Scott Hunter…?
Before he can process anything else, Scott Hunter is grabbing the face of who Shane can only assume is his boyfriend and kissing him. Holy shit.
Scott Hunter is kissing a man. On live television.
It’s not an innocent kiss either. They kiss like two people who have kissed many times before, and eventually Scott pulls back and engulfs the man in a hug. Shane’s mouth is wide open, and he can see that his mother’s expression of shock is similar.
Shane’s phone starts to ring. Incoming Call - Lily.
He excuses himself to the hallway, picking up as he turns the corner.
“What is—”
“Listen to the voicemail,” Ilya commands, sounding resolved. “Then let me know if I am still invited.”
“And if you are?” Shane asks. He’s pretty sure there’s nothing that could be in that voicemail that would make him rescind his invitation. Ilya could admit to murder and Shane would probably still invite him.
“Then I will come to the cottage.”
Shane waits until he’s in the privacy of his bedroom to listen to the voicemail. He pulls out headphones, connecting them to his phone and pulling up his Phone app.
Lily - 1 Voicemail. 7:24 PM. 3/28/17.
Well, it’s now or never. Shane presses play.
“Shane,” Ilya’s voice says through the headphones. This part is familiar. “I think I have the words. But I am not yet ready to say them to you yet. So…please don’t translate this.”
Ilya goes on to talk about how much he hates being in Russia, how awful his family treats him, and his regrets about the end of his father’s life. Shane’s heart breaks for him.
“I have no one now,” Ilya says, sounding miserable. “Well, not no one. I have Svetlana. She loves me. And I love her.”
Svetlana again. Shane knows that she and Ilya are old friends, but he can’t help the spark of jealousy that ignites in him. Before he can get too upset about it, though, Ilya continues.
“But not like…fuck…But not like I love you.”
Shane’s heart fucking stops. Or at least it feels like it does.
“That’s the worst fucking part of all this is that all I want is you. It’s always you. I’m so in love with you and…” Ilya trails off, and Shane is desperate to hear his next words. It sounds like Ilya is crying.
“And I know I have a soulmate. And I know it probably isn’t you. But, God, I know I will never love anyone the way I love you. And it scares me that God or the universe or biology has decided that there is a person out there who is my perfect match, and it might not be you. I need it to be you. Because if it isn't you…I don’t know what I will do. And if it is you…I don’t know what to do. I don’t know which scares me more.”
The message ends there. Shane sits for a moment in shock, staring at his phone screen and trying to process what he just heard. He wipes a tear from his eye and—fuck—since when was he crying?
He plays the voicemail again, then again a third time. There’s so much to process. Ilya loves him. He loves him. And then that last part. I don’t know which scares me more.
Shane understands that feeling. It’s what kept him from telling Ilya he understood Russian for all those years, it’s what made him so desperate for Rose to be his soulmate. It used to be true for him, too.
But not anymore. Because Shane knows which scares him more now. The thought of Ilya not being his soulmate—he can’t even fathom it.
It’s rare for soulmates to reject each other. It happens, of course. Couples who have been married for decades, only for one of them to find their soulmate. Exes who can’t get past the things that tore them apart. Having a soulmate doesn’t mean your soulmate will be a good partner, or even a good person.
But it’s still rare to reject them. In some cultures, people who reject their soulmates are made into pariahs for going against destiny. Russia is like that. He knows because he looked up Russian soulmate customs when he was twelve, back when he thought his soulmate was a girl and was probably secretly hoping for a way out of it.
Ilya was probably raised with the expectation that he would spend the rest of his life with his soulmate, whether he wanted to or not. And yet here he is, promising that even if Shane is not his soulmate, he will choose him.
Would Shane do the same?
He immediately knows his answer. If Ilya isn’t his soulmate, he will look God or destiny or whatever force it is that decides that two souls are inextricably linked right in the eye and defy them. He will tell them that they are wrong.
Because he loves Ilya Rozanov, soulmate or not. He loves him, he loves him, he loves him. He loves him so much that it feels like it can’t fit in his body, like all this love has to erupt out of him or else he’ll explode.
He pulls out his phone.
Jane [11:23 PM]
You’re still invited.
Ilya doesn’t respond at first, and Shane wonders if he’s gone to sleep already. But ten minutes later he gets a text back from Ilya. It’s a screenshot of a flight confirmation from Boston to Ottawa, two weeks away.
Lily [11:34 PM]
See you soon.
Shane refreshes the page on the airline’s website, squinting at his phone screen and wishing he’d brought his glasses. His stomach jolts as the In Flight changes to Landed. Ilya is here.
He looks out his window at the terminal exit, as if Ilya will walk out at any second. Which is stupid, they just landed. What, does he think Ilya is going to teleport to him? They’re probably not even done taxiing.
He drums his fingers against the steering wheel. He definitely got here too early. He’s circled the terminal at least three times, stopping at the curb long enough each time that airport security yells at him to move along. He can see them in his rearview mirror now, watching him. They probably wrote down his license plate number.
Whatever. Ilya’s plane landed, so Shane’s not going anywhere. He’ll pay whatever damn fine they want to send his way.
He’s nervous to see Ilya. They haven’t talked much since the night of the Cup finals, just an occasional text here and there, small logistics things to plan for these next two weeks.
They’re both sort of in a holding pattern, really. It’s like they know they have some very important things to talk about, but neither wants to have that conversation over the phone. So instead, they’ve been dancing around it while they wait.
Shane has a plan. Well, he’s changed the plan six times in the last twelve hours, but he feels confident with the current plan. He’s going to drive them to the cottage, show Ilya around, and then once they’re settled in, they’ll sit down and have an honest, open conversation about how to move forward.
Lily [1:25 PM]
Just got off the plane. Heading to exit.
Shane takes a deep breath. It’s go time.
When he sees Ilya finally exit the sliding exit doors, his heart rate kicks into high gear. Ilya is wearing sweats, sunglasses, and a hat, probably trying to conceal his identity as best as he can.
He looks good. Really good. Shane suspects that he’s extremely biased, because usually no one looks good after spending hours on an airplane.
Ilya puts his suitcase in the back, then climbs in the passenger seat. Before Shane can say anything, Ilya looks around and asks, “is this a Jeep?”
“Yeah, so what?” Shane responds, looking around his Jeep Cherokee like he can find whatever is making Ilya react so distastefully.
Ilya snorts.
“What? It’s good in the snow. Practical,” he defends. This was not how he planned on greeting Ilya, but it feels on brand for them.
“You’re a millionaire,” Ilya replies, like that explains anything. It really doesn’t.
“It holds a lot of stuff,” he adds, but he already knows that whatever Ilya’s issue with his car is, that won’t help.
“Okay.” Ilya says it like he agrees, but Shane knows better. He’s just dropping the conversation.
Shane maneuvers them out of the airport lot and gets onto the main road. They’re silent for a while, and Shane panics a little. What is he supposed to say? None of his plans accounted for the two hour drive to the cottage. He’s kicking himself for that now.
“Are you hungry?” He eventually asks. “It’s about a two hour drive, but we can stop for something if you want.”
“No, I’m okay,” Ilya responds immediately, and Shane can’t take his eyes off the road long enough to analyze his facial expression.
Shane starts to say more, telling Ilya about the cottage, about groceries, about the weather for the next two weeks. He knows he’s just filling empty space, but he can’t stop himself. He’s so anxious he feels like he might die.
“Thank you for still inviting me,” Ilya eventually interrupts. That shuts Shane up.
Because what is he supposed to say to that? Yeah, sure, I listened to your voicemail and I feel the same way, I love you so much that it hurts sometimes, of course I was going to still invite you.
No, he can’t say any of that. He has to stick to the plan.
“Thank you for still coming,” he replies softly. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Yes, me too,” Ilya smiles at him. “But also terrified, yes?”
Shane immediately feels better now that one of them said it. “Yeah, same,” he agrees. He takes his eyes off the road for a moment, and Ilya is looking at him so fondly that he briefly considers pulling over to the side of the road so he can kiss him.
Not yet.
Ilya reaches over to where Shane’s right hand is tapping nervously against his thigh and pulls it over to his lap, linking their fingers together. It’s the first time they’ve touched in months, and Shane feels prickles of excitement race up his arm.
I love you, he wants to say. He bites it back.
When they arrive at the cottage, Shane’s skin buzzes with apprehension and excitement. He takes Ilya’s suitcase, moving towards the door without looking back.
“I can carry my own suitcase,” Ilya argues, and Shane huffs.
“Are your ribs still bruised?”
He can almost hear Ilya’s eye roll behind him. “My ribs are fine. Healed.”
“Well, I’m still gonna carry your bag,” Shane insists. He gets to the door, fumbling with the key for a second before he manages to get it in the lock. He turns the knob.
And then he fucks up, because he turns around, and Ilya is smiling at him soft and shy, and his clothes are rumpled from travel, and he looks so, so good.
Fuck the plan. Fuck everything, honestly. The second they both get through the door, Shane is pushing it closed behind them, dropping the suitcase and turning around to pull Ilya’s face to his own.
Ilya gasps into the kiss, clearly shocked by this development. Shane doesn’t care. He doesn’t care because he’s here in his favorite place with his favorite person, who loves him. Ilya loves him.
He tangles his fingers in Ilya’s hair, pulling in a way that makes the other man groan. Ilya gets over his shock quickly, and soon Shane is being moved around, his back pushed against the door, Ilya’s body pressing against him. Every point of contact sends a little trail of fire directly to Shane’s cock.
He slips his tongue into Ilya’s mouth, moaning at the faint taste of spearmint gum and something inherently Ilya underneath.
He can feel Ilya’s cock against his hip, achingly hard. He wants it in his mouth, needs to taste the heady musk of his skin. Shane drops to his knees, grabbing at the band of Ilya’s sweatpants and pulling them down alongside his briefs.
He wastes no time, pressing his tongue into the slit before opening his mouth wide and taking Ilya down to the root. He fights against his gag reflex, his body unused to such an intrusion after months without it.
This is repentance, this is devotion, this is Shane on his knees giving worship the best way he knows how. Ilya grunts like he’s been punched, bracing one hand against the wall and grabbing a fistful of Shane’s hair with the other.
“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya groans.
Shane presses his tongue against Ilya’s cock and sucks, bobbing his head frantically. He needs this, he’s never needed anything more than he’s needed this.
He brings one hand to Ilya’s balls, fondling them in a way that has Ilya panting above him. He can feel how close Ilya is, and Shane doesn’t let up. He wants Ilya to come down his throat, taste his spend on his tongue.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Ilya commands, sounding breathless. Shane keeps going, lost to the sensation of Ilya’s thick cock in his mouth, and doesn’t stop until Ilya uses the hand tangled in his hair to physically pull him back.
Shane looks up at Ilya, feeling dazed, drool running down his chin.
“Where is your bedroom?” Ilya asks, and it takes Shane a moment to remember how to speak.
“Down the hall, first door on the left,” he pants. Ilya pulls him up off his knees, pressing a dirty kiss to Shane’s wet mouth before pulling back.
“I need to fuck you,” he breathes. And yes. Yes, Shane wants that.
Ilya pushes Shane backwards, kissing him again as he guides them towards the bedroom. Shane feels free, handing all the power to Ilya. He doesn’t want to think right now.
When they get into the bedroom, Ilya pushes him down on the bed before crawling on top of him, straddling his hips. He captures Shane’s lips again, licking into his mouth as he presses his wrists to the bed, lightly restraining him.
Shane bucks his hips up, desperate for any sort of friction against his aching cock. Ilya presses his hips down, brushing their clothed erections against each other. Shane moans, throwing his head back at the relief.
Ilya moves to Shane’s neck, pressing messy kisses to the skin and moving lower. He releases Shane’s wrists to work at the buttons of his shirt, and Shane in turn grabs the hem of Ilya’s tank and pulls it over his head.
Once their shirts are off, Ilya leans down and takes Shane’s nipple into his mouth, biting just on the side of too hard in a way that has Shane arching his back. When Ilya moves to his other nipple, Shane fumbles at his bottoms, pushing his shorts and underwear off together.
Ilya lifts off of Shane’s chest to do the same, and then they’re fully naked, skin to skin.
“Where is your lube?” Ilya asks, lowering a hand to palm at Shane’s erection.
“In the—the nightstand,” Shane answers, jerking his head towards his right to indicate which one. Ilya reaches over, pulling out the lube and condoms Shane keeps there.
He maneuvers off of Shane’s lap, settling between his legs and pushing Shane’s thighs up to his chest. He can feel how exposed this makes him, but he can’t care about that when Ilya is popping the cap off the lube and slicking up his fingers.
He presses the pad of his index finger to Shane’s hole, leaning forward to press a kiss to the back of his thigh.
“Please,” Shane begs, wiggling his hips as if it’ll somehow get Ilya’s fingers in him faster. “I need it. Ilya, I need it.”
At the sound of his name, Ilya presses a finger in, and Shane groans at the stretch. With his fucked up collarbone, he hasn’t been able to finger himself for a while.
“Fuck, Hollander, so tight,” Ilya teases, leaning forward to kiss Shane’s ankle.
“Haven’t—” he hisses as Ilya adds a second finger. “It’s—it’s been a while.” He can feel the curve of Ilya’s smile against his abdomen.
Ilya scissors his fingers, working them in and out of Shane’s hole. After a minute, he adds a third finger, and Shane whines. He doesn’t want fingers.
“Please, fuck me, Ilya, I can take it,” he babbles, but Ilya continues to finger him. He’ll probably be grateful for the careful prep later, but right now it feels like torture.
After what feels like hours, but is probably a matter of minutes, Ilya pulls his fingers out and tears a condom out of its wrapper. Shane watches as he slides it down his length, a primal part of himself wishing that Ilya could spill inside him. Maybe someday.
Ilya slicks up his cock, then leans over Shane, pressing the head to his hole. When he presses in, Shane throws his head back, overwhelmed by the slight burn and all-encompassing pleasure.
“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya grunts as he bottoms out. “Feels so fucking good,” he adds in Russian.
It’s the first time Ilya has spoken Russian around him since finding out Shane can understand the language. Shane would probably have a bigger reaction to that if he wasn’t impaled on Ilya’s long, thick cock. He could practically feel him in his throat.
Ilya pulls back slowly before snapping his hips forward, and Shane feels stars dance across his eyelids. The pleasure is so acute, so intense, that there’s no possible way he’s going to last.
He reaches up, pulling Ilya into a messy kiss. Ilya continues pounding into him, the rough slapping of their bodies colliding filling the room. He hits Shane’s prostate with brutal precision, and Shane feels heat lick down his spine, fire racing through his blood at each perfectly aimed thrust.
“Gonna come, gonna come,” Shane pants against Ilya’s mouth. They’re less kissing now than breathing against each other.
“Fuck, please,” Ilya groans, sounding close himself. “I need it, I need you to.”
Shane reaches down and takes himself in hand, and it only takes a couple strokes for him to hurdle over the edge, vision going black on the edges from the intensity of his climax.
Ilya curses again, picking up speed and pressing Shane’s legs even higher. He finishes with a pained shout, hips thrusting erratically as he spills into the condom.
He presses his forehead to Shane’s, both breathing heavily as they come down from the high. Ilya eventually rolls to the side to avoid crushing him, and Shane sort of wishes he hadn’t.
After his lungs start to feel normal, Shane gets up, walking into the ensuite bathroom to clean himself up. When he passes the mirror, he sees that he looks absolutely wrecked. Lips kiss bitten, eyes glazed, hair sticking up in all directions. Ilya must look about the same.
When he exits the bathroom with a damp washcloth, Ilya is laying on the bed with an arm over his eyes. The condom is gone, likely disposed of in the trashcan Shane keeps by the bed.
Shane climbs onto the bed, using the cloth to carefully clean Ilya’s softening dick. He presses a kiss to his pelvis as he finishes, throwing the cloth into the hamper across the room. He doesn’t even check to see if he missed.
He lays down next to Ilya, and when he goes to put his head on his chest, he realizes it’s shaking, quiet sobs wracking through him.
“Hey,” Shane says, soft, “hey, hey. What’s going on?” He tries to pull Ilya’s arm from his face, but Ilya resists.
Shane kisses his shoulder, his neck, his chest, trying to press all the love he feels into his skin. “Ilya, I need you to look at me. I have something to tell you.”
This is not how he had planned to do any of this, but he can’t be bothered. If he goes another minute without telling Ilya how he feels, he might die.
Ilya takes in a shaky breath and removes his arm, looking over at Shane with wet, sad eyes.
Shane props himself up on an elbow so that he’s hovering above Ilya, looking down at that handsome, beloved face.
“I love you,” he whispers, and Ilya’s eyes fill with tears again. Shane panics, worried that he’s somehow misread the situation. “I’m sorry if it’s too late, or if you don’t feel the same way anymore. But I love you, I love you so much, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop.”
Ilya reaches a hand up then, cupping Shane’s cheek and running his thumb over his freckles. “My love,” he says in Russian. “I have never stopped loving you. I never will.”
Now it’s Shane’s turn to cry, the tears spilling over and running down his cheeks. Ilya tuts, making soothing noises as he brushes them away.
“I love you so much,” Shane says, voice shaky. “So, so much, Ilya.”
Ilya smiles at him then, pulling Shane onto his lap. Shane rests his head against Ilya’s chest, letting the comforting repetition of Ilya’s hand in his hair calm him down.
“Does it feel like agony for you, too?” he asks.
“Not anymore.”
Shane wakes up warm and comfortable, cradled against Ilya’s chest. He didn’t realize he fell asleep, but between the tears and the way Ilya was petting his hair, he guesses he never really stood a chance.
He looks up at Ilya, only to see the other man looking down at him with a besotted smile.
“You’re awake.”
“I’m awake,” Shane repeats.
They spend a few moments just looking at each other before Ilya sighs, still smiling as he asks, “so you listened to my voicemail?”
Shane swallows. “I did, yeah.”
“And what did you think?”
“I think that some part of me has always known you were my soulmate,” Shane answers honestly. Ilya’s eyebrows raise, a pleased smile belaying the nerves he can still see behind his eyes.
“And if I’m not…” Ilya asks, sounding small.
“If you’re not, then I don’t care. I choose you, Ilya. I will never love anyone like I love you.” Shane’s voice is confident, unwavering. He doesn’t want to leave any room for doubt in Ilya’s mind. “But I know that you are.”
“Our marks haven’t appeared,” Ilya points out, and Shane can’t resist rolling his eyes.
“They will. I know they will.”
Ilya doesn’t look convinced, but he leans down and kisses him. Fine, he doesn’t have to be sure. Shane can be sure enough for both of them. They are soulmates. He’s never known anything more than he knows this.
The rest of the day is spent enjoying the cottage, sharing lazy kisses as they swim in the lake, kicking around a soccer ball and giggling as Ilya tackles Shane to the ground to get it back.
Shane grills burgers for dinner, and Ilya makes fun of him for not cutting the recipe in half. Shane grumbles about it, but the kiss Ilya places behind his right ear, where a soulmark should be, makes up for it.
By the time night rolls around, Shane is exhausted. They exchange lazy handjobs in the shower before brushing their teeth and climbing into bed.
Shane wakes to a sharp pain behind his right ear, bolting upright and raising a hand to the aching flesh.
He hears Ilya gasp beside him, startling awake with a hiss of pain. Shane reaches for the nightstand, switching on the light. When he looks over at Ilya, his hand is behind his own right ear.
They look at each other for a second, stunned, before Shane scrambles on top of him, pushing his head to the side so he can look at his ear. Ilya doesn’t fight him, lifting his head to give Shane a better view.
And there it is.
A swirling, complex pattern on the patch of skin behind Ilya’s ear, unique as a fingerprint. Or not, technically, because he suspects there’s a matching mark behind his own ear.
He has Ilya check anyway, and once they confirm that their marks match, Shane bursts into tears. Ilya kisses him everywhere, on his nose, his freckles, his cheeks, his chin. When he reaches his lips, Shane can taste the salt of his tears.
“It’s you,” Ilya says, over and over again. “It’s you, it’s you, it’s you.”
Shane kisses him hard, happiness and relief coursing through him. He wishes he could press closer, so that their very molecules were intertwined.
He knew, he always knew, but it’s still such a relief to be sure. Ilya Rozanov is his soulmate.
“My soulmate,” Ilya says in Russian. Shane strains to hear, focusing on the words.
“Say it again,” he commands.
Ilya repeats it, and Shane concentrates on exactly what he said. “Моя родственная душа.”
“Moya rodstvennaya dusha,” Shane tries, and he’s sure he butchers it, but Ilya’s eyes fill with tears anyway. It’s Shane’s turn to kiss them away, and then he gently grabs Ilya’s jaw and turns his head to the side, pressing a soft kiss against the new mark behind his ear.
“I love you,” Shane whispers. He pulls back to look into Ilya’s eyes again.
“What are we going to do?” Ilya asks, looking a little scared.
Shane has some ideas, actually. Quite a few. They’re all a part of the plan he’d so carefully prepared, the one he so quickly threw out the window the second they were alone together. He’s known for weeks that he wants this between them, not just for now but forever, and he has plans for the long game.
“I have some ideas,” he shares, punctuating it with a kiss. “We can discuss them tomorrow morning. We have two weeks to get our story straight. But right now,” he kisses Ilya again, “we don’t have to worry about that.”
Ilya cups his cheek, smiling up at him like he’s the center of the universe. “Okay,” he says, sounding more confident now. “But after morning sex, okay?”
Shane laughs, happier than he’s maybe ever felt. “After morning sex,” he agrees.
He goes to climb off Ilya’s lap, but he’s stopped by a pair of strong hands on his hips. “No,” Ilya demands. “Sleep here. On me. Like blanket.”
Shane rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t complain. He settles himself against Ilya’s chest, listening to the sound of his steady breathing.
They have a lot to discuss tomorrow. There’s so much more they need to figure out, skeletons still in closets. If it’s okay with Ilya, he’d like to tell his parents, maybe Hayden and Rose, too. Maybe Ilya can tell Svetlana.
But that’s tomorrow’s problem. For now, he lets himself drift off in the arms of his soulmate, feeling safe and loved.