Archive of Our Own

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SHANE

Shane Hollander @official_hollander

DRAFT: Hello. This is Shane Hollander. You might have already heard that I am well on the road to recovery, and I wanted to confirm this fact. I’m awake, I’m lucid, and I’m recovering.

Firstly, I’d like to thank everyone who has been waiting for me as I recovered from the accident. Your support and care mean a lot to me, more than you all could know. Thank you to all the medical staff who helped me every step of the way. Thank you to my family, friends, and team for being by my side during this time.

Secondly, I would like to end speculation regarding the accident I was involved with. What was reported in media was true: I fell off my apartment balcony in an accident. While my injuries were initially life-threatening, I was quickly stabilized. I am grateful to say that I have recovered enough to the point of taking the next steps towards physical therapy.

And that’s the next part: I did injure my spine, but we are optimistic that with physical therapy, I’ll be able to recover much of my mobility. Hockey is everything to me, and I have more to give. I’ll be working hard to get back on the ice to give you all more games, more wins, and more trophies. Thank you to the Metros for being the best team I could have ever wished for during this new journey I’m embarking on.

Third, I would like to address rumors regarding my sexuality. While

Shane stops typing. He frowns at the screen. His head already hurts—he’s been looking at his laptop for an entirety of thirty minutes, and it’s already getting to him. His glasses rest precariously on his face. A throbbing pain starting from the base of his neck is radiating up to his temples. He’s typing with one hand, and he keeps pressing the space bar on accident because of his thumb cast. There’s an itch in his leg that he can’t reach or get. The sheets are a bit too scratchy. The bed is creaking with every shift. God, he wants to take off his casts.

He starts typing again, gritting his teeth.

Third, I would like to address rumors regarding my sexuality. While it is unfortunate that somebody would invade the privacy of me and my friend, what’s out there is already out there, and I have no interest in denying that fact. It is true that I’m

Shane blinks. He backspaces.

It is not true that I’m

Okay. He takes a shuddering breath. Okay.

It is true that I’m gay.

He taps his fingers and frowns. Why is he even addressing this part anyway? He doesn’t even need to acknowledge this—it’d be easier for everybody, now that he thinks about it. Let it fizzle out, drowned by the news that he’s awake and alive. He deletes most of the statement and only leaves it up to third paragraph, then deletes the second—why would he address the speculation that he tried to, well—no, is that important? He brings it back, deletes it again. He opens another window and starts a new page.

Hello. This is Shane Hollander. Firstly, I’d like to thank everyone who

He takes his glasses off. They squeeze his temples a bit too tight. He runs a hand across the bandage wrapped around his head and is reminded of how restricting it feels and scowls.

I guess I’m gay?

Hello. This is Shane Hollander. Yes, I’m gay.

Hello. This is Shane Hollander. I’d like to thank everyone

He deletes everything.

It’s almost funny. He would laugh if it wasn’t a statement going out to the public, binding him to a label that is not seen as just a part of him but the entirety of him. If it wasn’t going to most likely make him lose all the respect he’s built up as captain, as a star player, as a prodigy.

Would Montreal drop him? He doesn’t think they would be outright about it even if they wanted to, but he damn well knows his team wouldn’t respect him anymore. Every single homophobic joke, remark, slur thrown around—they weren’t meant in light-hearted jest. That shit was real. It was real and targeted and pointed, and they were all unknowingly pointed at Shane. At Ilya. At others like them.

Hello. This is Shane Hollander. I hate

He closes the screen.

Ilya enters the room looking pissed off at the same moment.

“Are you okay?” Shane asks, frustration fizzling into worry. He holds his hand out and Ilya rushes forward to take it—it’s such a subconsciously sweet act that Ilya does whenever Shane holds his hand out; Ilya always starts to walk faster—before settling on the chair next to Shane’s bed. Ilya nods as he dips his head forward to rest it gingerly on Shane’s arm.

“What’s wrong?” Shane murmurs. He wishes his other arm wasn’t in a cast; he wants to run his fingers through Ilya’s hair and stroke his back.

“Stupid fucking teammate want me in Boston for birthday,” Ilya says, voice muffled.

Oh.

“Whose birthday?”

“Carmichael.”

“You two close?”

“Uh, yes. We are teammates, Hollander.”

Shane feels his lips quirk up. “Yeah, obviously. That’s not what I’m asking, asshole.” He pulls his hand away from Ilya to get him to raise his head—it works—and flicks his nose. Ilya scrunches his face and pretends to bite Shane’s finger. He laughs lightly, watches as Ilya’s tight expression lighten as well.

The moment passes. Shane looks at Ilya who looks at him. His handsome boyfriend, so loving and so kind, who has been in this hospital, in Montreal, for the past week. Who has been unable to do anything or see anybody because of Shane—stuck in place, joining Shane in wading in this weird purgatory of nothingness he feels like he’s trapped in. He feels a tug of guilt in his stomach.

Why does Ilya need his life to be put on hold just because Shane’s is? This whole situation isn’t Ilya’s fault. It’s because Shane is a pussy.

He glances at the laptop, where he can’t even write that he’s gay in a pre-written statement draft without feeling his heart rate pick up.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“You should go, Ilya,” Shane says softly.

Please don’t go. Shane pushes the thought away.

Ilya stares at him—his eyes do that…thing, where his eyes dart back-and-forth across Shane’s face, looking for something, thinking about something. Shane tries his best to look neutral.

“You want me to?” Ilya asks.

Fuck no, Shane doesn’t want him to. His chest tightens at the thought alone, of Shane recovering, putting out statement after statement, being discharged, being unable to do anything until he’s well enough to start physical therapy, tackling what it means if he can’t recover enough or in time, how the Metros and his teammates will react to his being gay, how he’ll navigate anything at all—without Ilya next to him. Without Ilya stroking his cheek, kissing the corner of his lips, holding him gingerly and carefully, smiling and loving him right next to him.

But fuck it, that’s selfish. Ilya deserves to enjoy the time of his life. He’s still young—he’ll be a free agent in just a matter of weeks. He can do whatever he wants, and he should be able to without being tied down with Shane who can’t skate, can’t walk, can’t even face his own sexuality without feeling like a scared little boy.

“You shouldn’t have to put your life on hold because of me,” Shane responds after what he knows is an unnaturally prolonged silence.

“Is not on hold. Not even season, no? I would be spending time with you right now even if nothing happened.” Ilya takes Shane’s hand. He squeezes lightly and bores his eyes into Shane’s, and Jesus. Ilya’s eyes are always so bright and direct—it’s like he’s looking straight into Shane’s brain, piercing his very being. He has to glance away to collect himself before managing to meet them again.

“Yeah, but you’re missing time to spend with friends, and…” His head still hurts a bit. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Are you in pain?” Ilya asks, leaning forward in concern.

“No, no. Just a headache. From looking at the screen. I shouldn’t be doing that.”

“No, you shouldn’t.” Ilya reaches forward and rubs Shane’s temples, soft circles that loosen the strain. Shane melts into his hands. “Bad Shane. You shouldn’t be doing that. Is big no-no. Doctor is going to, what, give you spanking or something?”

Shane feels his nose twitch. “Ugh. Gross. Shut up.”

Ilya laughs. Shane opens his eyes to catch the laugh—he never wants to miss them. Ilya’s face lights up with it, the morning sun, a blooming flower, all of the poetic stuff Shane used to not understand. He leans towards Ilya and gets rewarded with a sweet, chaste kiss.

“I do not need to go,” Ilya says, softer and quieter, face close to Shane’s. His eyes rake over him and he strokes Shane’s cheek with a thumb. “I like being here with you. Any time with you is good to me. I’m not missing anything.”

“People are going to wonder.” People are wondering, most likely. Where is Ilya? Why has his disappearance matched Shane’s accident? Has Ilya been spotted in Montreal? If the team speculates? Shane doesn’t know if he’s okay with that—he doesn’t know anything, really. He’s completely out of his depth.

He tries to be logical. So what if he comes out as gay? Cat’s already out of the bag. The damage has not only been done but has torn through Shane’s name already. So his team won’t respect him. Okay, they already didn’t in the beginning because of his race, what makes this so different? (Everything’s fucking different. This is different. He’s built up that respect by being perfect; this is a sledgehammer to his carefully maintained image.) No, but maybe he could utilize it instead? Make it a benefit to his career?

He can almost hear his mom talk about it: This would be a great opportunity for brands willing to take the leap to be trailblazers in representation. The golden boy of hockey is gay? June is just waiting for them to capitalize on. The pride collection would be something for the books. Besides, the Metros can champion themselves as the most progressive and forward-thinking team in the NHL. I mean, come on, it’s Captain Shane Hollander we’re talking about, not—

“Shane?” Ilya pats Shane’s cheek. He blinks out of whatever train of thought he hopped onto without realizing.

There’s a mild look of concern that lingers on Ilya’s face ever since Shane woke up. It’s mellowed out, with the crease between his brows and downward furl of his lips softening enough to not be noticeable by the common eye, but Shane is not common. He doesn’t know what the look means exactly, but he knows Ilya. He knows Ilya like he knows the sky is blue—well, the sky isn’t blue sometimes, but that’s just weather phenomenon, and—he’s losing his train of thought again.

Shane closes his eyes and leans against Ilya’s warm palm. Shane’s always tired, and Ilya’s always concerned.

And Shane hasn’t made a statement yet. And he knows that once he does, that’ll be it.

He thinks about never playing hockey again, for one reason or another.

“Sorry,” Shane murmurs. “Just tired.”

“Do not be sorry.”

He is, though. For being cowardly. For not being able to face reality. For not being able to just say it, to say it and confirm it and deal with the fallout. He’d said he would to himself, hadn’t he? His hypocrisy makes him feel a guilt that churns, starts to boil. It’s extended to Ilya. Ilya, who has stayed with him and will stay with him throughout this whole thing, patient and kind and loving and concerned. Ilya, risking his own reputation and career by being with Shane and staying with him.

Risking his reputation. Shane doesn’t know how Ilya feels about that. He knows he had to keep it a secret because of Russia, but Ilya has expressed so openly that he doesn’t want to go back and has no plan to. Would it not matter, then? Does Ilya agonize about being found out (“found out,” like their relationship is something bad, something disgusting—Shane hates himself for thinking about it that way) like Shane does? Or is this just Shane being a pussy again?

Shane imagines an announcement that both confirms his sexuality and also his relationship to Ilya. He thinks about their image, their branding, their media appearance, their history. The NHL. The remarks from locker room talks. The comments. How their history will be rewritten. The world.

It scares him so much it takes his breath away. He can’t do anything about that fear right now; it feels like it would consume him and make him do things he’d regret.

(Like falling off a building, he reminds himself. He doesn’t say that.)

So he just says, “I’m sorry,” again. And Ilya looks at him with concern, with confusion. With unbridled affection that Shane apparently wants to keep hidden from the world.

“For what?”

“Just…I am.”

“Do not be.”

But he is. He is. He is. He is. It makes him sick.

-

Shane Hollander @official_hollander

Hello. This is Shane Hollander. You might have already heard that I am well on the road to recovery, and I wanted to confirm this fact. I’m awake, I’m lucid, and I’m recovering.

I’d like to thank everyone who has been supporting me throughout this time. Thank you to all the medical staff who helped me every step of the way. Thank you to my family, friends, and team for being by my side. And thank you to all my fans; your love means more than you will ever know.

I am grateful to say that I’ve recovered enough to be taking the next steps towards physical therapy. We are optimistic that with time, I’ll be able to get back out on the ice. I’ll be working hard to give you all more games, more wins, and more trophies. Thank you to the Metros for being the best team I could have ever wished for during this new journey I’m embarking on.

I hope to come back with good news. Thank you all again.

- Shane

NHL UPDATES @stayupdatednhl

Reposted @official_hollander Shane Hollander released a statement confirming that he’s awake and preparing to undergo physical therapy.

Montreal Metros @NHLMetros

Reposted @official_hollander Unbelievably proud of our captain! We’re with you every step of the way #HollanderStrong

NHL @NHL

Reposted @official_hollander Hockey’s golden boy on the road to recovery #HollanderStrong

laraunt tilly @land.overup

OMG HES AWAKE!!!

laylaaa @laylabeanie91

I hope he isn’t gay! Would be so disappointing to hear

cinderblock @cindy1201

praying he has a good recovery; i read it was a spine injury hopefully he can skate again

holly molly @tinkher_bellee

so happy to see good news…but are we really going to just brush past it?

benjamin d12 @12d_benny

Dawg how long is it gonna be until he’s back on the ice?

shaniac @yiwjf091

yall better behave >:(

• racer @laowrace0: I’m curious if he will address the rumors.

ryan b @hockryanb

Did he try to kill himself or what?

• UMackyU @mackralo43: I would to if I was gay lol

Pop Updates @popnewsupdates

#ShaneHollander reportedly awake…but people are starting to ask the tricky questions [Article link]

shane lover 101 @hollerathollander

Reposted @official_hollander im just so happy he’s awake oh my god

-

The last night before being discharged, Shane stares at the hospital ceiling. His hair has finally been washed after losing the bandages. The worst of the bruises are at the stage of being more visible—healing, but uglier. Purple-black-yellow-green blooms on his skin. Looks like mold. He feels ugly.

It isn’t in a—not like an attractiveness thing. He just feels ugly. He doesn’t know how else to put it. Everything feels wrong. The better he gets, the worse he feels, and he knows it’s because he’s more aware of what’s lacking now. He’s lost a lot of muscle, and his head hurts way too easily. The casts aren’t like ridiculous cylinder blocks around his body now, but they’re still strapping him into his own body in a way that makes him feel a little bit insane.

He hasn’t had the proper amount of protein he needs. His diet is all off. He was craving high-caloric junk food and sweets before, more delirious than really thinking, but now all he can think about is how much sugar he’s ingested with little to no movement. He licks his teeth and knows they’re clean—he knows—but still feels like they’re a bit dirty. God. He hasn’t worked out in a while. His legs look skinnier than before, atrophying, and he knows that they are because he’s been looking at them every day.

One good thing: He can still shuffle his legs, just a bit, a tiny bit more than he could when he first woke up for real. He’s been doing non-strenuous exercises that he can manage, and it seems to be helping somewhat. It’s a good sign.

One bad thing: There are too many bad things, he can’t really keep track of all of them right now.

One worst thing: Ilya is still with him, sacrificing his own time to exercise, train, hang out with friends and teams, and relax. He’s instead stuck taking care of Shane.

He doesn’t want to cry, so he doesn’t. He just stares at the ceiling and silently wishes that he hadn’t drank that day, hadn’t checked his phone, hadn’t joked around like that in public, hadn’t hung out with Rose. No, that’s unfair to Rose. This was entirely his fault for not being careful.

His fault. His stupid fucking fault, all because his dumb ass couldn’t be careful like he always, always is in public. Fuck him. He got too comfortable with himself (too comfortable being loved, being himself) and it landed him here, staring at the hospital ceiling, skin crawling with maggots that are composed entirely of a guilt that chews through him.

He knows it’s an illogical route to take. Wrong conclusions. Doesn’t matter. He still feels it all.

Ilya shifts in his sleep. Shane blinks, looks over.

Ilya sleeps with his hospital-given cot—rickety and old, so uncomfortable—pushed right up next to Shane’s bed. His hand is on Shane’s chest and resting across his heart. His breathing is steady, calming, grounding, and his lips twitch like he’s mouthing something.

His beautiful Ilya. He looks almost boyish in his sleep, without the mellowed concern that still, still is present whenever he looks at Shane. It makes him feel loved. It makes him feel gross. Shane reaches out with his good hand, the cast much more compact now, and carefully brushes Ilya’s mole, his lips, before pulling it away.

He loves him. Shane loves Ilya so much it makes his chest ache, and it’s not his ribs. No, that’s all just emotion, just the chemicals pumping. He loves him. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. Will Ilya stay with Shane even if he can’t skate again?

He asks himself that every day. Every day. It’s such a stupid thought to have but he can’t help it. Will Ilya even like him? Shane’s boring to begin with; what is he without hockey? Ilya says none of that matters as long as he has Shane, but how true is that? How true is anybody in this world? People lie all the time to make other people feel better. Shane’s made aware of that too acutely throughout his life.

God. All of the groundbreaking progress of his trust in Ilya’s love and trust in his own future regresses as he recovers. It’s not fair to Ilya and not fair to his parents and not fair to himself to think that way.

Not fair.

He feels his face twist. Shit, no, no—he doesn’t want to cry. The molten lava pushes against his throat. Needles prick his eyes. Stop, please, he thinks.

He tries to breathe quietly and deeply, instead produces a shaky hiccup. He wants to throw something. Why is he crying? He can’t control it, like he can’t control anything about his private life, can’t control his image, his body. His body betrays him again, like his legs are betraying him, like his mind is betraying him, like the world betrayed him. Like how his efforts, everything he’s poured into hockey, betrayed him.

Everything he’s ever worked for down the drain, all because somebody recorded him joking about being gay. How fucking dumb is that? How stupid? It should be trivial, it shouldn’t matter, but it does. It matters so fucking much he knows it’s going to topple his career. It doesn’t matter if he recovers his ability to skate within a blink of an eye—nothing’s going to matter anymore.

And even if he does recover, he’s not going to be as good as he was. Even if he gets back to top-league status, it’s going to take a while, and by then, new prodigies—white, straight, not riddled with trauma and issues—will emerge to replace him. Who is going to wait for him? How long is it going to take?

He presses his hand over his mouth and tries not to cry too loud. Ilya’s right there, finally sleeping after a long day of doing shit to make Shane comfortable. He doesn’t want to wake Ilya.

That thought just makes the tears come faster. He squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head away to try and throw the sound away. He wishes the sobs making his shoulders jerk would pour out of his eyes, his nose, his ears, melt away into the covers and sink into the ground (into the asphalt) and never return.

God. This is so fucking stupid. This is so fucking stupid. This is—

“Shane,” Ilya whispers. His warm hand moves to gently tap at his stubbled chin.

Here’s the script Shane should follow.

• He should say, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
• Ilya should say, “You are crying.”
• Shane should say, “Sorry, nightmare.”
• Ilya should say, “Is okay. Just a dream, da?”
• Shane should respond, “Yeah. It’s okay—just, you know.”
• Ilya should shift to carefully arrange themselves so they’re as close as they can get, and Ilya should either rub his chest or smooth his hair as Shane pretends the nightmare (his life, everything right now) is subsiding. Then they both should fall asleep and never talk about it again.

He’s ready. He swallows hard to open his mouth. “Sorry, I—"

“It’s okay to cry,” Ilya says before Shane can finish his sentence.

Ilya shuffles closer, close enough where his hair tickles Shane’s temple and chest presses lightly against Shane’s good side. His hand doesn’t pull Shane to look at him—it just stays on Shane’s chin, stroking, feather-light, feather soft. “I did that a lot when you were asleep, and before, lot of times throughout life. Mama cried too, a lot. Is okay.”

Shane snaps his mouth shut. He can feel his lips wobbling. He should say something.

“Shit sucks ass,” Ilya says, and Shane chokes out a laugh that just bleeds into a loud sob, so loud and sharp it makes Shane flinch. He presses his hands against his mouth, hard, but feels Ilya’s fingers gently wrap around it and lightly tug. “Not fair to you. This is shit situation, and you are hurt. Is okay to cry.”

“Not really,” Shane tries to say, because it isn’t. It really isn’t. He’s not a child anymore. He can handle this logically, rationally, and not be so emotional. He’s grown enough to be doing that. Bad things happen to people all the time. He’s…there’s really—

“I cry all the fucking time, Hollander,” Ilya says, and he presses a kiss to Shane’s wet cheek, lets go of Shane’s hand to cup his other cheek and apply enough pressure to suggest he turn his face. “I cried in front of you already. You’re the one who let me know is okay.” He kisses his cheek again.

“It’s just me,” Ilya adds, impossibly soft. “Just me. You can cry. Is okay. Only I know this, like only you knew about my family situation, okay? We keep secrets together.”

He pulls again. Shane finally acquiesces. He turns his head, just a bit. His throat burns from trying and failing to hold back the sobs, and his chest is heaving. He can’t see clearly from the tears, but he doesn’t need to see to know Ilya is looking at him with that mellow concern—it’s love, that’s what it is. It’s fucking love. It’s just another form of love that Ilya gives him so graciously without expecting anything in return. Ilya’s looking at him with love and Shane doesn’t know what to do with it because it’s so intense, sometimes, the way Ilya looks at him. And it’s only intense because it’s what Shane feels; it’s intense because it’s a mirror.

“What if I can’t?” Shane cries. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s referring to. A lot of things. Nothing at all. He’s being loud, but he doesn’t register that he is directly. “What if—fuck, Ilya. I don’t…”

“Then we figure it out together,” Ilya says resolutely. He presses his face to Shane’s, despite the gross tears and snot and spit Shane has to be releasing. “Like I say before.”

“What if we can’t?”

“We will. We will.”

“I can’t.”

“I am with you.”

“What if you aren’t?” What if you leave? What if I can’t do the things that made you love me? What if I’m nothing like I was before? What if I change too much and you can’t recognize me? What if you can’t recognize me now?

“I will always be with you.” Shane feels Ilya catch his tears (he always catches Shane) and wipe them away, away, away, his lips pressing kisses onto his face. “Always. Navsegda. My Shane.”

“I’m scared.” An admission that rips itself out from Shane without his permission. It’s too much, too vulnerable, too real, too raw. He wants to grab the words and take it back. But Ilya catches it, like he catches everything, and holds it.

“Me, too,” Ilya says, “I’m scared too. But I’m not so scared anymore because I know you are going to be here, you know?”

Shane dips his head in agreement, still crying, still unseeing. He loves Ilya so much it hurts him, but it doesn’t scare him—Ilya’s right. He imagines Ilya staying by his side, forever, despite it all. Despite it all. Maybe in spite of it all—maybe that’s the kind of love they share now.

“I can’t give you anything anymore,” Shane rasps. The sobs, from exertion and tiredness, soften. He feels almost dizzy. “There’s nothing I can give you. What can I give you now? What do I give you?”

Ilya pulls his head away. Ilya rubs the tears from Shane’s eyes and he opens them after, sees Ilya’s face better. He watches Ilya’s blue eyes search his face. He looks perplexed and confused, like Shane has spoken in a language he doesn’t understand. His hands don’t stop wiping away Shane’s despair.

“You do not need to give me,” Ilya says. “You—Shane. Shane, you are everything to me. I don’t need fucking anything—Mne nuzhen tol'ko ty.” He kisses Shane again and it lingers. Shane cries into Ilya’s lips and he drinks it all in—shares it. He pulls back.

“I don’t need anything else, you understand? Only you. Only ever you. Fuck hockey, fuck stupid NHL, nothing else—tol'ko ty. Just you.”

Just you. Ilya stares at Shane and Shane stares at Ilya, and Shane thinks that he loves Ilya more than he can ever love anything else. He loves Ilya. He doesn’t want Ilya to ever leave. He doesn’t want Ilya to leave.

He wants Ilya to stay with him forever.

Forever, a scary notion. Something so abstract and big. Shane has never liked using the word in a literal sense—it always scared him, like a lot of things scared him. “Forever” could mean anything to anybody. It was fickle with how unquantifiable it was. It could shift and change, differ from context to context, highly volatile but too hopeful. He never liked the word. But with Ilya—

It isn’t too scary.

He wants Ilya to stay with him forever.

Forever and ever and ever, into the future, throughout his life, beyond it.

So he says, “Stay with me.”

Ilya nods almost frantically. There are tears in his eyes, too, and look at them both crying. Shane’s abruptly reminded of the first time Ilya said he loved Shane, and the first time Shane said it back. It was kind of like this.

“Forever, please,” Shane adds. He feels pathetic, but Ilya nods and kisses him again like it’s the best thing Shane’s ever said. So Shane kisses back and whispers, “Don’t ever leave.”

Ilya nods. “Okay. Okay. I will never. You do not leave me, either. Never.”

“Okay.”

“Is okay to cry, okay? Okay to be sad. I am sad, too. We can be sad together. We can be happy together, too. I am happy with you. My Shane.”

“Okay. Me too.”

“I love you,” Ilya says into his skin.

“I love you, too.”

“We will figure it out.”

“Okay.”

“Is okay.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“Marry me.” It slips out of Shane easily. He says it like he’s breathing.

Ilya’s mouth hangs open.

For a moment, it’s completely silent aside from Shane’s heaving breaths. They stare at each other in the dark room. Ilya looks at Shane like he’s hung every single star in the night sky, like he’s placed every grain of sand on the beaches. Like he’s the only person in the world to exist. Like he’s created the heavens and the earth.

His hand has stilled completely.

For a faltering, anxiety-filled split-second, Shane feels fear. Shit. Was that too sudden? Too fast? Too presumptuous? “I mean—”

“Yes,” Ilya rushes.

Time starts ticking forward again.

He sounds scared, as if Shane will take it back. He scrambles to sit up and leans closer. He’s nodding. His face crumples entirely, and Shane grabs his arm instinctively.

Ilya continues to nod. “Yes. Yes. I will fucking marry you. I will do that. We will be married, please. I will marry you. Please marry me.”

Every single “yes” wedges into Shane’s ribcage and burrows deep, carves out a home in the shape of Ilya’s name and face and voice and smell and love. His crying hasn’t completely stopped but he feels his lips curl up and yes, yes, yes, Ilya said yes like it was obvious, like it was a fact that Ilya did want to marry Shane and it is a fact. He wants to stay with Shane forever. He wants to set it into stone, into a legal bind, into a symbolic forever, into a declaration—maybe one day a public one—concrete and solid stone, stronger than asphalt will ever be, and be married to Shane.

And Shane wants that, too. He wants it so bad it takes his breath away. Shane reaches out for Ilya, eyes wide, face still wet, and Ilya comes to him like a bee to a flower.

“Yes,” Shane says, too, gasping, and now he’s crying again for a different reason and it feels cathartic. It feels like he’s washing himself. Is this why people lean on religion? The whole idea of being reborn—he gets it, a little. Baptized. Ilya folds in him but keeps his head up, stares at Shane, crying his own mess, as Shane says, “Yes. Marry me. Let’s get married. I love you. I love you so fucking much. Please stay with me forever. I’ll stay, too. I’ll stay.”

“Okay,” Ilya whispers. “Okay. Okay. Yes. Ya tebya lyublyu. Okay.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane says back as earnestly as he can. His pronunciation still sucks but Ilya just looks more enamored, so he counts it as a win. It’s always a win with Ilya around. Every single triumph shared with him. Every single hardship, too, but together, they can figure it out.

They kiss. Their tears meld into one. Shane doesn’t know where he begins and Ilya ends. He wishes that he could be like this forever, interlinked with Ilya, indiscernible. One with him in every single way that matters. Together. Scary future be damned—if he has this, if he has Ilya, he’ll deal with it. He’ll figure it out.

They’ll figure it out.

& ILYA

Beautiful, sunny day outside. The weather’s warm as can be. Somebody recognizes Ilya when he is buying groceries.

Ilya doesn’t think much of it in the immediate sense—there’s a gasp, a young boy who asks if he’s Ilya. Ilya says yes, takes a picture, leaves.

Then it dawns on him that he is in Montreal. Has been, for a bit. He stops walking briefly, puzzling over this. He’s gotten so comfortable here that he’s stopped thinking about it. It’s been a few weeks since Shane was discharged—they’re staying together (together, a thrilling, wonderful word) in a property Shane bought a few years ago, close to the hospital and rehab. His Mr. Real Estate.

They didn’t go back to the old apartment in the end. Shane had tried, once, with Ilya. Ilya had pushed Shane’s wheelchair into the living room with a missing coffee table, and after a few moments of quiet contemplation, Shane had asked to leave with a shaky voice. Ilya was quick to push Shane out.

All the memories that had been built with the dust in that apartment—good and bad—were heavy with a sheen of regret. They both knew without saying that they could build new memories while they did their best to grapple with what they had left there in the apartment that night.

Maybe they’d come back one day and be able to recall them with ease. Maybe it’d be like an old scrapbook to flip back on. For now, though, that was on hold.

“I don’t like looking at the window,” Shane had said after they got back in the car. “Sorry. That’s stupid.”

“Fuck no, it is not stupid,” Ilya replied immediately.

A pause. Then Shane, tapping his fingers on his lap, said, “I have another place—I was, uh. I was planning on renting it out, but—”

“Then we stay there.”

“You’re staying?”

Ilya, in the middle of starting the car, had stopped to stare at Shane. “Shane.”

“What?”

“We are getting married, no? I want to stay with you while you are fucking recovering.”

Shane had smiled then, a loose kind of smile that made Ilya’s inside feel all gooey. “Okay,” he said softly, leaning back.

The smile had lasted the entire ride. That was the last time they saw the apartment, though the missing coffee table, cracked and stained with Shane’s blood, and the couch, once holding Shane’s shaking body after the video leak, and the asphalt below the low balcony rails, would be with them for a long, long time. Long past Shane’s recovery.

That was that.

And Ilya’s been here for about a month now.

All the while, Shane has suggested Ilya go back multiple times. He’s a free agent. There will be people who want to talk to him. He has business to take care of. His teammates probably miss him. He has friends back in Boston—did Ilya text Svetlana? Is his property being taken care of? Is he okay with people asking him hard questions? It would be easier if he went back. Has he talked to his teammates yet? Who is he signing with? Has he discussed that?

“I want to be closer to you,” Ilya had said, shrugging over a bowl of rabbit food (it’s salad, Shane said), “I have decided already. I sign with Ottawa.”

Shane had been sitting on the couch, reclining, legs propped up gently onto Ilya’s lap. He’d been looking up at the ceiling to rest his eyes, but they snapped over to Ilya’s so fast with so much shock it had Ilya’s eyebrows flying up to his hairline.

“Ottawa?” Shane said it with such disbelief, bordering on disdain, that it made Ilya bellow with laughter. “What—Ottawa? Ilya, there are so many other—”

“You are the one who suggested Ottawa before!” Ilya exclaimed, pointing his fork at Shane. “Why are you acting like this is breaking news?”

“I—it was like, one team out of four others I suggested! Ilya.”

“Shane. It is close to Montreal, close to your parents, to you and the mansion—”

“It’s a cottage—”

“—and whatever. Is already decided. I am becoming Centaur.”

“A Centaur—Ilya…”

“Blah blah, I cannot hear you, somebody is covering my ears.”

“You’re so childish.”

“I am eating rabbit food; chewing too loud, oh sorry, are you saying something?”

“Fuck off. Ilya, you’re in your prime—listen.” Shane had shifted, grimacing while sitting up, and grabbed Ilya’s wrist before Ilya could stop Shane from moving. He raked over Ilya’s face with searching eyes. “You don’t need to give up your career for me. I’m serious. You can…there are so many other good teams that would be scrambling for you. You’d still get that passport. You’d still be in Canada. You don’t…”

“Canada is fucking huge, Hollander.” Ilya took Shane’s hand in his own and squeezed, smiling softly. Because of course Shane was worried about Ilya’s career, his prospects.

Shane worries about Ilya all the time, like Ilya worries about him, and the concern on Shane’s face always warms him because it’s just for him, for Ilya, and nobody else.

“I know that.”

“Playing hockey is fun to me. Is career. I’m good at it. I know this. But,” and Ilya used both his hands to squeeze Shane’s, “You are more important to me than hockey, okay?”

Shane blinked at him, and his pretty freckles flushed, and Ilya saw his eyes started to well. His beautiful Shane. Ilya smiled like an idiot—always does with Shane. God, he is so sappy—Shane makes him like that, become all sappy and soft and nice.

“Ty vsegda byl,” he heard Mama say from somewhere behind him.

Ilya rubbed Shane’s knee. “Besides. I don’t care if I play in shit fuck team. What, I hog all the money and become star player there? I will make Ottawa win cups and become legend.”

“Very egotistical, Mr. Rozanov.” Shane was looking at Ilya with so much love, though, humored affection.

“I am good enough to carry entire fucking team. I don’t need to be in Boston for that.”

“Fuck off.”

“What? You know this true.”

“You’re full of it.”

Ilya had gasped for dramatics but ended up choking on a stray piece of lettuce. The conversation had ended with Shane slapping his back with far too much strength for someone who was in recovery and laughing, laughing, a chiming and full sound that Ilya wanted to hear forever. He’d make Shane laugh like that always, to the best of his abilities.

And that had been that.

And he’d called Marlow, explained that he was staying in Montreal for longer, and told him to tell the rest of the team that Ilya was in Russia or something. Ilya did that a lot anyway—he’d go to Russia, or travel, or whatever. His team wasn’t going to miss him as much as Shane thought they would, as much as Ilya had originally assumed. Nothing was wrong.

And Ilya’s been here for about a month now.

And he was spotted. In Montreal. And confirmed with a picture.

He loads the groceries into the trunk—Shane’s car, really ugly but practical, yes, Ilya can admit—and turns on the radio. Listens to some music he thinks is kind of boring, kind of bland, before pulling up to the hospital where Shane will be pushed out from a wheelchair.

Ilya and Shane’s parents had went with him for the first few sessions. Shane had requested they didn’t come after a few, though.

“Let me do this, please,” Shane had said. “It’s just…I want to do it without…you know.”

Ilya didn’t really know, didn’t really understand, but Shane had asked. So he said yes, okay, and trusted Shane’s decision. But as a compromise, he came to pick Shane up.

If he really thinks about it, it was a miracle that nobody had recognized Ilya or took pictures of him up until this point. Almost every day, he got out of the car to help Shane get in, folded up the wheelchair to put it in the trunk, usually said hi to the person who had accompanied Shane out. He was in public a lot, and his disguises had shrunk until it was usually down to just a hat or sunglasses.

If he really thinks about it, Shane hadn’t really fretted over Ilya being caught, either. He’d never told Ilya to wear that hat, or sunglasses, or to stay in the car, or anything at all. He’d just smile and say, sincerely, “Thank you.”

Huh.

Ilya gets out of the car when he sees Shane exit the doors.

Beautiful Shane. Ilya can tell he had been sweating, but he still had a blanket covering him. He gets cold really easily these days, his Shane. Even in the summer warmth. It’s okay—Ilya can warm him. He stands by the car and leans against it, watches silently until they get closer.

Shane has a blank but calm expression on his face. Not a lot of people out. Not enough to scare Shane, anyway—they use the back entrance rather than the front doors. He sees Shane blink rapidly before turning his head, slightly, then moving it back. Ilya knows he’s tired and fighting sleep. The thought that he can read Shane like this, so openly and easily, thrills him. He will help Shane into bed and nap with him once they get home, then.

“On tebya ishchet,” his mama says. She’s in the car, head resting against the window rolled down.

Ilya is, too. Always. Anywhere.

He walks briskly to meet him midway. He says hello and thank you to the worker who pushed Shane out—they know each other at this point—then takes the handles.

Pushing Shane’s wheelchair is intimate. It feels like trust. Shane letting Ilya help him like this, so close to him, vulnerable.

“Hey, you,” Shane says, looking up.

“Hi,” Ilya responds. Leans down quickly to kiss him before Shane can object. Then, a bit quieter, “Somebody recognized me. Took picture. I didn’t think about it.” Then, haltingly and questioningly, “I’m sorry.”

Shane doesn’t say anything as Ilya opens the car door, supports him as he pulls himself into the car. Ilya doesn’t have to do much to help him into the car these days—most of the work is done by Shane. He’s getting stronger by the day, recovering his strength again. His legs are still in progress with recovery, but this is okay. It really is. Shane agrees with Ilya in his quiet way of his. Most nights aren’t interrupted by sudden bouts of frustration or tears from Shane anymore, and Ilya doesn’t dream about Shane on the balcony as much. Things are getting better.

They are getting better.

Ilya puts the wheelchair in the trunk and shuts it. His hands linger. He stares at the metal beneath his palms before tapping it once, then finally getting into the driver’s seat. He doesn’t look at Shane.

He starts the engine. He turns the radio down to the level Shane finds enjoyable and changes the channel to a classic one, so Shane doesn’t feel irritated by the loud noises of pop while he dozes. He adjusts the rearview mirror, puts a hand on the stick, and pulls out of the driveway to head back home (and it is home now, the apartment, the cottage; wherever Shane is means home now, and isn’t that thrilling?) in silence.

He doesn’t know why he isn’t looking at Shane, but he also knows the silence is there for a reason. He feels anxious, almost. Nervous.

Does Shane care if their relationship is revealed to the public? He didn’t really care about Ilya picking him up or being in public with him. But that doesn’t mean he’s okay with their relationship being so open and out there. He’s already been outed once against his will, and he’s just now coming to terms with that. He hasn’t outright said it, but everyone knows it. His silence about the subject is an answer to all of the invasive questions being asked in its own right, like how this silence is saying something as well.

What is it saying, though? Ilya feels his anxiety grow into a prickling and nagging fear. God. Did he just out Shane again? Is that what he just did? What if Shane wasn’t okay with it, and did care, and Ilya was just reading his lack of cautiousness wrong? Shane’s preoccupied by literally learning to walk again—he probably didn’t even have the mental capacity to be caring about that. The caution was supposed to be Ilya’s responsibility, not Shane.

He thinks about the video. It feels like forever ago that it happened, but it’s never far from his mind. He thinks about Shane being outed, the fall, the days of stomach-curdling fear waiting for Shane to wake.

He grips the stick, hard. Knuckles whitening. He thinks about the balcony. He sees Shane there, leaning against it, staring down at the asphalt.

He feels Shane’s hand cover his and smooth over his fingers.

Ilya realizes he’s been holding his breath. He breathes deeply. Releases a tension he hasn’t noticed building.

“I think,” Shane begins. He pauses, then clears his throat.

Ilya swallows.

“I think it’s crazy that you hadn’t been recognized yet,” Shane continues.

“Yes.”

“And I think that it’s okay that you were. To me.”

Oh.

Ilya takes in another deep breath. It feels easier.

“I don’t know. Are you—are you okay with that?” Shane asks. Ilya glances over at Shane and sees he’s looking at Ilya with concern so pure and sweet it makes him falter.

Shane is worried about Ilya? About their relationship being public? After all of this? He’s still worried about Ilya, and Ilya’s reputation, and his career? Over Shane, who is arguably the one dealing with more?

“It’s…people know that I’m gay. Not a secret anymore.” Shane shrugs. “I don’t know. I know I haven’t addressed it publicly, but—”

“You do not need to do that.”

“—I know. But yeah. People know I’m gay. I’m also trying to learn to walk again because I fell off a building. I don’t know what I’m trying to say.” Shane rubs his eyes and leans back, but his beautiful, honeyed eyes don’t stay away from Ilya’s for too long. “I’ve done enough already for career-ending things. I don’t…I think people knowing I’m with you isn’t—ugh. You get it though, right? Am I making any sense?”

Yes. Ilya thinks so. He nods. Comparatively speaking, maybe, is what Shane is trying to say. That with everything that has happened so far, their relationship wouldn’t be anything new or surprising—okay, maybe still new and surprising, but it would just be part of the growing revelations the world is having already, not an entirely new thing that would split Shane’s pristine image in half. Ilya blinks, mind racing, then nods again, because—

Because letting the world know that Ilya is with Shane, loving him, taking care of him as Shane takes care of him, is such a blindingly beautiful thought that takes Ilya off guard. He’s never really dwelled on it for long—he’s thought about it, of course, wanted to, yes, but never really considered it a reality to be happening for a while. But he’d wanted it. God, he’d wanted it. He’d wanted to hold Shane in public freely, kiss him without fear. Wanted the whole world to know he loved Shane Hollander so, so much.

And now it might happen. And Shane is okay with it happening now, not when he is retired. He is okay with that.

“You are okay with this?” Ilya asks, just to make sure. To double check. Because he doesn’t want Shane to go through what he went through again. It might turn the hockey world upside down again, and it likely will. It might make people talk again, talk more, talk more disgustingly, more negatively. It might make Shane’s career more confusing and more scrutinized. It might make everything worse.

Shane is quiet for a bit. Ilya knows he’s thinking—has that furrow of his brows. It’s just the mild droning of the engine, the sound of the wheels against the road, the classical music.

“As long as you’re here, yeah. I’m okay.” Shane’s hand squeezes. “I don’t know. If me being gay wasn’t enough, maybe this would be the thing to make Montreal drop me or…you know.” He pauses, squeezes Ilya’s hand again. “But this isn’t your fault, or anything, you know that, right?”

Oh. Ilya blinks, wetting his lips.

“Yes, I think. I—”

“You were never something to hide,” Shane pushes on, and that just makes Ilya fall silent again. “I wasn’t…this wasn’t about hiding you. I wasn’t ashamed of you or our relationship. I just wasn’t ready for what it meant to the public. I didn’t want them looking at us like that, okay? It was a privacy thing, I think. I wasn’t ashamed of us. Of you.”

And Shane is calming something Ilya didn’t even know he had been subconsciously mulling about. Stupidly, it makes Ilya feel tears prick in the corner of his eyes.

He knows logically Shane wasn’t ashamed, but Ilya realizes he’s been scared that Shane secretly was. Ilya is so proud, so amazed, to be Shane’s boyfriend, his—fiancé, now. They have promised marriage to each other. They will be together. Shane loves him enough to marry him. But that was between them, between just Ilya and Shane. Ilya wondered if Shane would ever want to let others know. He wondered if Shane, if and when he did let others know, would be hesitant, would be scared, would downplay it. Would Shane be as happy about their relationship? Would he want to show off their love, make it known? Would he want people to know Ilya is his, as Ilya wants people to know Shane is? That they are each other’s person, forever?

He thinks about forever, about what that means. He thinks about his mama and his father, about how he was so scared of a mean and ugly love like that, about how that couldn’t have been love—not when he and Shane share something with the same name that is so, so different. Their love chases the sad away, doesn’t reel it in. Their love is beautiful. Complicated and complex but pretty and bright and something real.

“I love you. I’m not ashamed of that.” Shane continues to look at him and he’s staring into Ilya’s soul. “I think…I’m okay with the public knowing.” Then, quieter, “I want them to know. I want to not be so scared about everything anymore.”

Ilya brings Shane’s hand to his lips, presses a kiss there. He glances back and forth, from the road to Shane, and feels his lips split into a grin. He can’t help it.

“Okay,” Ilya says.

“Okay,” Shane responds.

The drive home is easy, loving, warm.

-

They confirm their relationship to the public once the picture is released. It’s a mixed bag. The bigotry and hatred is loud, but the love and support—despite the shock—also pours in. They get calls from almost everybody and anybody, and for some, they explain, for others, they hang up on.

Ilya posts a selfie of him and Shane after the public reveal on Instagram.

It’s one of them on the dock together, under the sunrise. Shane’s head is against Ilya’s shoulder, eyes halfway closed, and Ilya is resting his cheek on Shane’s head. It skyrockets to the most liked post Ilya has on his page, and it’s one he will cherish forever. Shane and Ilya read the comments together until Ilya turns off the phone and throws it onto the ottoman with a dramatic sigh. Shane shakes his head with a smile.

-

Ilya says goodbye to Boston and his team. He confirms his departure. They’re surprisingly cordial and understanding, and, remarkably, accepting of his relationship with Shane. There are some who are awkward, most likely going to be spouting bigotry as soon as the call is over, but most of them are okay. They’re good people. He knows Marlow’s going to beat his ass for not telling him before.

He gets on Facetime with them, promises all of them drinks, laughs. Reminisces.

Things are getting better.

-

He signs with Ottawa. The hockey world goes insane.

-

svetlana del rey: OTTAWA?

Ilya: [gif of dancing cockroach]

svetlana del rey: [disliked this attachment]

-

Shane takes a few steps without any help from anyone one evening. His expression is one he wears on the ice: All poise, focus, strategy, willpower. He’s calm and collected and neatly sits himself down onto the couch, his crutches across the room.

Ilya nearly knocks the table over after slamming his hand onto it on accident while raising them. Shane laughs, loud and unrestrained, boisterous and bright, as Ilya dramatically nurses his hand. Ilya flops onto the couch and demands Shane kiss it better, to which he earns a shove, then a kiss on the hand, then mouth.

Things are getting better.

-

Ilya still gets sad sometimes. The sadness he got from Mama—he knows he got it from her—weighs him down, grapples him, fights him, like it did with her. Sometimes, it beats him and forces him to stay in bed, stuck to the covers, unable to do anything. Sometimes it is mellow enough for him to pretend it doesn’t exist. Sometimes it is silent to the point Ilya forgets he has it—but it always comes back, somehow, someway. Sometimes it’s triggered by something concrete, like an anniversary date, a headline, a memory, a dream, sometimes it’s just random and unpredictable.

It makes it hard for him to help Shane, to be happy with him. He doesn’t like letting Shane know because of it. He has so much to be happy for—it doesn’t make sense the sadness is still here. But Shane has learned to read these kinds of days, where the sadness is too heavy for Ilya to do anything about it, like Ilya has learned to read when Shane is overwhelmed and shutting down quietly. And Shane doesn’t point it out or make it obvious when he does read them; he just makes sure Ilya is comfortable as best as he can. Stays near him but doesn’t suffocate him.

They take care of each other like that. Ilya is cared for like that. It’s new, it’s scary, it’s wonderful, and once these kinds of days pass, it makes Ilya feel so much love in his heart he doesn’t know what to do with it.

One day, when Shane comes back from physical therapy, he suggests Ilya goes to therapy himself.

“The brain is part of your body,” Shane says. “There’s nothing wrong with taking care of it.”

“Is different,” Ilya protests, because he doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t know what it would mean to talk to somebody about the sadness other than Shane. It’s all he has known. It came from Mama, and it is with him now. It’s been with him for so long. What can talking to a stranger do to help him with it? Will just talking do anything? What will that do to help it? To manage it? He doesn’t want to take medicine or anything—it still scares him, the idea of taking something like his mama did. He still sees her spit, her pale skin, her wide eyes.

“Maybe. But I get therapy, too, you know. It’s just a different form.”

The therapy is helping Shane, but Ilya doesn’t know if it will help him. What if the sadness doesn’t go away, even after the therapy? What if it stays with him forever? Will the sadness follow Ilya and weigh him down until the end? Will Shane grow tired of it, weary of it? Like father grew tired of Mama’s sadness?

"You think I need therapy?" Ilya asks after a moment's silence. "I need to be fixed?"

Shane looks so offended at the question that Ilya bites his lip.

"I don't think you need to be fixed," Shane says, "Because there's nothing to fix. I just want you to be happy, okay? And if there's a way to help with that, I want you—I want us—to consider it."

Nothing to fix. Ilya stares at the ground, unsure. "But I am happy," Ilya whispers.

At that, Shane pulls Ilya to him. Ilya goes.

"I'm happy, too," Shane says. "I'm happy with you. But you know this isn't about that. I've been reading about it, you know."

"Reading about what?"

"Depression." Shane shrugs when Ilya looks up at him. He looks a little sheepish but ultimately earnest, loving, open, trusting. "It's not...it's not just being sad. It's an illness. It's like having a cold."

"Like having a cold," Ilya repeats, doubtful.

"Not in the way that, like...it just means that it isn't your fault, or it's something that's happening because of you, okay? Look, I suck at this. But a therapist could explain it in a way that makes sense." Then, after a long pause, "A Russian one, maybe. So you can just talk without, you know."

"So I can speak Russian."

"I want to be someone like that for you," Shane admits. "Where you can speak without having to think about it so much. But I'm not there yet. So yeah. Maybe a Russian therapist."

"You are already more than enough for me," Ilya says. 

"Yeah." Shane smiles, kisses his nose. "I know. You are too. But I'm not a therapist."

Later that night, Ilya hugs Shane as close as he can to him, mindful of the braces.

“What if I do therapy, but I don’t get better?” Ilya asks quietly. He nuzzles his face into Shane’s neck and stays there. “What if the sadness is still here?”

“I’ll take care of you,” Shane replies. Calm. Assured. Matter-of-fact. “Like you take care of me.”

“This is burden I don’t want you to have.”

“We’re getting married. I want to burden things with you.”

“You should not have to.”

“You burdened yourself with me. The injury. Everything.”

“This is different.”

“It’s not, Ilya.” Shane presses a kiss to Ilya’s forehead, then brings his hand up to press against his cheek. “I love you. We share things together now, okay? I don’t care if it’s a burden. I want to shoulder that with you. That's the whole point of this. Even if it’s hard, I want to be with you. I want to struggle with you. Okay? I want to be part of your life. It’s not always going to be happy, and that’s okay. As long as we get through it together.”

Fucking Shane, making Ilya cry again. He nods a little, sniffles into bare skin, presses a kiss there. He feels more than sees Shane huff a small, affectionate laugh.

“Stupid Hollander. Stop making me cry.”

“It’s okay to cry.”

“Oh, so now you get to say it to me, da?”

“Yeah, cause it’s true, asshole.”

They laugh. It jostles Ilya, makes his cheek press onto the golden chain around Shane’s neck, the same one as Ilya’s. Makes the sound of the ring clink against the pendant.

Yeah.

Okay.

“I love you,” Shane says. “Nothing is going to change that. Nothing.”

Okay.

Ilya nods, curls closer. Closer. Wants to curl close enough to be absorbed by Shane.

“I love you, too." Then, "I will think about this. About therapy.”

“Alright.” Shane kisses Ilya’s forehead again. "And...and it's okay, if you don't want to, okay? That's your decision. I just want you to be as happy as you can be, because you deserve that."

Ilya presses closer. Impossibly close. He wishes their skin would fuse together.

"Okay," he whispers.

Things are getting better.

-

“I want to have a proper wedding,” Shane says during dinner one day.

Ilya puts his spoon down.

“Once I can skate again,” he adds.

“We can do that.”

Shane eyes Ilya. “By proper, I don’t mean huge. You know that, right?”

Ilya nods. He folds his hands together conspiratorially. “Yes. Of course. No big crowd, no big venue, no club, no personal DJ, no big clown party, no magic show, that kind of thing?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Okay. Maybe a mid-size venue. A DJ can be there, I guess. But no huge crowd.”

“No huge crowd.”

“No huge crowd.” Shane puts his own spoon down and points at Ilya. “No huge—Ilya, stop smiling. I’m serious. You’re not inviting random people to the wedding.”

“Okay.”

“Ilya, don’t send invites to random celebrities. No Rihanna—don’t smile. I’m fucking serious.”

“Okay!”

“Ilya.”

“Shane.”

They write a list of people they want to invite. Shane shoves Ilya when he presents Shane his list of 263 people he knows with a note in the margin allowing plus ones, alongside a tiny list of ten of Ilya’s favorite celebrities. Ilya rolls around like he got knocked over, kicking his legs in the air, and Shane grabs them and tells Ilya to shut up with a laugh.

They shrink the list down to 100, then 60, then 50, then 30. They sit side-by-side, both of Shane’s arms and hands free of casts, and bicker about whether to send an invite to Scott Hunter.

“He is old and ugly,” Ilya declares. “I don’t want old and ugly people at wedding.”

“Didn’t you admit he inspired you to come to the cottage that summer?”

“No, I never said that. You are lying.”

“Ilya. We don’t even know if he’ll come—it’s a courtesy thing.”

“What this word, ‘courtesy’? I don’t know what that mean.”

“Oh my God. Shut the fuck up, you do.”

Ilya does. He gets another shove. His heart swells the entire time.

& SHANE

A year passes. Then a few months. And then—

Shane steps onto the ice again.

It’s a long, long journey to get there.

A lot of things happen leading up to it. Shane doesn’t sign with the Metros again. He joins Ottawa, instead, with Ilya. It’s a shake-up, but it’s also not unexpected. His injury and absence from the ice have dropped his performance significantly—even without everything, without his being gay or his relationship to Ilya, his sloppier performance would have been drag, a slog, a dent in their high-ranking streak. Even if he did bring up his performance to be as good as he was before, it would take time. And by then, he'd be past the age people would consider his prime. There would be new prodigies, new players that could easily take Shane's place. He'd be pushed out sooner or later. He chooses to leave on his own terms.

“They are not doing good without you there right now, anyway,” Ilya had pointed out. “They lose to Ottawa. Worst fucking team ever. You can do better.”

“You’re Ottawa. And I'm about to join.”

“Oh, I forgot. Best fucking team ever.”

When Shane first brought up joining Ottawa, Hayden had been devastated, but he understood. Even now, though Hayden doesn’t say it, there’s an unspoken air of relief about it. Shane knows without confirming that the team had not taken Shane’s sexuality or relationship positively. He knows by the way nobody really checked in on him—not really. A message from a few of them that had been friendly with Shane, curt texts hoping he recovered well. The only ones who remained connected were just Hayden and, later, JJ. Nobody else.

It hurt for a while. Shane doesn’t deny that. But it didn’t surprise him.

His being out did end up toppling the career he built with Montreal. His original fears came to fruition. The respect he had built up through so much discipline and sacrifice disappeared in an instant. They had only kept him around, officially, and supported him in his recovery, because he had been gravely injured. It would be a bad look to immediately drop or turn away from an injured player.

But he doesn’t really care about that anymore. Or maybe he does, but he's just found other, more important things to be happy about, to be grateful about, to base his life on.

He just wants to be on the ice again, skate again, with Ilya. He doesn’t care where it is. He doesn’t care how bad he is at it. For the first time, he truly, truly doesn’t care.

As long as he’s with Ilya, he doesn’t care.

And so Shane, in the locker room, tapes his hockey stick like he used to. Puts on his gear calmly, one-by-one, counting each of them. Tightens everything the way he used to. Listens to Ilya—the captain, his handsome captain—give a speech that riles everyone up, makes them shout, slap their sticks together and on the ground, storm out. He doesn’t single Shane out for the speech or act different, and Shane thanks him silently for it. Shane isn’t in the mood for spotlights or attention.

He just wants to skate. His blood buzzes beneath his skin for it. It's all he can think about. He's been in rinks before this game, practicing again, but this is the first game he's back for. The headlines had been flashy and loud, the response from the crowd and public louder. He thinks about it as he makes his way, with his new team who slap his back or knock their helmets with his, to the ice.

Ilya shouts something, and the rest of the players rush onto the ice. He stays long enough to watch them go, then knocks his helmet into Shane’s before gliding out onto the ice himself. And that knock is what makes Shane come fully into his body again.

He feels the cold crispness of the ice. He hears the screams, the shouts of the crowd, feels the rumbling energy of the stadium grow and swell. He hears music, loud announcements, drums. His name ringing out, the screams becoming deafening. It all falls away when he moves and pushes himself out onto solid ground.

The roar of the crowd is replaced with the rushing of blood. The solidity under Shane’s skate is like the sky. He glides out into the open void and feels himself start to smile—then grin almost manically.

The match starts. And it’s not the greatest Shane’s played—he’s rusty, even if he’d been training again before this game—and makes sloppy plays. He does things that he would never have done before, strains to make plays that he would have done with his eyes closed. But Ilya grins at him, looks fucking insane as he does, and Shane thinks that it’s okay.

The press flocks him once the game is over—it’s 3-2, Centaurs win—and Shane gives out measured responses he’s been rehearsing in the bathroom. He lets them take their pictures. He shuts down personal questions. He goes back to the locker room and joins in on the loud cheers and celebrations.

He thinks, Things are getting better.

And, They will continue to.

Ilya puts his arms around Shane’s shoulder, beaming.

Shane thinks, I love you.

And, We’re okay.

Shane learns to soar again. He flies. And Ilya is with him the entire time.