Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Shane found himself standing outside a steam room.

A steam room... He’d never been in a steam room in his life.

He’d have to admit, it was beautiful.

It was tucked away in a quiet alcove of the wellness resort, almost hidden from the main paths.

It felt a little like stepping into a natural grotto. Warm stone walls held the heat, and mist showers surrounded the steam room, releasing soft clouds of vapor that drifted slowly through the air. Between the rising steam you could look up and catch glimpses of the open sky above. Everything smelled faintly of minerals and damp stone.

Behind him the tall panoramic sauna rose with its wide glass front, looking out over the lake, but here in the alcove the sounds were softer — just water dripping, steam hissing, and the low murmur of people around him.

It was beautifully made, with small black stones inlaid into the walls, which made it feel even more like it was all just part of nature.

It was designed to feel relaxing, which was exactly what he was supposed to be doing.

But unfortunately, he wasn’t relaxed. Not even close.

It was too crowded for his liking. He could almost feel the impatience of the people around him, eager to enter the steam room and get a good spot.

Why was he so sensitive to these things? He rolled the building tension out of his shoulders. Whose idea was this anyway? Why was he even doing this?

He reminded himself that this was necessary, that it was needed. But in the moment, with the presence of the crowd, he wasn’t sure this was helping him in any way.
But he would try; he owed himself that. So, he stayed and waited for the session to start.

Shane was a 24-year-old professional hockey player, and even he, self-critical as he was, could admit that he was good at hockey. Great, even. It was one of the only things that could quiet his overwhelming thoughts, the anxiety of the expectations everyone had of him, the expectations he had of himself to always be the best he could possibly be.
Lately, though, it was getting harder and harder to quiet his mind—so much so that even playing hockey felt like a heavy weight. And his body was tired, so tired and bruised and heavy. He started making stupid mistakes on the ice, and he started to dissociate more and more. His teammates noticed. His coaches noticed, which only made the pressure even higher.

Hayden had looked worried after the last game, where Shane was body-checked hard by one of the Boston Bears players, and it took him longer than normal to get up from the ice.
Because he was hurt, sure... but also... because he didn’t want to get up anymore.
“You need a break, man,” Hayden had said. “I don’t like where this is going.”

The next day, he sent Shane a link to one of Jackie’s favorite spa retreat centers.
“Jackie has been raving about this place for years. It’s super private, and all visitors have to sign an NDA, so there’s nothing for you to worry about. I booked you a whole weekend since we’re out of the playoffs anyway, and everything’s paid for.”
“I know you don’t like being pressured into anything,” he sounded apologetic, “but I really feel like it would be good for you to relax for a bit.”
He ended the text with all the details of the weekend, which included the most expensive wellness package they offered, with various massages and wellness experiences and even something called a “sound bath”—whatever that was.
“Look,” Hayden had said, “if you really don’t want to go, no hard feelings, okay? But just... think about it, please.”

Shane’s first instinct was to decline. He wanted to work on his game, to try harder, to be better. He hated this failing feeling of his mind and body. But even he could acknowledge that what his body and mind probably needed was more rest.
So, he said, “Fuck it,” packed a bag, and went on the ridiculous wellness retreat that was supposed to fix him.

And now here he was, standing outside the steam room with 20-something other people waiting to go in for something called a “honey herb scrub experience.”

Finally, the doors to the steam room opened, and a bald, tall guy covered in tattoos walked out. He was only wearing a hammam towel and flip-flops, carrying a large tray of three ice balls. Shane walked in first. It was already warm and damp in the steam room. The man instructed them to sit down on one of the dozen little two-seater benches that covered the walls of the round room. The benches were separated by large lit-up amethyst crystal caves. There was soft yellow lighting in the otherwise dark room, and a large bowl in the middle with hot lava stones in it.

“Couples together,” the man said. “Singles can pair up.”
Shane picked one of the benches closest to the door, just in case he didn’t like it and needed an escape. He prayed to whoever was listening that he wouldn’t get paired up with some random stranger and could at least try to enjoy this whole thing.

The rest of the people poured in and picked a place to sit, and Shane let out a small sigh. He felt some of the tension leave his body when the last of the participants walked into the room and found a seat. No one was near him, and he could breathe a little easier. He closed his eyes for a second and just enjoyed the warmth on his skin.

“Room for one more?” a heavily accented, low voice asked. Shane’s eyes refused to open. He would recognize that Russian-accented voice anywhere.

But there was no way, was there?

He opened his eyes and looked at the back of a tall, muscular man wearing only a black hammam towel around his waist.

Shane’s gaze shifted up and saw the man’s brown curly hair. His gaze slid down over his shoulders and back, which had a few rough-looking scars on it. His skin had a few moles splattered all over his body. Down his gaze went over the most incredible ass he had ever seen. It was so round it was almost diabolical, and those thick thighs...

Shane’s breath hitched.

This couldn’t be happening... please, please let this be some kind of doppelganger of the person he thought he was seeing.

Right in that moment, the instructor kindly told the man to sit down. He gestured to the only empty space left.

The space... next to Shane.

The man slowly turned around, and it felt like the whole world stopped for a moment. Shane started sweating more than he already was.

Was it suddenly stifling hot in here, or was his mind playing tricks on him?

The man turned fully now.

Shane met his hazel eyes.

There he was.

Ilya fucking Rozanov. Captain of the Boston Bears.

His rival.

Here, in a fucking steam room at a spa.

What. Were. The. Fucking. Odds.

The steam room in question:

Chapter Text

They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, but was actually only a handful of seconds. The silence between them thickened, charged with an unspoken weight, both trying to make sense of the impossible.

Ilya’s brows furrowed, his confusion mirroring Shane's. The quiet was suffocating.

"Allrright," the instructor's voice suddenly boomed through the room, cutting through the air like a knife. "Let’s all sit down so we can start."

The moment shattered. Ilya broke the gaze first, looking away, and sank down onto the small bench beside Shane. The bench was barely big enough to seat two 200-pound men, but there they were, inches away from each other. The tension was immediate, like a coil, ready to snap.

Their gazes met again.

"Hi," Ilya said, his voice a little unsure, breaking the silence in a way that felt... wrong. So unlike him.

The moment felt too personal, too strange. Ilya Rozanov—his rival—looking uncertain? Shane couldn't wrap his mind around it. Ilya was always so cocky, so sure of himself. The person next to him felt almost like a stranger.

Shane suddenly realized his mouth was hanging open. He snapped it shut quickly and cleared his throat, trying to regain control.

"Hi," he muttered awkwardly, his voice betraying the discomfort he was feeling.

Instinctively, Shane shifted, trying to create some space between them, but it was futile. Their thighs were barely separated by an inch, and it felt too close. His heart pounded in his chest. Was he going to run? Should he? Could he even leave without drawing attention? What was he supposed to do? What was he even doing here?

His mind raced—this was supposed to be relaxing, dammit! Why, why did it have to be Rozanov of all people? Why now? Why here?

He and Rozanov had been rivals for years. Their animosity had been public from the moment they got into the NHL, drafted one after the other. They’d been compared and pitted against each other since day one. Every win for one was a loss for the other. The battle for awards, sponsorships, and the spotlight—it was relentless. The crowds fed on it, the media loved it, and the league thrived on the drama it created. It was a never-ending cycle of competition.

At first, Shane didn’t mind it. He respected Ilya’s game. Hell, he’d even admired him. He’d told him that, once, back in 2008, outside a rink in Saskatchewan. But as the years passed, the rivalry escalated. Rozanov became the steel-man. A monster on the ice. Aggressive. Brutal. And somehow, more so toward Shane. Always pushing buttons, always provoking.

And Shane had resented it. But at the same time, it had been exhilarating. There was a twisted excitement in knowing that he had someone to compete against, someone who kept him sharp, kept him hungry. But with every year, that competition seemed to darken. What started as mutual respect morphed into the rivalry that both fueled and broke him.

But now… now he was sitting inches away from that same man, in a steam room of all places, practically naked, and everything about this felt... wrong. So wrong.

Shane couldn’t deny it—Ilya was a striking man. Tall, strong, with a body that was pure muscle. But seeing him here, in this place, in nothing but a tiny towel... god... Shane was struggling.

His gaze locked onto the sharpness of Ilya’s jaw, the thick muscles of his chest, the tattoo on his pec. Shit. The way his thighs looked like they were carved from stone, the raw power in them... It was too much. Shane’s eyes involuntarily followed them, and the moment felt like it was stretching far too long.

His heart was hammering in his chest, and then, to his horror, he felt his body betraying him. No, no, no—he couldn’t think like that. He forced his gaze back up to Ilya’s face and coughing—fuck—don’t look there.

He leaned forward slightly, placing his forearms on his knees in an attempt to hide the very obvious reaction building in his body. This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t let it happen.

"Focus, Shane," he thought, gritting his teeth. "Lock the fuck in." His mind was a mess. He could feel himself spiraling, unable to stop the train of thought. It was so stupid, so wrong, but there was something about this situation that had his body reacting in ways it shouldn’t.

The instructor moved between them, handing out small bamboo bowls filled with some kind of herb salt. Shane took the bowl, focusing on it. Focus... He needed to focus. But that damn tension, the pressure...

“What’s this for?” Shane muttered, having missed the instructions of the session because of his racing thoughts, staring at the bowl in his hands.

“Is for skin,” Ilya’s deep voice said, and it cut through Shane’s thoughts like a blade. The sound of his voice, warm and close, sent a shiver down Shane’s spine.

He looked up, and immediately regretted it. Those eyes. God, why was Ilya so damn handsome? It was unfair, it was maddening. Shane cursed under his breath. It was just too much to process.

Ilya was already rubbing the salt into his skin in slow, deliberate circles. Shane looked around the room and saw the other people doing the same.

 “Yeah okay, thanks”, he replied. He felt his cheeks heaten. Shane tried to ignore the tension that had built up between them. Tried to pretend everything was normal.

 He was also glad that they weren’t really acknowledging the fact that they knew each other for now.

He took some salt out of the bowl and somewhat awkwardly started rubbing it into his skin. The instructor was telling them something about exfoliating and why it was good for the skin. Shane didn’t hear the rest.

"Like this," Ilya said, showing him how to rub the salt.

Shane took a deep breath and nodded, his face flushed with embarrassment. He dipped his fingers into the salt and began rubbing it into his own skin, trying to ignore the small sparks of tension that seemed to pulse between him and Ilya. The instructor was still speaking, but Shane couldn’t focus on his words.

His mind was still whirling. Why was Ilya here? The Boston Bears were out of the playoffs, sure, but... this was private, secluded. Ilya wasn’t supposed to be here, not in Canada. And Shane wasn’t supposed to be dealing with this rush of tension either. He was supposed to be relaxing and this was defenitely not helping him relax.

His heart rate quickened, but before he could spiral further, the instructor spoke again.

“The singles can pair up to help with their backs if both are comfortable,” the instructor said, his words barely registering through the fog of Shane’s racing thoughts.

Shane froze. His breath caught in his throat as he felt a warm, solid thigh press against his. He turned slowly to face Ilya. His chest tightened.

Ilya was looking at him, waiting. Expecting something.

“I can... if you want?” Ilya asked, his voice hushed, but there was an edge to it now—. He was giving Shane a choice, but somehow, it didn’t feel like one.

What the hell was happening? This wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Shane’s mouth went dry. What was he supposed to do?

"Sure," Shane heard himself say, his voice low, unsure. What was happening?

Rozanov seemed to relax at that, just a little. His mouth curved up in a small, knowing smile. It was a strange sight. It was too much. This was Rozanov, the same guy who had provoked him, who had made his life a living hell on the ice. And now, here he was... touching him, offering to help. It was like everything had shifted, everything was out of place, but Shane couldn't stop it.

"Turn," Rozanov instructed, making a circular motion with his finger to indicate what he meant. The command was simple, but it sent a shiver down Shane’s spine.

Shane blinked, but his body moved before his brain could catch up. His heart was hammering, his breath shallow. He was starting to feel everything he shouldn’t.

Rozanov’s hand touched his shoulder, warm, firm, and steady. Shane’s whole body froze. It was like the world around them disappeared, leaving just the two of them, alone in the tension.

The touch felt like too much—but it was also... exactly what he needed.

The rough texture of the salt scraped against Shane’s skin, the sensation sharp and immediate, sending a small gasp slipping from his lips. It was more intense than he’d expected—the scrub dug into his muscles, pressing deeper, working the tension out in slow, deliberate circles. The abrasive salt felt like it was grinding into him, but with every press, the pressure released, and with it, something inside Shane shifted.

It wasn’t just physical. It was deeper than that.

Shane’s breath caught as Rozanov’s hand moved down, the salt gliding over his back, the grains dragging across his skin in slow, deliberate motions. There was no hesitation in his touch—no gentle easing into it. The force behind each press, each swipe of the scrub, was firm and purposeful. And though Shane’s body instinctively tensed, there was something about it that felt necessary. Like every grain of salt against his skin was slowly peeling back layers that had been buried for too long.

Shane tried to breathe through it, but the sensation was overwhelming. He didn’t want to admit it—didn’t want to acknowledge the way his skin burned under Rozanov’s touch—but it was undeniable. The warmth spreading across his body wasn’t just from the steam in the room. It was from the pressure of Ilya’s hands, working in precise, almost too intimate strokes.

Ilya’s hand pressed harder into his shoulder, his palm moving in circles, grinding the salt deeper into Shane’s muscle. And with each motion, Shane felt the tension slowly melt away, but also something else—something softer, something that had nothing to do with the scrub and everything to do with the proximity between them.

Shane’s body betrayed him. It wasn’t just the sensation of the salt, or the way Ilya was getting closer, his hand lingering longer than Shane was comfortable with. No, it was something else—the closeness, the steady rhythm of Rozanov’s touch, the heat of his palm pressing into Shane’s back, sending a pulse of warmth through his body. It was like Rozanov was erasing the space between them—too much space. Shane should have pulled away, should have told him to stop, but instead, he leaned into the touch, his muscles giving way to the pressure, the intensity.

Rozanov moved lower, his hands finding the curve of Shane’s lower back. The rough scrub worked over the skin there, and Shane couldn’t hold back the shiver that raced through him. The friction was sharper now, but the intensity felt almost necessary.

There was something about the way Ilya’s touch was so controlled, so intentional, that it pulled Shane out of himself. The warmth that spread through him wasn’t just from the way Ilya touched him. It was something deeper—something almost subtle, like the beginning of a slow unraveling.

Shane wanted to pull away. This is Rozanov. His enemy, his rival.

But he couldn’t. The heat from Rozanov’s hand had anchored him in place, and he found himself unable to move, his own body betraying him, leaning slightly into the touch, as if craving more of the release, more of that strange warmth. It was… intimate. Too intimate for his liking.

His thoughts clouded. How could this feel so good?

When Rozanov finished, he pulled away, and Shane felt the loss immediately, like something had been taken from him.

They were both quiet for a moment…

Something shifted inside Shane, a subtle yet undeniable change. The familiarity of their rivalry, the years of calling him Rozanov, felt distant now, almost foreign. In this moment, in the quiet intimacy of the steam room, Shane couldn’t help but let go of the formality.

“Your turn,” Shane managed to rasp out, his voice rough and thick. because this was the right thing to do... right?

Ilya hesitated.

“You don’t have to,” he said quietly.

Shane looked at him, eyes lingering on the uncertainty that had returned to Ilya’s gaze. There was something there—a flicker of doubt, maybe even something more.

“Let me,” Shane said, his voice betraying more confidence than he actually felt. Ilya studied him for a long moment, as if searching for something hidden beneath his words. He didn’t seemed to find it, because he nodded, the corner of his mouth lifting in a subtle, uncertain smile.

“Okay,” Ilya whispered, then slowly turned around.

Shane’s heartbeat stuttered. In that quiet, heated space, they trusted each other more than they ever had on the ice, letting down the walls that had always separated them.

He took a deep breath and reached for the salt, his fingers trembling slightly as he dipped them into the bowl. His hand hovered for a second, then he placed it on Ilya’s broad, muscular shoulders. The warmth of his skin burned through Shane’s palm, and Shane’s breath caught. He had to focus—focus. He was doing this. He wanted to make it feel good for Ilya, he realised. The use of the name still strange, even in the quiet of his mind.

He started rubbing the salt into Ilya’s skin, moving slowly, trying to calm the racing pulse in his chest. It was new, this… touching, but the more he moved his hands over Ilya’s body, the more he found himself drawn in. Every muscle beneath his fingertips seemed to hum with life. Every scar—he could feel them all. The bumpy skin, rough and caused by years of physical punishment,  each one marking a chapter of pain he never thought he'd care to understand.

But one in particular—a long, angry red mark along Ilya's side—caught his attention. It wasn’t a hockey scar; it was different. Deeper. Something about it pulled at Shane in a way he couldn’t explain. A strange, almost protective feeling stirred inside him.

He felt Ilya’s breath hitch beneath his hand, his chest rising and falling slightly faster. Shane couldn’t help it—his fingers lingered there for a moment longer than necessary. He felt Ilya’s heartbeat beneath his palm, hammering steadily, just like his own.

Curiosity struck him, unexpected and sharp. How did he get this scar? The thought pulsed through Shane’s mind. This didn’t seem like just a puck or a stick injury—this was something personal, something beyond the game, he guessed. His mind raced, but he didn’t ask.

The atmosphere between them shifted. Every subtle movement, every breath, seemed amplified. The air was thick with tension, and Shane wondered if it was the same for Ilya, or if it was just his mind spiraling.

“Is this okay?” Shane asked, his voice rough, unsure. He was suddenly self-conscious, worried he was pushing too far. He needed to be sure, needed to know he wasn’t making Ilya uncomfortable.

“Yes,” Ilya murmured, his voice low and steady. “Feels good.”

Shane’s chest tightened. Good. That simple word sent a ripple through him. He couldn’t help the small surge of pride—he was doing this right. The touch, the care, it felt... right.

He kept going, slowly, methodically, until the bowl was empty. But when he pulled his hand away, it felt like something was missing. A hollow space, an emptiness he couldn’t explain. His hand lingered in the air for a moment longer than necessary.

Why did it feel so right to touch him like that? To do this? What the hell was going on?

He knew—on some level—that this whole situation was insane. They were rivals, enemies on the ice. They shouldn’t be here, touching each other like this. But it felt... too good. Too easy. Shane didn’t know how to process it. Everything was wrong, and yet nothing had ever felt more right.

His mind started racing again. He had to pull back, had to reframe what was happening. He thought he knew who Ilya was—the hard, ruthless competitor, the guy who had always provoked him, made him feel small. But now, with Ilya sitting beside him, his body so close, it felt like the lines were blurring.

Shane felt a surge of heat rising up his neck, his pulse thumping in his ears. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. Ilya had always been an enigma, but this... this was something different.

They sat back, both looking at each other again. Ilya’s gaze was intense, searching, as though he, too, was questioning everything. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken thoughts, both of them caught in the web of this unexpected, strange connection.

Ilya blinked, then quickly turned his gaze away.

Shane did the same, the moment slipping away. The tension broke, but it lingered, thick and heavy, hanging in the air between them like a secret neither of them wanted to acknowledge.

Chapter Text

Unfortunately for them, that was far from the end of the “honey herb scrub experience.”

Before Shane had even processed what had just happened, the instructor handed him another bamboo bowl—this time filled with white honey cream, meant to be a face mask.

The idea of being not just covered in salt but now smothered in something as sticky as honey? Almost too much for Shane. The sensations started to collide inside him, too many things all at once. His skin felt tight, too sensitive, and the thought of those two conflicting textures—salt and honey—made him uneasy. Everything felt... off, too much to take in all at once.

He stared at the bowl, feeling like the moment stretched on forever. He considered making a run for it. But then his internal voice reminded him: It’s rude to just leave. So he stayed, frozen, unsure of what else to do.

The room felt too warm, the salt on his back stinging more than it should. And then, of course, there was his freaking rival sitting next to him. It was like the universe was piling it all on, pushing him closer and closer to a point he didn’t know how to handle.

His mind scrambled, trying to make sense of it all. He wished there was some way to shut it all down, to turn off the sensory overload. But no matter how much he wanted to retreat into his own thoughts, it was impossible. Everything around him was too present, too in his face, and it made it harder to focus.

It was like how he felt after the last game 2 weeks ago, when he hit the ice—everything had stopped, his mind blank. It wasn’t the pain, though that was definitely there, but something else. His body just froze. And even when he tried to push himself up, it felt like the world was pushing back, refusing to let him move. He’d eventually gotten up, but it had taken everything. He knew something needed to change then, but now?

He was stuck again. His brain couldn’t make a decision, couldn’t move.

“Hollander,” he heard, the voice cutting through his thoughts.

Shane blinked, startled. His gaze shifted slowly from the bowl to Ilya, sitting beside him.

Ilya was pointing at the bowl of face mask.

“Are you okay?” Ilya asked, his voice quiet.

Shane paused. The question hit him like a wave. He wasn’t okay—not really. But somehow, he felt compelled to answer, even though it made him feel... exposed, like he was being pulled out of himself in a way he wasn’t sure he could control.

“I don’t like so many different sensations on my skin... the heat, the salt, and now... this.” His voice faltered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He quickly added, “It... it overwhelms me.”

The confession didn’t sit right with him. It felt like he was revealing too much, even though logically, there was nothing to be ashamed of. Still, his cheeks burned. He hated the way it made him feel, vulnerable in a way he didn’t quite know how to manage.

Ilya didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stared at Shane, his eyes searching like he was trying to understand something that wasn’t obvious. It was the kind of gaze that made Shane feel both seen and uncomfortable, like there was something hidden in the space between them.

Then, Ilya stood up, his movements decisive.

Shane blinked, confused. Right. Well, well done, Shane. You made him leave, he thought, the self-doubt creeping in.

But Ilya didn’t leave. Instead, he walked over to the instructor, speaking with him in quiet tones. Shane didn’t understand what was going on, but something shifted in the air around them. The instructor turned, nodding, and then gestured toward the door.

What the hell was happening?

The rest of the group seemed oblivious, happily applying their face masks, unaware of the strange exchange happening right next to them.

Ilya returned to Shane’s side, grabbing the bowl from his hands and setting it down on the bench with a kind of finality.

“Get up,” Ilya said, his voice firm, like it wasn’t a suggestion.

Shane blinked. “What?”

“Get up,” Ilya repeated, his eyes locked on Shane’s, unwavering.

Something in Shane’s chest tightened. His brain was too scrambled to think clearly, but he stood up anyway, like his body was moving on its own. The instructor had begun cleaning the bench with a bucket of water, and Ilya didn’t waste any time. He grabbed Shane’s arm, pulling him toward the door, not waiting for permission or explanation.

“Come on,” Ilya said, guiding him out of the steam room and toward the showers.

The cool air hit Shane’s skin, and for a second, everything felt... too much again. His mind was still trying to process everything, trying to make sense of why this felt like both an escape and a deeper entanglement. Ilya was making decisions for him, and part of him resented it, but another part was... almost relieved.

“We’re going to get you under shower, wash salt off, and if you still want, we can go back after and finish the...” Ilya trailed off, searching for the words. “Herb scrub thing,” he finished with a slight smile.

Shane blinked up at him. His thoughts were clouded, spinning in circles. He wanted to argue, to say he didn’t need help, that he could just go back inside and handle it. But there was something in the way Ilya was looking at him. Something that made him feel... understood, in a way he couldn’t explain.

The weight of it all settled on him. He wasn’t used to someone stepping in like this—especially not Ilya, of all people. And yet, here he was, making choices for Shane in a way that felt oddly reassuring. He couldn’t deny it. Ilya knew exactly what he needed before Shane even had the chance to figure it out himself.

And so, despite himself, Shane found himself saying, “Thank you.”

The words felt strange, but they were out before he could stop them. He didn’t try to explain himself. There was no reason to.

Ilya’s expression softened, a small smile flickering across his face. He nodded once, as if understanding.

Without another word, Ilya turned the shower on, a secretive smile at the edges of his lips. He grabbed Shane’s forearms and gently pushed him backward under the spray.

Shane let out a startled, high-pitched shriek, his body jerking from the cold.

Ilya couldn’t help it. He let out a laugh, deep and spontaneous, his shoulders shaking with the force of it. His head dropped, and for a moment, he leaned forward, almost gasping for air between chuckles. There was something about the unexpectedness of it, the way Shane had reacted so sharply to the cold, that made it all too much. It was a ridiculous situation, but in the best way.

The sound of Shane’s shocked shriek still echoed in his mind, and it was like the tension from earlier finally broke. Ilya glanced up, his smile still lingering as he wiped tears from his eyes, trying to get control of himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said between breaths, still fighting a grin. “Had to do it.”

Shane stood there, his heart pounding in his chest, the sudden coldness of the water making his body stiffen at first. His face burned with a mix of surprise and embarrassment, but something else—something lighter—bubbled up inside him, too. Despite the shock of it, despite the jolt of icy water still clinging to him, he couldn’t help it. A laugh broke free from his lips, hesitant at first, but growing more genuine as the tension melted away. The sound felt strange coming from him, almost like it wasn’t his own, but it was there—loud, unrestrained, and almost relieved.

For a brief moment, it felt like the rush of the cold water had snapped him out of the fog in his mind, the spiraling thoughts that had been consuming him since he stepped into the steam room. He wasn’t thinking about the salt, or the honey, or the sensation of being exposed and vulnerable anymore. He wasn’t even thinking about the strange tension that had been hanging between him and Ilya.

He glanced up at Ilya, his breath shaky, and for a moment, his smile met Ilya’s eyes with an honesty that felt raw and unexpected. The moment was too ridiculous, too much to hold onto anything else but the absurdity of it all. And somehow, in that moment, laughter became the only thing that made sense. It felt freeing, like he could let go of everything that had been weighing him down.

 “You asshole,” Shane muttered, finally adjusting the water temperature to something more tolerable.

They stood there for a moment, the laughter easing the tension between them. Shane began washing the salt off his body, feeling a strange kind of relief. The water, the heat, the cold—all of it was normal again, and for the first time since he walked into the steam room, he felt like he could breathe.

His Hammam towel was soaked, clinging to him like it was glued to his skin. Shane’s breath hitched slightly, but when he glanced up, he noticed Ilya’s gaze had shifted. It wasn’t on his face anymore. Ilya’s eyes had dropped lower, following the trail of water down Shane’s neck, over his chest, and down to his abs and thighs. Shane felt an uncomfortable prickle across his skin, like every inch of him was suddenly hyper-aware. The sensation was electric, unsettling—he couldn’t shake it. The air between them felt thicker, heavier, as though the silence had grown louder.

For a moment, Shane couldn’t look away. He wasn’t sure what to make of the way Ilya’s gaze lingered—slow, deliberate, almost searching. Their rivalry had always been clear-cut, an obvious tension between them that neither of them had ever fully questioned. But now, in this quiet, charged moment, Shane wondered if something more had always been there. Something unspoken. Neither of them had ever talked about it—never acknowledged anything beyond the game, beyond the competition—but maybe it had always been lurking beneath the surface. But in this charged space, the unspoken question hung between them: What if? What if Ilya was looking at him differently now? And if Shane was honest with himself, what if he was looking back with the same intensity, even though he wasn’t sure why? Maybe this was just the weird, charged atmosphere of the steam room making him overthink everything. He wasn’t sure.

But whatever it was, it was there now. Neither of them knew what to do with it.

Ilya looked away quickly, clearing his throat. “I should,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I should go back in.” He turned and walked back toward the steam room without another word, leaving Shane standing there, his thoughts still tangled.

He turned and walked back toward the steam room without another word, leaving Shane standing there, his thoughts still tangled. But there was something different now. The overwhelming noise in his head—those spiraling thoughts that had taken over, when everything felt too much, too intense—had quieted a little. Ilya’s sudden decisiveness, the way he had guided Shane without hesitation, had somehow cut through the chaos in his mind. It wasn’t that everything had disappeared, but the weight had shifted. The pressure that had been building inside him, the sensory overload, had eased just enough for him to breathe again.

Shane blinked, his chest still tight, but the cold water had pulled him out of the fog, and Ilya—strangely—had given him a kind of anchor. There was something about the way Ilya had moved, so effortlessly in control, that made Shane feel seen in a way he hadn’t expected. For the first time in what felt like forever, the spiraling thoughts weren’t overwhelming him. He could actually hear himself think again, even if it was just for a moment.

But now, with Ilya walking back into the steam room, the question that had been left hanging between them—what was this?—was still there, lingering in the space between them.

Chapter Text

Ilya

Ilya sank back down onto the bench in the steam room, trying to steady his breath, but his heart was still pounding, erratic, like it was trying to break out of his chest. The heat of the room only made the knot in his stomach tighten.

The shock of seeing Hollander—of all people—sitting on that tiny bench, looking so lost and alone, still hadn’t worn off. The sight of him, slumped there like a boy caught between two worlds, had dug under Ilya’s skin in ways he wasn’t ready to admit. Hollander had always been the perfect image of success, but now... Now, there was something about him that was raw and fragile, and it made Ilya ache in ways that were impossible to explain.

It should have felt good. Seeing him like this, seeing him less than perfect, a bit broken, but it only added to the weight Ilya was already carrying. The weight that had been growing inside him for years, pressing down harder with each passing day.

Ilya hadn’t come here for this. He hadn’t come here for him.

He had come to get away from everything—the anger that gnawed at him constantly, the way his father’s voice echoed in his head, telling him he was never enough. He had come here hoping to find something resembling peace, to make the heaviness in his chest go away, if only for a moment. But nothing ever felt right anymore.

He thought back to the night he’d started therapy. It was half a year ago, when he had stood at the window of his mansion in Boston, staring into the dark, wondering what the point of it all was. His mind had been full of thoughts he didn’t know how to escape.

Thoughts about his mother, the only person who had ever truly seen him, who had loved him unconditionally, who had been his whole world. When she died, it felt like everything she had given him was ripped away. His father, embarrassed by her choice, had insisted that Ilya never speak of her again, as if erasing her would make her absence easier to bear. He remarried quickly, moving on as though nothing had ever been lost. But for Ilya, everything changed that day.

That night in Boston, standing alone in the dark, he'd realized how deep the ache ran. How much of his life had been lived in shadows, trying to earn approval from a man who didn’t know how to love him. The thought had crossed his mind then—What is the point? That whisper, cold and dark, had scared him.

The next morning, he called Dr. Galina Molchalina. The first russian speaking therapist he could find. He hadn’t even thought about it; the words just came out. She’d heard the desperation in his voice, and she’d gotten him an appointment that very day.

The therapy had been brutal. In the beginning, he couldn’t even face the things buried inside him—the memories, the pain, the endless torment that had festered for years. It was like opening a wound he didn’t want to touch, one that had been covered for so long that the rawness of it all was unbearable. There was just so much to unpack. He hated how vulnerable it made him feel, how the EMDR therapy forced him to confront the demons he had buried deep within. It made his mind spin, made his chest feel tight as old wounds reopened. But he kept going. He had to. Because if he didn’t, if he let himself retreat back into the numbness he had lived with for so long, the darkness would swallow him. He would lose himself completely.

But even after all the work, after all the tearing down and rebuilding, it never felt like enough. The anger was still there, a weight he couldn’t shake. Every day, it pressed on him like an invisible force, suffocating him from within. At first, he didn’t even recognize it for what it was—just a constant, simmering frustration that had nowhere to go. But over time, it became clear: the anger wasn’t just a symptom of the past—it was a part of the healing process. It was the pain that needed to be released, the way his body was trying to push out years of suppression. He had spent so long suppressing everything—the grief, the fear, the hopelessness—and now, in the process of confronting it all, the anger was the only thing that could make him feel alive, that could make him feel something.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t easy. And it wasn’t something he could control.

On the ice, it all spilled out. He started playing rougher, taking out his frustrations in ways he didn’t even realize were self-destructive. More penalties. More rough hits. More moments of losing himself in the fury that had become his constant companion. It was as if the anger was pushing him to break something, to feel something, even if it meant destroying the very thing he loved. Hockey, the thing that had always been his escape, was now where he let it all out. But the hits, the anger—it didn’t make him feel better. It only dug the hole deeper, leaving him with more things he couldn’t take back, more things he had to live with.

The truth was, the anger wasn’t just a reaction—it was part of his healing. It was messy, it was painful, but it was the only way for him to start letting go of what had broken him. Even if it felt like he was breaking himself in the process.

The anger was consuming him.

And then, Hollander. Shane.

The game, the hit. He couldn’t even remember the moment he’d slammed him into the boards, but he remembered the way it felt after. Like everything inside him had exploded, a release of all the anger, the frustration that had been building for months. It had felt necessary in the moment, like the only way to let it out, to stop feeling so empty. But as soon as the hit happened, the satisfaction he’d expected never came.

He had stood there, hands trembling, watching Hollander try to recover, and he had felt... nothing. No triumph. No satisfaction. No relief. Just an overwhelming emptiness that spread through him like ice. The anger that had burned so hot, so fiercely, suddenly turned cold and hollow. It was like the hit had taken everything out of him, leaving only the weight of regret in its place.

Ilya had waited, standing frozen, not knowing why, to see if Hollander would be okay. It was the strangest feeling, waiting there as if it mattered. As if any part of this had mattered. He should’ve felt something—something like victory or even just the satisfaction of knowing he had finally done something. But there was no okay anymore. Not for him, not for anyone.

Hollander slowly getting up didn’t change anything. The silence in the rink felt heavier than the roar of the crowd had ever been. Ilya felt the weight of his actions, but it wasn’t guilt—not yet. It was something worse. A hollowness that made him question everything. What had he just done?

He didn’t know how to fix it, how to fix himself. All the therapy, all the work, and yet here he was, letting the anger drive him, throwing away any progress he had made. In that moment, he knew he couldn’t go back. He could feel the mask slipping off again, the one he had so carefully rebuilt, and he was powerless to stop it. He couldn’t undo what he’d just done. Couldn’t undo the hurt he had caused, the part of himself he had just broken open again.

And worst of all, he didn’t know if he even wanted to fix it anymore. It was easier to stay in the rage, easier to keep moving forward with the anger, because at least it made him feel something. At least it kept the pain at bay, even if it wasn’t the right kind of feeling.

He couldn’t look at Hollander without seeing the aftermath of his own anger. Every time his mind flashed back to the hit, it was like a small wound reopened. He had hurt someone—badly—and it wasn’t just on the ice. It was deeper than that. It always had been.

His coaches had given him an order after that: “Fix it, Rozanov.” Ilya heard the undertone “or else”, “we are going tot trade you for someone else, someone stable” “someone who isn’t broken” his mind filled in. “fix it” Like it was that easy.

Relax. Unwind. Get away. Don’t come back untill it is fixed.

And so, he had.

He booked a trip. To a Wellness Centre in Ontario, Canada, of all places. The expensive package, the only option left. He didn’t care where it was. He just needed space—space from the anger, from the pressure, from the constant noise in his head. This retreat promised the silence he craved, with no phones, no cameras, no expectations. Just isolation. It catered to people like him—celebrities who needed to disappear for a while—and the price didn’t matter. He needed a break, to breathe without the weight of the world on his shoulders. It was a desperate escape, but at that moment, it was all he could do. But he hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected to see Shane here. Not now.

Shane. Hollander. The perfect one. The golden boy. The one who had everything Ilya couldn’t reach. The one whose life had been so... effortless. Loving parents, friends who adored him, a career that looked like it was built on nothing but sheer talent and good fortune. The things Ilya had never had.

Ilya had admired him from afar for years. The way he played, his dedication, his skill. But there was also a hint of unspoken bitterness in Ilya’s chest when he watched him. That gnawing feeling that maybe, just maybe, Shane didn’t have to fight for everything the way Ilya did. Shane had always been the one who seemed untouchable, flawless.

And now... Ilya found himself staring at him like he was something he could never have.

They had met years ago, outside the rink in Saskatchewan. Shane had approached him, told him he admired him. Ilya hadn’t known what to say. He was too focused on proving himself. But he had noticed Shane’s smile, the way his cheeks were flushed from the cold, the freckles scattered across his face. The way he looked at Ilya—like he mattered.

Ilya had tried not to care. He had buried his admiration, telling himself that it was just part of the game. That the rivalry between them was real. But deep down, he had always watched Shane with a longing he didn’t know how to fight. It wasn’t just the hockey. It was... something else. Something that made his chest tighten every time their eyes met.

The NHL had capitalized on their rivalry, and Ilya had gone along with it. They’d done commercials together, interviews, promotional events. They’d never spoken much. Shane had always looked at him like they were enemies, like the league had made them rivals for a reason. Ilya had gotten frustrated by it, but it only made his longing worse.

And now, here he was. Standing across from Shane in this ridiculous wellness center, his heart pounding in a way that didn’t feel like a normal human reaction. This wasn’t just a rivalry. This wasn’t just frustration. This was something deeper.

Something he didn’t know how to control.

He had seen the way Shane struggled with the face mask. The way his discomfort had made him spiral. Ilya hadn’t understood it at first, but when Shane explained his sensitivity to textures, Ilya had felt a pull—an overwhelming need to do something, anything, to help. Maybe, just maybe, he could fix something. For once.

But that need to help, to fix, twisted into something else when he watched Shane under the shower.

The way his body glistened with water. The freckles on his shoulders, the ones Ilya had never seen before. The carefree smile that flickered across his face, a moment of pure freedom. Shane wasn’t thinking about anything. He was just... there. So there. Alive. Real.

Ilya had felt his control slip away, piece by piece, the moment Shane started washing the salt from his skin. His hands running over his abs. Looking directly at him. Ilya had felt the tension build, felt his body react in ways he had tried so hard to ignore. The heat, the need, the pull.

And that’s when it hit him. Harder than any hit he’d ever taken on the ice. He wanted to move toward him, to reach him, but he was terrified. Terrified of what it meant. Terrified of what would happen if he let himself feel too much.

He left. Without saying a word. Without thinking. He couldn’t stay there, couldn’t risk breaking the last bit of control he had left.

He walked back into the steam room, but as the door closed behind him, he couldn’t breathe. He couldn't escape the weight in his chest. He had come here for peace, for space, but all he felt now was... longing. The kind of yearning that felt like it could swallow him whole.

And then the door to the steam room creaked open again.

Chapter Text

Shane: 

Shane was debating whether he should return to the steam room, about putting himself in that position again with Ilya. The whole absurd intimacy of it all. Neither of them had ever openly discussed their sexuality, and Shane couldn’t stop wondering: Did Ilya even know he was attracted to men? Could Ilya, in some strange twist of fate, be into… him? It wasn’t exactly easy to be open about these things in the NHL. The idea of being out felt almost impossible. There was no support system in place, no real space for something like that in a sport so rooted in tradition. 

Still, the way Ilya had looked at him—that gaze—the heat in his eyes, the depth of his stare—felt genuine. It had to be. You couldn’t fake that. 

Shane’s body longed for it, craved sitting close to Ilya again. His mind craved the kind of peace Ilya seemed to bring him, the kind he never realized he needed. 

It wasn’t always easy to process emotions, especially when everything around him felt like it was moving too fast. Shane had always been sensitive to small shifts, whether it was a sudden change in his environment, a loud noise, or even the unexpected closeness of someone else. It wasn’t that he couldn’t handle it—he just needed more time to adjust than most people seemed to give him. And sometimes, that left him feeling out of sync, even in situations that weren’t supposed to be stressful. 

So, after another long breath, he decided to push those thoughts aside, not wanting to overanalyze. He was just going to finish the session. After all, Hayden had paid for the whole thing, including the honey facial, and Shane didn’t want to seem ungrateful. It was easier to go along with it, even if it meant sitting through something as silly as a facial. 

That seemed like a perfectly reasonable explanation, right? 

He quickly washed off and walked back into the steam room. 

Shane sat down, a little closer to Ilya than before, but not quite touching him. He grabbed the bowl with the mask and dipped his fingers in. It wasn’t sticky, just creamy. He could work with that. 

He glanced at Ilya, who was looking at him with a confused expression. 

“What?” Shane asked with a small grin. 

“Nothing,” Ilya replied. “I just thought... you’d be happy to just be clean now.” 

Shane shrugged. “I’d be rude not to finish what I started, right?” 

Even he didn’t know if he was talking about the session or whatever was happening between them. 

“Let me,” Ilya said. Before Shane could argue, Ilya had already reached for the mask. There was no reason for him to let Ilya do it—he could easily do it himself—but in that moment, he didn’t care. He was touch-starved and would take any excuse for Ilya’s hands to be on him again. 

So, he smiled at Ilya and said, “This is ridiculous.” 

Ilya shrugged and smiled back. “But also fun, yes? You look like you could use some fun.” 

Shane scoffed. “I am fun.” 

Ilya laughed. “Oh yeah? When?” “Do you even eat ice cream?” he teased. “Or does it mess with your macrobiotic diet?” 

Shane raised an eyebrow. “I’m not some sugar addict, if that’s what you mean.” 

Ilya raised a finger, leaning in. “Ah, but even the most disciplined athletes deserve a cheat day. What’s your excuse?” 

Shane smirked. “Discipline. I have more of it than you.” 

Ilya chuckled. “We’ll see. I’m telling you, ice cream’s performance-enhancing.” 

Shane laughed. “I think you just want an excuse to eat it.” 

Ilya grinned. “Absolutely.” 

The instructor kindly reminded them to quiet down. 

Shane’s face flushed. He hadn’t realized Ilya was paying so much attention. “How do you even know I follow a macrobiotic diet?” 

“I pay attention,” Ilya said, suddenly serious. “I see you.” 

That hit harder than Shane expected. “I see you.” The words weren’t just a casual observation. They felt too deep, too raw—intimate. A strange weight pressed down on his chest, something he didn’t know how to shake. Was it the language barrier that sometimes lingered ? Or did Ilya truly mean it? 

It was as if, for once, someone was peering through all the masks, the walls he’d built. The ones that had been there for so long, he didn’t even remember why they were up anymore.  

Had anyone truly seen him? His parents—maybe. They loved him, of course, but they’d always been wrapped up in the version of Shane they believed he was meant to be—the public one. The successful athlete, the one who could do no wrong. They didn't know about the secret pieces of him that didn’t fit that mold. They didn’t know about his struggles or the fact that he was more drawn to men than women. And as much as they loved him, they never truly saw that part of him. 

But Ilya—did he see him? Really see him? 

They’d played each other for years, and Shane had caught Ilya staring once or twice, but he always brushed it off as a rivalry thing. The truth was, he’d always been a little fascinated by Ilya—the way he held himself. That quiet confidence. The strength in his body, but more than that—there was a power in his presence, in the way he moved, the way he could fill a room without trying. 

Shane knew this was just one moment—one reckless, impossible moment in all the years they had known each other as rivals. Years of competition, tension, and stubborn pride didn’t simply disappear because of what had just happened. But still… it had happened. 

And for him, that made it real. 

Shane tried to push the thoughts aside, but they lingered as he lifted his fingers, still covered in the mask. He smeared a thick stripe across Ilya’s forehead. The surprised gasp that followed was more than he expected, and Ilya’s soft laugh sent a jolt through him. His dimples deepened as he smiled. 

Hold still,” Shane said, his voice light but with an edge to it, as he applied the mask to Ilya’s face. “I’m giving you a Viking makeover.” 

He exaggerated every stroke, making it over-the-top on purpose, but there was something in the air between them that felt a little off—almost like an unspoken challenge. 

“I’m going to look like a raccoon,” Ilya said, his accent thick and his voice laced with humor, but his eyes were sharper now, watching Shane with a hint of curiosity. 

Shane stepped back and raised an eyebrow, feigning a look of horror. “Wow a raccoon even? No way. You’re going to look like a legendary warrior. Strong. Fierce. Like you could take on an entire army.” 

Ilya didn’t break his gaze, the playful smile still tugging at his lips, but there was something different in the way he looked at Shane. “Fierce... but raccoon?” 

Shane held his ground, trying to keep the mood light but finding himself getting a little lost in Ilya’s eyes. “You know, raccoons are pretty damn tough. They survive anything. You’ll be a tough Viking. A little... mysterious.” 

Ilya’s smile deepened, his expression unreadable for a moment. “Mysterious, huh?” he said softly, his voice almost teasing, but the way his eyes stayed on Shane made Shane feel suddenly aware of the space between them. “And you think I look... mysterious?” 

Shane almost faltered, unsure whether Ilya was joking or if something else was there. “Well, yeah,” he said, swallowing hard and trying to keep his cool. “I mean, come on. Look at you. You’ve got that ‘I’m a warrior who’s seen some shit’ look.” 

Ilya leaned in slightly, just enough to make Shane feel the heat of his presence, and in a low voice, he said, “You’re right. I’ve seen some things. And I don’t know... maybe I like the idea of looking dangerous.” 

Shane’s breath caught. He tried to push the thoughts away, focusing back on the task at hand. “Oh, yeah? Well, trust me,” he said with a teasing grin. “You’ll be the most dangerous-looking raccoon warrior out there.” 

Ilya chuckled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Dangerous, huh? Maybe I should start a new career as a Viking... or a raccoon.” 

Shane laughed,  “Sure, you’d be famous. Everyone’s favorite warrior—fierce and handsome”. 

For a moment, there was just a beat of silence between them. The playful energy was still there, but something had shifted. The tension was subtle, but it was there, humming in the air. 

Ilya finally broke the silence with a soft laugh. “Okay, okay, I trust you... but I still think you’re making me look like just raccoon without the warrior part.” 

Shane’s smile was a little less certain now. “Well, you’re a legendary one, at least.” 

The world outside the steam room seemed to fall away as their gazes locked. For a moment, the playfulness between them shifted into something else. Shane traced Ilya’s jawline with his thumb, moving agonizingly slow, feeling the warmth of his skin, the solid strength under his fingers. His stomach flipped. 

How could someone so fierce be so soft in here? So beautiful? Shane’s breath caught as he noticed Ilya’s lashes flutter under the dim lighting. His pupils had dilated, turning his eyes into dark, bottomless pools. He saw the heat in them. The quiet, undeniable desire. 

“Done,” Shane said, his voice strained. 

“Okay, your turn,” Ilya whispered, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll make you a pretty princess, I think.” 

Shane scoffed, a little breathless, but there was a warmth to Ilya’s teasing that unsettled him. It felt... different. Was it always like this? Had it always been there, and they were just too blind to see it? Shane wasn’t sure, but for some reason, his heart was racing faster than it should. 

Ilya lifted his hand toward Shane, the movement slow, deliberate. 

Shane closed his eyes, anticipating the coolness of the mask on his skin. Instead, he felt the warmth of Ilya’s large hand, calloused from years of hockey, gliding the mask across the bridge of his nose. Down the tip, over his cheekbones. 

“zvezdy”  Ilya murmured softly. “Like stars,”, “Your freckles.” 

Shane’s heart stopped. He didn’t know how to respond. The words... they struck something deep, something vulnerable he hadn’t realized he was hiding. His breath hitched, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe at all. “Wow,” he exhaled, his voice barely a whisper. His eyes stayed locked on Ilya’s hazel ones, feeling like something between them was changing in real time, something neither could ignore anymore. 

Why was this so intimate? This wasn’t like anything they’d shared before. But it felt so right. So impossibly right. Shane couldn’t shake the thought that maybe there had always been something between them—something that had never had the chance to fully surface. Maybe it was the world that had kept them apart. The pressure. The labels. 

“You’re always so controlled,” Ilya whispered, his voice low, his fingers still moving upward over Shane’s forehead, down his cheeks. The slow, careful path they traced felt like a delicate exploration. Finally, Ilya reached Shane’s lips, brushing lightly over the top, down the full curve of his bottom lip. 

“I wonder what makes you lose that,” he whispered, so soft that Shane barely heard it, his words hanging in the air like a dare. 

Shane reached out without thinking, grabbing Ilya’s arm. Their eyes locked, and the air between them thickened, heavy with tension. Neither of them moved. 

“Do you think you’re the only one noticing things right now?” Shane’s voice was rough, strained, his chest tight. The words had barely left his mouth when he realized how charged they sounded. The tension between them had gone from playful to something raw, something primal. Like a string pulled taut between them, ready to snap. 

Just then, the instructor’s voice interrupted, announcing that the session was over. Shane’s heart was still pounding as the instructor thanked them for participating and left. It took a moment for Shane to remember the other participants, all of whom had quietly filtered out. 

They both stood, Shane felt the familiar tightness in his chest. The knot that appeared from nowhere. That feeling that had haunted him for years. His heart raced, and his breathing quickened. Everything around him felt overwhelming. Too fast. Too much. 

It was the same feeling he’d fought off so many times before. 

But before it could spiral, before it could consume him, he felt Ilya’s hand on his arm. A firm, grounding touch, steady and calm. 

Shane froze. He hadn’t asked for it. He hadn’t expected it. But there it was. Ilya had pulled him back, stopped him from falling into panic.  

Grateful? Confused? Both. He didn’t know how to feel about it. He wasn’t used to someone knowing what he needed before he even realized it himself. 

They walked toward the showers, the tension between them still thick, and Shane tried to shake off the hopefull beating of his heart. He cranked the water as cold as it would go, hoping it would numb everything. But deep down, he knew the feeling wasn’t going anywhere. 

Chapter Text

The sunshine hit his face. It was comfortably warm today, the perfect temperature, and the sky was clear and blue.

The wellness center was massive.

The main building rose in wide geometric terraces, built from pale stone that glimmered softly in the sunlight. Large glass walls reflected the surrounding forest and the lake below, making the whole structure look like it had grown out of the landscape itself. Wide steps and platforms wrapped around the building, dotted with loungers where guests relaxed in the sun.

Surrounding the building were landscaped gardens, warm outdoor pools, and steaming hot tubs. Beyond them stretched a large natural lake, its surface smooth and dark, reflecting the trees of the vast forest that enclosed the entire complex. It felt remote, hidden away from the rest of the world.

The center was divided into different themed areas. Inside the main building were treatment rooms where guests could receive massages and body scrubs, quiet relaxation spaces with panoramic windows overlooking the lake, and a small indoor pool filled with warm mineral water. Several saunas lined the interior, each with different temperatures and atmospheres.

Many of the spaces were inspired by crystals. Soft lighting illuminated walls of rose quartz, amethyst, and other stones that glowed gently in the heat of the rooms, giving the entire place an almost otherworldly calm.

On one side of the main building stood a large wooden sauna structure, darker and more rustic in design. Thick beams, carved wooden panels, and high pitched roofs gave it the feeling of an ancient Nordic bathhouse. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, and guests moved quietly between the heat of the saunas and the cold plunge pools outside.

Further along the grounds, pathways curved through the trees to smaller pavilions tucked between the forest. These buildings had a softer, more Asian-inspired style—open wooden frames, curved roofs, and wide verandas overlooking the water. From there a narrow path continued down to a small lakeside beach where visitors could swim directly in the cool, clear water.

At the back of the property, near the entrance, stood the private guest lodges where overnight visitors stayed. They looked modest from the outside, but inside they were luxurious—each with a large bathroom, a bedroom, and a small living space. Sliding glass doors opened onto private terraces overlooking either the forest or the lake.

Every lodge felt private, carefully spaced so that no one looked directly into another’s space. It was the kind of place designed for silence, for breathing, for forgetting everything outside its borders.

Shane had arrived that morning and put his bag in his cabin. Shane’s had a terrace that faced the water.

From there he could see the lake stretching out between the trees, quiet and untouched, as if the rest of the world existed somewhere very far away.

He had explored a bit of the grounds. The whole center was massive, so he was very glad they had given him a map of the compound to look at.

He had three treatments planned today. The honey scrub had been the first. A sports massage at 15:00 was next, and after dinner there would be a sound bath—whatever that meant.

There was still some time before the massage, and he desperately needed a breather.

What just happened? What even was that?

He walked quickly toward the main building, hoping to avoid Ilya for a while. He needed to get his armor back on. Needed to steady himself. Remind himself that they were just colleagues. That it didn’t matter that Ilya was here. The center was big enough. He could keep his distance for a bit. There was no reason they had to run into each other again after… whatever that had been.

Part of him felt relieved at the easy way out his brain had offered him. A smaller part wondered whether that was actually what he wanted—or just what he told himself he should want.

His head felt scrambled, thoughts running in tight circles, and the panic he knew too well started creeping back in. His heart began to hammer against his ribs. Heat flooded through his body. It felt like someone had dropped a weight onto his chest, pressing the air out of his lungs no matter how hard he tried to breathe.

God, not this again, he was so tired of this feeling—of knowing there was nothing logically worth panicking about, and still being completely unable to stop it.

They had started years ago.

At first only occasionally—before a big hockey game, or the kind of award show where cameras and expectations followed him everywhere. Back then he could almost predict them. Situations where too many people were watching him. Where too many people expected him to deliver. Where one mistake—one wrong move, one bad game—felt like it might unravel everything he had spent years building.

That pressure had always been there.

But the attacks had changed. They came more often now. Harder. What used to be a spike of nerves had turned into something that grew and grew inside his chest until it felt like it would tear him apart from the inside.

Until it felt like he was dying.

And the worst part was that he understood it while it was happening. His brain knew the feeling was irrational, knew he wasn’t actually in danger. But knowing that never stopped it.

It just meant he got to feel it and hate himself for not being able to control it.

Lately, he’d started wondering if there was a reason they were getting worse.

Because there was something he’d been trying very hard not to think about.

He’d known for a while now that he liked men.

The realization hadn’t come all at once. It had crept in slowly, in quiet moments he tried not to look at too closely. He had never been interested in women the way his friends were—never felt that easy excitement they talked about. Instead there had always been something else, something quieter but impossible to ignore.

Accepting that about himself had been its own kind of battle.

Because it wasn’t something he had chosen. It wasn’t something he could fix or train away or push harder against until it disappeared.

It was just… him.

And that alone had already been complicated enough.

He had always admired the strong, muscular bodies of men. That kind of appreciation wasn’t unusual in hockey—everyone trained, everyone pushed their bodies to the limit. It was normal to notice strength, power, form.

At least that’s what he had told himself for years.

Not that he had ever been interested in someone on his own team. He’d been careful about that line, careful about all of it. Safe.

The truth was that there had only ever been one colleague he’d really looked at like that.

And that same man had just joined him in a steam room where they’d somehow ended up sharing the most intense and intimate honey scrub experience Shane was pretty sure anyone had ever had.

Ilya.

Shane exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

Ilya was just… beautiful.

There was no other word for it, no matter how much he tried to find a different one. And being that close to him—being able to look at him like that, to feel the warmth of his hands, the nearness of him—

It had done something to Shane.

Because the quiet interest he had always tried to keep under control had suddenly flared into something much stronger. Something louder. His whole body had reacted to it in a way that felt impossible to ignore.

He had admired Ilya before, sure.

But nothing like this.

No.

He cut himself off immediately, the mental brake slamming down hard.

Even if Ilya was interested in him—and that was a big if. Because Ilya had, as far as Shane knew, always been with women. Or at least he was always only seen with women.

He could be bisexual, his mind whispered.

But for now he had no reason to believe Ilya was bisexual. And besides that, he himself could never be out. There was just no place in the hockey world for him if he were to be out as gay. Maybe someday, after his retirement. But not now. He’d just have to suppress that side of himself, even if it made him feel sick.

So his conclusion was simple.

There was no way that whatever happened in that steam room could ever exist in the outside world.

Shane walked to the main building looking for a sauna to get into. There were three of them, all panoramas with a view of the lake. They had one-way windows so you could look out, but no one could look in.

He needed to get his mind off the racing panic, out of his spiraling thoughts. The cold water of the shower Ilya had pulled him into had helped, basically resetting his brain. The warmth of the sauna could surely do the same.

The second he walked in, the hot air hit him in the face. He focused on the warmth on his skin. Thankfully, his brain quieted almost immediately.

He walked into the sauna, which had lit rose quartz lining the walls. Luckily, it was completely empty.

He sat down on one of the highest benches, where it would be the hottest, spread out his hammam towel, and lay down. He closed his eyes for a second. The warmth on his skin felt nice, and he immediately started sweating.

He tried to relax. Now his brain was occupied with the warmth, and for a moment there were no racing thoughts. He did some box-breathing exercises and tried to relax into the wooden bench.

This was what he was supposed to be doing—relaxing. Not sitting here panicking over his rival.

Come on, Shane. This is what you’re here for.

After ten minutes, the heat on the upper bench started to feel almost unbearable. He got up and stepped down to the lower bench, hoping the slightly cooler air would calm the tightness in his chest. Through the wide window he could see the lawn outside, the bubbling hot tub sunk neatly into the grass, and beyond that the calm stretch of the lake.

Fuck…

Ilya was right there in the hot tub.

Shane’s stomach sank a little when he realized it

It was like the universe kept them close, kept pushing them together.

It was almost unfair.

Ilya’s back was turned toward the sauna.

Ilya looked… unfair.

His dark brown curls were soaked, clinging damply to the back of his neck. Broad shoulders rose out of the steaming water, the muscles in them relaxed but unmistakably powerful. His arms were stretched across the edges of the tub, large and easy, like he belonged there.

Even from here, Shane could see the smooth movement of muscle under his skin when he shifted slightly. Years of training had carved his body into something strong and precise. Something Shane had spent far too long pretending he wasn’t noticing.

The hot tub had been built low into the grass so it wouldn’t block the lake view from the sauna.

From where Shane sat, the view framed Ilya perfectly.

Which felt like a cruel joke.

There was something deeply indecent about watching him like this while Shane himself was completely naked. Knowing that if Ilya turned around, he wouldn’t be able to see him.

But Shane could see everything.

And apparently he couldn’t stop.

Ilya leaned his head back slightly, closing his eyes for a moment, letting the steam curl around him. The movement made the muscles in his shoulders flex slowly beneath his skin.

Shane swallowed.

God.

Why did he have to look like that?

Why did it have to be him?

On the ice, Ilya was sharp and infuriating and impossible to ignore. A rival Shane had spent years trying to beat.

Out here he looked different.

Almost… lonely.

Ilya looked… lost.

And that made something twist painfully in Shane’s chest.

Shane wondered if Ilya had someone in his life right now. Some girlfriend, maybe.

Someone who got to sit beside him in that hot tub, who... got to touch him.

Surely she would be here with him if he did. Right?

The thought shouldn’t have mattered. It shouldn’t have meant anything.

But Shane’s brain kept giving him stupid, dangerous hope, and he felt trapped inside it.

As if Ilya had somehow heard his thoughts, he suddenly turned around in the hot tub and looked straight toward the building.

Toward the sauna.

Shane stiffened instantly.

This was a one-way window, right?

He was almost certain it was.

But now that Ilya was looking directly at it, Shane suddenly wasn’t so sure anymore.

Ilya squinted slightly, scanning the building with furrowed brows, slowly looking around as if he was trying to find something.

Or someone.

The heat in the sauna suddenly felt suffocating.

Shane stood up abruptly and stepped out of the sauna, the cooler air hitting his skin as he walked toward the showers. Without hesitating, he grabbed the rope attached to the bucket hanging above him and yanked it down.

Ice-cold water crashed over his head.

He sucked in a sharp breath as it drenched him.

It didn’t help nearly as much as he hoped it would.

Chapter Text

Ilya

Ilya watched Shane almost run out of the steam room building. The door closed behind him with a dull thud, and suddenly Ilya felt cold.

His first thought was that he had done something wrong. He huffed in frustration and sank a little lower into the hot water. Why was everyone always walking away from him?

His stupid, shriveled heart was still hammering in his chest—warm and stupidly hopeful.

Stop it, he told himself.

This was only going to get him hurt again. It could only end in heartbreak. And with everything he had been feeling lately—since starting therapy, even before therapy if he was honest—and all the hurt he had lived through in his life…

He knew his heart probably couldn’t take much more.

So why was he even trying?

Because he had no choice. That was the truth of it.

They were like magnets. It sounded ridiculous, but it felt real. As if something inevitable kept pulling them toward each other whether they wanted it or not. Almost like some divine intervention had decided this was where they were supposed to collide.

He replayed everything that had happened in the steam room. It had been intense, yes—but also reciprocal. He knew he hadn’t imagined that. Shane had felt it too.

Which only made the running away worse.

Did Shane really think they could just avoid each other the entire weekend?

But then another thought crept in—quiet and painfully logical. How could Shane even know that Ilya was interested in him?

He couldn’t read Ilya’s thoughts. They had never even had a proper conversation about themselves. Everything between them had always been competition, sarcasm, and sharp edges.

So Shane probably didn’t know. Didn’t know Ilya was bisexual. Didn’t know that sometimes Ilya looked at him a little too long.

And Ilya didn’t even know if Shane liked men at all.

The NHL was not a place where you experimented with questions like that. It was a place where you were perfect, or you were nothing. And perfect meant straight.

Besides that, they were rivals.

He couldn’t tell Shane. He couldn’t give him that fragile piece of himself—that truth that could destroy everything. If the league ever found out, he might lose his job, his income, maybe even his family.

The risk was too high.

So Ilya did what he had always done. He packed everything he was feeling into a small box in his mind and shoved it far, far away. He had been doing that with pain for years.

Therapy had taught him that it wasn’t healthy. Pain demanded to be felt eventually, no matter how deep you buried it. Even if you convinced yourself you had locked it away, it always came pouring out when you least expected it.

But for now, this was all he could manage.

He left the steam room building with a fresh hammam towel wrapped around his waist. The afternoon air felt cooler against his skin.

His massage appointment wasn’t until 14:00, but suddenly he had no interest in wandering around pretending to enjoy himself. The first thing he saw was a bubble bath sunken into the grass, facing the lake.

Perfect.

His muscles had been sore for days, so he stepped down into the warm, bubbling water with a quiet sigh. He sank into it slowly and closed his eyes.

Relaxing—that was the whole point of this weekend.

For a few minutes he managed it.

After about ten minutes, though, his mind betrayed him again. Without realizing it, he turned slightly and found himself looking back at the building behind him.

Searching.

For him.

He wondered what Shane was doing now. Whether their shared steam room experience had been a coincidence, or if they would run into each other more during the weekend.

He sighed.

He wasn’t sure if that thought excited him or terrified him more.

Probably both.

He could only keep the façade up for so long. This version of himself—the exposed, frayed, emotional version therapy had dragged out into the light—was dangerous.

He needed to hide it better.

Otherwise someone might see it.

Otherwise Shane might see it.

And if Shane saw it… Ilya wasn’t sure he would survive the outcome.

After lunch, Ilya made sure to arrive on time for his massage appointment at 14:00.

When he stepped into the waiting room, his stomach dropped.

Shane was already there.

He sat hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, staring down at the floor.

For a moment Ilya considered turning around and leaving. He had expected their schedules might overlap this weekend, but actually seeing Shane here felt… confrontational.

Shane looked up when he heard the door open.

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered.

“What?” Ilya said lightly. “Not happy to see me, Hollander?”

He leaned casually against the wall and smirked.

“But I’m so handsome.”

The mask slipped neatly back into place—teasing, provoking, familiar territory.

Safe.

Shane muttered something under his breath that almost sounded like, “That’s the problem.”

“What was that?” Ilya asked.

“You are such an asshole,” Shane said, giving him an annoyed look.

But Ilya noticed the small twitch at the corner of his mouth before it disappeared.

“I don’t know,” Ilya replied lazily. “You’re breathing pretty hard there, Hollander. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that macrobiotic diet isn’t working as well as you think.”

“Fuck you,” Shane said immediately. “I’m in exceptional shape. We’ll see who has the longer career when your lungs give out from all the smoking you do.”

Ilya blinked in surprise. Shane rarely chirped back like that.

“Careful, Hollander,” he said slowly. “People might think you’re obsessed with me.”

“I am obsessed,” Shane replied.

Ilya’s heart stopped.

For one stupid second, hope flared in his chest.

“Obsessed with beating you and winning the Cup next year.”

The hope died instantly.

Ilya forced the smirk back onto his face before Shane could notice anything.

“And people say I’m the asshole.”

The door to the massage rooms opened, and a small but burly Asian woman stepped out.

“Mister Hollander? Mister Rozanov?”

They both looked up.

“Yes?” they answered at the same time.

“You may enter,” she said with a polite smile.

They both stood.

“At the same time?” Shane asked.

The woman glanced down at her schedule, frowning slightly.

“This is couples massage, yes?”

“NO!” they both blurted out immediately.

The woman looked horrified.

“Oh! I’m sorry. There must be something wrong with the planning. But no worries—you will simply be in the same room. The massages will still be done separately.”

She looked so distressed that Ilya immediately felt bad for her. He glanced at Shane.

“We don’t mind, right, Hollander?”

Shane clearly minded.

“I promise I won’t look,” Ilya added teasingly.

Shane hesitated for a moment, noticing how anxious the woman looked.

“It’s fine,” he said finally, even though he clearly had a problem with it.

Chapter Text

Shane had felt too many emotions today.

He needed a break—needed to go back to his cabin and just breathe for a second. Some space. A moment where he didn’t risk running into Ilya around every corner, didn’t have to face the knot of conflicting feelings twisting tighter inside his chest.

“that’s not— I’m not…”

The broken words still rang in his ears.

The devastation in Ilya’s eyes.

And the apology.

God, the apology.

Ilya had apologized for hurting him, even though they both knew it was part of hockey. It wasn’t the first time either of them had been bodychecked, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Pain came with the lifestyle they’d chosen. Bruises, cracked ribs, stitches—they all signed up for that the moment they stepped on the ice.

They both knew it.

And truthfully, Shane hadn’t been angry at Ilya for it.

Still… even he had to admit it had been a bit much.

It had hurt. A lot. He’d walked away with bruised ribs, the purple skin fading slowly over the past weeks. The pain still lingered beneath the surface, dull but stubborn.

Not as bad as before—but not gone either.

Ilya was a hard player on the ice. Always had been. They’d shoved each other around playfully before, thrown the occasional bodycheck in games. But never like that. Never with that much force.

They respected each other too much to actually cause damage.

At least… they used to.

The massage earlier had been brutal.

Relaxing at first. The kind of slow, careful pressure that made his muscles melt into the table. But every time the masseuse’s hands moved across his ribs, white-hot pain had shot through him.

He’d tried to stay composed. Tried to breathe through it.

But the longer it went on, the harder it became.

Eventually the sounds slipped out anyway.

Small, helpless noises he hadn’t meant to make.

He had really hoped Ilya hadn’t heard.

But the apology told him everything he needed to know.

Shane had tried to laugh it off, to slip back into their usual rhythm—teasing, rivalry, deflection. That was their language. Their safe zone.

But the joke had landed wrong.

The Ilya he knew would have fired something back.

Instead there had only been silence.

Because this hadn’t been the Ilya he knew.

It had still been him… but different. Softer. More exposed. Like someone had peeled away layers Shane hadn’t even realized existed.

And now Shane couldn’t stop wondering which version was real.

The sharp, confident rival he’d always known?

Or the quieter man beneath it—the one whose guard had slipped just enough for Shane to see.

And then there was the scar.

God.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Long. Wide. Still angry-looking against Ilya’s skin.

He’d heard Ilya quietly tell the masseuse to avoid it.

Did it still hurt?

The thought alone made Shane grit his teeth.

Who the hell had done that to him?

Who had hurt him badly enough to leave something like that behind?

By the time Shane reached the front desk, his head felt like it was buzzing.

“Hi,” he said, forcing a polite smile. “Is it possible to move my last appointment? The sound bath session?”

The receptionist checked the system.

Luckily, she found a slot tomorrow afternoon.

Relief loosened something tight in Shane’s chest.

He had felt enough for one day.

Enough emotions.
Enough conflict.

He didn’t go back to his hut right away.

Instead, he walked.

The forest paths wound quietly through tall pine trees, the air cool and clean. The scent of resin and earth settled his nerves in a way nothing else had managed all day.

He even joined a sauna infusion session, letting the waves of heat roll through him before diving into the cold lake afterward. The shock of it cleared his head for a few blessed minutes. Apparently that was doing it for him today. Today he would take any coping he could get.

Later, he went to the restaurant.

To his surprise, the menu had plenty of options that fit his diet. That alone eased some of the tension in his shoulders.

For the first time in a long while, he actually enjoyed a meal.

At home he usually meal-prepped—efficient, predictable, controlled. Which meant eating the same thing almost every day.

Brown rice. Salmon. Repeat.

Here, there were choices.

Flavors.

Variety.

It should’ve felt overwhelming but instead, felt… nice.

After dinner, he finally headed back to his hut—technically a suite, but the word hut made it feel more private somehow.

The walk through the forest had turned beautiful.

Golden hour had begun, sunlight filtering through the branches in soft beams. The lake shimmered between the trees, the air quiet except for distant birds.

Playoff season was relentless. Travel, games, pressure—it left very little room for moments like this.

Moments where he could simply exist.

For a while, Shane had wondered if this weekend retreat was actually helping him. Especially with the completely unexpected complication of Ilya being here.

That had thrown him off balance immediately.

But right now—walking beneath the trees, the forest glowing around him—he felt something close to calm.

Maybe that was the point.

He unlocked his hut with the wristband and stepped inside.

The quiet wrapped around him instantly.

He slipped off his slippers, placing them neatly on the rack by the door, then folded his bathrobe and hammam towel  and put them into the hamper. They’d given him three fresh sets for each day, so there was no reason to worry about laundry.

From the closet he pulled out gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt.

And then… he hesitated.

All day he’d followed the retreat schedule.

That part had been easy.

Structure always was.

But now there was nothing planned.

Just… time.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

His thoughts drifted back to Ilya before he could stop them.

Did he go to the sound bath session?

Did he notice Shane wasn’t there?

So much had happened between them today.

Shane dragged a hand through his thick black hair and exhaled slowly.

He was exhausted.

Anxiety drained energy like nothing else, and today had been packed full of it—confusion, tension, too many feelings colliding at once. Add the treatments on top of that, and his body felt wrung out.

Sleep should have come easily.

But his mind was still buzzing.

So instead he grabbed a ginger ale from the fridge—the staff had stocked everything from the list he’d filled out before arriving—and slid open the patio doors.

Cool evening air drifted in.

Shane settled into one of the lounge chairs on the deck.

The sunset stretched across the lake in deep violets and amber, the water reflecting the colors like a mirror. A pair of swans drifted slowly across the surface in the distance.

It looked like something from a postcard.

Moments like this always reminded him of his cottage.

Sometimes he wished the world were different.
Or maybe just that he were different.

That he had the courage to talk to Ilya about all of it—the moment in the steam room, the tension that had lingered in the air between them all day, the questions that kept clawing at his chest no matter how hard he tried to ignore them.

That he could simply ask where the scar came from.

That he didn’t have to be so afraid of being himself.
Of saying the truth out loud.
Of being gay.

People always wondered why he was so anxious. As if it were some mystery. As if there weren’t a thousand reasons sitting quietly inside his chest every single day.

His parents had told him to “just relax” more times than he could count.

Shane let out a quiet, humorless breath, staring out over the darkening lake.

If only it were that easy.

The worst part about anxiety was the loss of control—and control was the one thing Shane clung to most tightly.

The harder he tried to shove the anxiety down, the worse it became. Like pressure building inside a sealed container.

Like every mental box he’d used to file it away had finally filled up.

No space left.

Being here helped.

Just… not in the way he’d expected.

It helped being away from the NHL chaos. Away from the noise, the expectations, the constant scrutiny.

It reminded him that he existed outside of hockey.

Eventually the sun slipped beneath the horizon, darkness settling slowly over the lake.

Shane felt the exhaustion return in full force.

He went inside, closed the patio doors, showered, and crawled into bed.

Maybe tomorrow he could be brave.

Ilya lay on the massive bed in his own hut, staring up at the ceiling.

It was so quiet here.

Unsettlingly quiet.

His body was completely drained from the day. He was especially grateful he’d managed to move his sound bath session to tomorrow.

He’d had enough.

More than enough.

His scar pulsed faintly—a phantom ache he couldn’t tell was real or imagined.

Fresh from the shower, his skin still damp, he lay back against the pillows and tried not to think about the man sleeping only a few huts away.

They’d shared hotels before during All-Star weekends.

But this felt different.

Today he’d seen Shane in an entirely new light. And now he couldn’t stop noticing him. Couldn’t stop thinking about him.

His mind drifted back to the morning. To the showers. Shane standing in front of him, dripping wet like something carved out of heat and water.

Ilya had tried not to stare. Tried to give him privacy. But his eyes had betrayed him anyway. He’d watched the water trail from Shane’s dark hair down the side of his neck, sliding slowly along his throat. Followed each drop as it traveled over broad shoulders, over the firm plane of his chest, past the dark brown of his nipples and along the defined lines of his abs. Further down. The droplets disappeared beneath the edge of the hammam towel wrapped low around his hips.

The soaked fabric clung just enough to betray the shape beneath it—strong thighs, the unmistakable heavy line of his cock beneath the cloth.

Ilya swallowed hard. His body had reacted before his brain could catch up. Even now, hours later, heat coiled low in his stomach.

He shifted in the bed, breath catching slightly as his hand drifted down his stomach, fingers curling around his length. Slow strokes at first. Tentative. Like maybe he would stop if he gave himself a moment.

He shouldn’t be doing this. He knew that. His mind had been circling Shane all day already. The way he looked. The way he sounded. The way he felt beneath Ilya’s hands earlier. This would only make it worse.

But he couldn’t stop.

The memory was too vivid. Shane beneath the showers. The warmth of his body in the steam room. The way his muscles had shifted under Ilya’s hands as he worked the tension from them, firm and solid, yet yielding slowly under his touch. The quiet sighs Shane hadn’t meant to let slip. The way he’d trusted him in that moment—eyes closed, body relaxed, completely unaware of how badly Ilya wanted him.

His hand tightened. Moved faster.

The room was silent except for the uneven rhythm of his breathing.

Another image forced its way into his mind now. Shane looking at him. Those dark eyes fixed on him with something intense and burning behind them.

In the fantasy, Shane stood beneath the showers again—but this time there was no towel, no distance. Just water sliding down bare skin as he watched Ilya with the same hunger twisting through his own chest. As if he wanted him just as badly.

The thought snapped the last thread of restraint.

Ilya groaned quietly into the darkness, Shane’s name slipping through clenched teeth as he came into his hand.

For a moment he lay there afterward, chest rising and falling heavily, the silence of the cabin settling around him again.

“blyad” he whistered in the silence.

He was so fucked…

Then he forced himself out of bed, cleaned up quickly in the bathroom, and returned to the sheets. His body felt heavy now. Loose. Spent.

And for the first time all day, his mind had finally gone quiet.

Tomorrow he would try to actually have a proper conversation with him.

Chapter Text

The sun was barely peeking through the large windows of the wellness retreat, casting a soft glow on the polished wood floors of the dining room. The air smelled faintly of fresh herbs, like something freshly steeped in calming tea. 

Shane was already sitting at a table near the window, overlooking the beautiful view outside, a protein smoothie in front of him. He stared into the green liquid, but his thoughts were a million miles away. 

His mind kept replaying the intimate moments from the day before—the closeness he hadn’t expected, the heat of it all, and the way their eyes had locked, sharing something that neither of them could name. 

The doubt gnawed at him. 

Was this real?  

He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that, despite everything—his history with Ilya, their rivalry, the fights, the trash talk—they had shared something raw. Something that had felt real. 

That was what confused him the most. 

Ilya sat at the small table across the room, turning his breakfast burger in his hands more than actually eating it. The fact that a place like this even served something like that in the morning amused him. It was a little healthier than the McDonald's version, but still. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to keep his thoughts where they belonged.

They kept circling back to the man across the room from him. 

Shane’s presence had stayed in his head the entire evening, stubborn and impossible to shake. Long enough that the restless tension in his body had turned into something he dealt with himself, in the dark. 

Now, in the clear light of morning, sitting in the same room with him again, the memory still warmed the back of Ilya’s neck. 

He kept his eyes on his food for a moment, more to steady himself than to hide. He could feel the awareness of Shane across the room, sharp and unavoidable, and he wondered—briefly—if Shane could read in his expression how he had come with Shane’s name on his lips. 

He reached for his orange juice, the cold bite of it sharp against the warmth lingering under his skin. Ilya wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to feel about any of it. A familiar instinct urged him to brush it off, to treat it like it hadn’t meant anything at all. That had always been the easiest move—the safest one. But another part of him refused to let it go. He could still remember the closeness of Shane’s body, the charged quiet between them, like something suspended in the air, waiting for the slightest movement to set it off. They were rivals. They were supposed to hate each other. They were supposed to compete, to push each other to the edge, to get under each other’s skin. 

But now, after all that had happend yesterday, the lines had blurred. 

Everything felt different. 

It was more than the physical closeness—it was the vulnerability. They had both shown parts of themselves that weren’t just about the game, and that terrified them both. 

Maybe, just maybe, they could be something different this weekend. 

Was Shane feeling the same way? Was he as messed up as Ilya felt? For a moment, their eyes met across the room. The briefest flicker of recognition passed between them. 

But neither of them said a word. 
Neither of them moved. 

They both—Ilya was pretty sure now—had the same schedule for the weekend. 

For today, this included a hammam treatment in the morning and a sound bath in the afternoon. Ilya still wasn’t sure if Shane had done that appointment yesterday or had rescheduled as Ilya had. Well, he was going to find out soon anyway. When he looked up at the man in question, Shane was walking out the door. 

Still running, da? he thought, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. 

Alright. Run if you want. 

His gaze lingered on Shane’s retreating back. 

But I’m curious how long you’ll keep pretending you don’t want me to catch you. 

The hammam was already thick with heat when Shane stepped inside, the air heavy with steam scented faintly with eucalyptus and warm soap. The marble floor radiated warmth through the thin soles of his slippers. In the center of the room stood the large heated stone platform—the göbek taşı—its pale surface glistening under the soft lights. Shane paused just inside the doorway, glancing around the tiled room. 

Ilya was already there, sitting on the edge of the heated stone with a hammam towel wrapped low around his waist, shoulders loose like he’d been there for hours. When he noticed Shane stepping through the steam, his mouth curved into a slow, familiar smirk. 

“Well, well,” he said. “You actually showed up.” Ilya smiled a teasing, cocky smile at him.

Shane snorted, his cheeks red—which Ilya noticed made his freckles stand out more—and dropped his towel onto the bench.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I was here first.” 

Ilya raised an eyebrow, amused. 

“You walked in after me.” 

“Details.” 

Shane glanced around the room. No quiet conversations, no other guests, no attendants carrying buckets of water—just the soft echo of dripping water and the low hum of the steam. He looked back toward the door like someone else might still come in. 

No one did. 

“…Private session again?” Shane said, a little nervous. 

Ilya followed his gaze around the empty hammam, then let out a quiet laugh. 

“This place is trying very hard to put us alone together.” 

Shane snorted. “First the couples massage. Now this.” 

“Private hammam we definitely did not book,” Ilya added. 

Shane stepped further inside, shaking his head with a half-smile. “You think they’re doing it on purpose?” 

“Maybe,” Ilya said with a small shrug. “Perhaps they think rivals need bonding time.” 

Shane huffed a laugh. “Yeah? By locking us naked in spa rooms together?” 

Ilya’s eyes flicked over him briefly, amused. “So far,” he said lightly, “it seems to be working.” 

Shane opened his mouth to answer—and then closed it again. The annoying part was that Ilya wasn’t entirely wrong. Which was not a thought he planned on saying out loud. Because twenty-four hours ago the idea of voluntarily sitting in a steam room with the guy would’ve sounded like punishment, and now somehow they were having normal conversations about it. Shane rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled quietly. 

Yeah… it was kind of working. 

Before the conversation could go further, the attendant stepped in behind Shane and gestured toward the large heated stone. 

“Please lie down.” 

Both of them reached for their towels at the same time. For a brief moment there was that small, awkward pause—neither of them quite looking at the other, but also very aware that they were about to. 

Shane untied his towel first. 

He folded it neatly, and as he turned to step up onto the marble, Ilya caught a glimpse of him—broad shoulders, powerful legs, the solid line of his body. Ilya tried very hard to keep his attention on the drifting steam instead of the man a few feet away. It wasn’t like this was new. Locker rooms had existed their entire careers. Bodies were bodies. 

Still. 

Seeing Shane like this—bare, shoulders loose from the heat, none of the usual tension in the way he carried himself—His eyes flicked over him before he could stop them, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. A slow warmth settled low in his stomach. Ilya exhaled quietly through his nose and forced his gaze back toward the ceiling. 

Right. This was going to require a little more self-control than he’d planned. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Shane peeked at Ilya. There was the long line of his body on the other side of the stone. He was lying on his stomach. Ilya shifted, rolling slightly onto his side to get comfortable. The movement was casual—unthinking. 

Shane, unfortunately, noticed. 

For a second he just stared, then huffed out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. Shane immediately regretted having eyes. Because now he was looking. And once he noticed, it was impossible not to notice. 

Jesus. 

He tried to stare very hard at the ceiling instead. That seemed like the safest move. Absolutely the safest move. Normal people did not comment on their rival’s ass in a hammam. Normal people definitely did not think wow, that is an unfairly perfect ass—and then feel an uncomfortable, unmistakable flicker of heat low in their stomach because of it. And normal people definitely did not think that and then say it out loud. 

So he was not going to say it. 

He lasted about five seconds. 

“Are you serious?” he muttered. 

Ilya glanced over, eyebrow lifting. “What?” 

Shane gestured vaguely in his direction, clearly trying—and failing—to look anywhere else. 

“That.” 

Ilya frowned slightly. “I still don’t understand what you are talking about.” 

Shane dragged a hand over his reddening face, half amused, half exasperated. 

“Your ass, Ilya.” 

There was a brief pause. 

Then Ilya snorted, eyebrows raised “My ass?” 

Shane immediately wondered if it was still possible to drown himself quietly in three inches of hammam steam. 

This was a terrible idea. An unbelievably bad idea. 

There was still time to walk it back—say he meant something else, pretend it was a joke about posture or balance or literally anything that didn’t involve complimenting the naked body of the guy he’d spent half his career trying to beat. 

Also—important detail—he had absolutely no idea how Ilya would take it. Most guys didn’t exactly appreciate their rivals evaluating their asses. 

Especially while both of them were... naked. 

Fuck ,fantastic work, Shane.       But it was too late now. 

“Yes,” Shane said flatly, committing to the disaster. “Your ridiculously perfect ass.” 

For a split second he braced for confusion. Or offense. Or Ilya walking out. 

Instead, Ilya just stared at him. 

Then he slowly settled back against the stone, the faintest, dangerously smug curve appearing at the corner of his mouth. 

“Ah,” he said.  “So you were looking.” 

Shane groaned quietly and dragged a hand over his face. 

“Relax,” Ilya added after a moment, voice lazy with amusement. “I promise I won’t tell anyone you saw me naked.” 

“Very generous of you,” Shane muttered. 

Ilya shifted slightly on the warm stone, clearly pleased with himself. “Comfortable?” 

Shane adjusted his shoulders against the heat, trying to look far more relaxed than he felt. 

“Better than sitting through a team meeting.” Ilya gave a quiet snort. 

“Ah yes. Thirty men in room, all pretending they listen.” 

Shane glanced over through the steam. “Some of us actually do listen.” 

“Mm, yes.” Ilya tilted his head. “You are responsible.” 

Shane rolled his eyes. “You’ve known me for years and that’s your take?” 

Ilya’s mouth curved slowly, amused. 

“Da. Very serious. Very disciplined. Probably take notes also.” 

“Shut up,” Shane muttered, smiling despite himself. 

Ilya chuckled under his breath and shifted again on the stone. 

“You cannot fool me, you know.” 

Shane felt a brief flicker of alarm. “About what?” 

“That you are not enjoying this.” Ilya’s gaze slid over him for a second, teasing. “You look very relaxed for someone who pretends to hate spas.” 

Shane exhaled slowly, trying very hard not to react. “…I never said I hated it.” 

Ilya’s smirk widened. “Exactly,” he said. “I think maybe you like being taken care of a little.” 

Shane didn’t know what to say to that. 

The attendant began the treatment, pouring warm water from a copper bowl over Shane’s shoulders and chest. It cascaded down his sides and along the stone beneath him. 

A moment later the same ritual began on Ilya’s side of the platform. Then came the scrub. 

The rough kese glove moved firmly along Shane’s arms and shoulders, the friction intense but satisfying. It dragged away layers of dead skin while the heat of the stone kept his muscles loose. The sensation was so unexpectedly good that a quiet moan slipped out of Shane before he could stop it. Across the warm stone, he could hear the same steady scrubbing rhythm continuing on Ilya’s side of the platform. 

A minute passed. Then Ilya spoke again. 

“Those sounds,” Ilya said lazily, glancing over at him through the steam, “are they because the scrub feels good… or because you’re enjoying someone taking their time with you?” 

His mouth curved slightly. “You seem very relaxed.” 

Shane cracked one eye open. “Focus on your own exfoliation.” 

“Just checking,” Ilya said lightly, smirking at him.

Shane let out a quiet huff. “You should hear the sounds you make during warmups.” 

Ilya lifted an eyebrow. “You listen to me during warmups?” he asked, amused. “I am flattered.” 

Shane rolled his eyes in an attempt to make this look casual. He should really just stop talking. “Don’t get used to it.” 

The scrubbing continued down his back and legs until his skin felt warm and hypersensitive. Then the foam ritual began. The attendant dipped a cloth sack into a bowl of soap before snapping it open, instantly filling it with thick, airy foam. A cascade of bubbles spilled over Shane’s chest and shoulders. Warm hands followed, spreading the foam in long, slow strokes across his skin. 

Across the stone, the same was happening to Ilya. 

Shane glanced over despite himself. 

Steam blurred the room, but he could still make out the outline of Ilya’s broad frame beneath the foam, muscles shifting slightly as the attendant worked across his shoulders. 

Ilya caught him looking. One eyebrow lifted. “Enjoying the view?” he asked. 

Shane looked away a little too quickly. “Shut up.” 

Ilya’s low laugh echoed softly in the steam. 

The massage portion of the treatment lasted several more minutes, the foam allowing the attendant’s hands to glide easily across tight muscles. By the time the final rinse came—warm water poured slowly over his shoulders and down his back—Shane felt some of the tightness leave his body. 

The whole process had been strange at first: the heat, the stillness, the unfamiliar routine of letting someone else handle things step by step. Usually he preferred knowing exactly what to expect. But he’d decided, just this once, to stop overthinking it and see how it went. 

As the water ran over him, he let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His muscles had finally started to loosen, the lingering tension easing away. 

Turns out, trying something different every now and then wasn’t the worst idea. 

When they were done Shane pushed himself upright, water dripping from his arms. Across from him, Ilya was already sitting up, his back toward him. He turned around and their eyes met again. 

For a moment neither of them spoke. 

Then Ilya leaned back on his hands, looking far too comfortable. “Not bad,” he said.

Shane wiped the water from his face and pushed his damp hair back. “Alright,” he admitted. “That was actually pretty good.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Oh? You admit it now?”

Shane huffed a quiet laugh. “Don’t get used to hearing that.”

Ilya grinned. “Those sounds you were making said otherwise.”

Shane groaned, laughing despite himself. “Oh my god, you’re the worst.”

Ilya hummed softly, clearly entertained.  Shane gave him a look. 

Ilya shifted on the warm stone, propping himself slightly on one elbow. His gaze slid over Shane for a moment, slow and unapologetic. “I have to admit,” he said, a teasing note in his voice, “it’s not a bad look on you, being so relaxed.” 

Shane felt heat crawl up the back of his neck that had nothing to do with the steam. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered. 

Ilya only smiled wider. 

Shane rolled his eyes, grabbed a nearby towel, and tossed it at him. 

Ilya caught it easily, laughing under his breath. 

The heat of the hammam still clung to Shane’s skin when they stepped out together. The cooler air of the corridor raised a faint chill against skin that had been soaked in heat and steam. 

For half a second, neither of them quite knew where to look. Shane fixed his eyes firmly on the towel rack ahead like it was the most important object in the building. Beside him, Ilya had apparently reached the same conclusion at the exact same time. 

They both moved for the towels almost immediately. 

Fabric was wrapped around waists with suspicious efficiency—quick, practiced movements that suggested neither of them wanted to spend another unnecessary second standing there uncovered. Only once the towels were secured did Shane finally exhale. Ilya adjusted the knot at his hip, then glanced over, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. 

“Better?” he asked. 

Shane shot him a look. 

For a second they both paused, adjusting to the cooler air, the quiet hallway filled only with the distant murmur of other guests and the faint trickle of water somewhere deeper in the spa. 

“Well,” Ilya said, stretching his shoulders slightly. “You survived.” 

Shane glanced at him. 

“Barely.” 

Ilya’s mouth twitched. 

“You looked very comfortable in there.” 

“You’re not letting that go, are you?” 

“No.” Ilya smiled. His eyes even more beautiful if he laughed like this. 

It was strange, laughing like this with someone he was supposed to hate. Yet something between them felt warmer than it had before.

He said it easily, but his gaze lingered on Shane a second longer than necessary. It wasn’t often he saw him like that—loose, shoulders relaxed, guard down in a way that almost never happened on the ice or anywhere else. 

It did something strange to Ilya’s chest. 

Shane was usually all sharp edges and control, every movement deliberate. Seeing him stretched out in the steam earlier, quiet and unguarded, had been… distracting. 

More than distracting. 

For a brief, traitorous moment, Ilya found himself wondering what Shane would look like if he let himself relax like that for other things too—if that same tension would melt away the same way under someone’s hands. 

He quickly pushed the thought aside. 

Still, the faint smirk stayed on his face.  

Shane shook his head with a quiet huff and started down the hallway toward the sauna area. Ilya fell into step beside him without really asking, like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Which was strange, considering  before yesterday they’d barely managed to exist in the same room without it turning into some kind of competition. 

Now they moved easily down the hallway together, their pace matching without either of them thinking about it. Every so often their shoulders brushed, neither of them bothering to step away. It was oddly comfortable. 

Shane noticed it first, the quiet ease of it, and tried not to think too hard about how strange that was. Twenty-four hours ago he would’ve expected tension, snide comments, some kind of challenge. 

Instead it just… felt normal. 

Beside him, Ilya seemed just as unconcerned, walking with the same relaxed confidence like this was simply how things were now. And the weirdest part was that Shane didn’t feel the urge to push him away from it.  

The spa opened into a wide space lined with warm wood and soft lighting. A large panoramic sauna overlooked the lake outside, sunlight reflecting off the water through the tall glass windows. 

They stopped outside the sauna door where a row of hooks and benches lined the wall. Without much discussion, both of them dropped their towels and stepped inside. An older couple sat quietly on the upper bench near the window. They gave a small polite nod when Shane and Ilya entered, then returned to sitting in comfortable silence. 

Shane lowered himself onto the bench a few feet away from Ilya and leaned back against the warm wood. He opened his mouth to say something— 

Ilya immediately lifted a finger. 

Shane frowned. 

“You’re not supposed to talk in sauna,” Ilya murmured quietly. 

Shane blinked at him. “Seriously?” 

Ilya nodded toward the couple near the window. Sure enough, they were sitting perfectly still, eyes half closed, clearly enjoying the heat in silence. Shane huffed a quiet breath through his nose and leaned back again, folding his arms. Fine. He could do quiet. Across from him, Ilya reached for the ladle by the heater. Without hesitation, he scooped up some water and poured it slowly over the hot stones. The rocks hissed immediately. A wave of steam rolled upward, spreading through the room in a thick rush of heat. 

Ilya nodded with quiet approval and settled back like he belonged there. 

They sat like that for several minutes, the only sounds the soft crackle of the heater and the slow rhythm of breathing. 

Eventually the older couple stood up. They stepped down from the upper bench, nodded politely again, and slipped out the door, letting a brief gust of cooler air sweep through the room before it closed behind them. 

The sauna fell even quieter.   Next to him, Ilya looked… different. Looser somehow. Shoulders relaxed, expression calm in a way Shane hadn’t seen much lately. 

It made him think back to the last few weeks—on the ice, in the locker room, the sharp edge that had crept into Ilya’s voice more than once. The frustration that had been sitting just under the surface, easy to spot if you paid attention. 

And he had... payed attention...

Seeing him like this now, quiet and unguarded in the heat, made the contrast hard to ignore. 

Shane leaned back against the warm wood. “You look like an expert.” 

Ilya shrugged. “In Russia, everyone grows up with sauna. It’s normal.” 

“Yeah?” he sat very still now, absorbing the fact that Ilya was sharing something about himself with him.

“Da. My grandfather had one next to his house. Small wooden building, not fancy like this”. He gestured vaguely with his hand. “You sit in heat, sweat everything out, then jump into snow or lake.” 

Shane raised an eyebrow. “Snow, huh?” 

Ilya nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Da. You run outside, roll in it, then go back to heat. Very good for you.” 

Shane let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, we do cold plunges too, you know. I’m Canadian.” 

Ilya tilted his head, amused. “Ah, right. I forgot. You people also live in freezer.” 

“Exactly,” Shane said. “So don’t act like you invented winter.” He laughed teasingly.

Ilya chuckled softly. “Maybe not. But we definitely perfected the sauna part.” 

Shane wiped a bit of sweat from his temple. “So this is like… childhood nostalgia for you, huh?” 

Ilya hesitated “Something like that.” 

Shane glanced toward the heater as the steam continued to settle through the room. 

“So what’s it called again?” he asked. “The Russian version.” 

Ilya smiled faintly.  “Banya.” 

“Banya,” Shane repeated, trying the word. 

Ilya nodded approvingly. “Very important difference.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yes.” Ilya leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “In banya we also use venik.” 

Shane frowned. “Venik?” 

“Birch branches,” Ilya explained, miming a light swatting motion. “You hit each other with them.” 

Shane stared at him, eyes wide. “You’re messing with me.” 

“I am not.” Ilya said, a faint smile on his lips, but he looked actually serious.

“You’re telling me people sit in a room this hot and beat each other with sticks?” 

“Not sticks,” Ilya corrected calmly. “Branches.” 

Shane let out a short laugh. “Sounds like hockey practice.” 

Ilya’s grin widened. “Maybe that is why I like it.” 

They laughed at that.

For a few minutes neither of them spoke. 

The warmth settled slowly around them, easing the last tension from Shane’s shoulders. Next to  him, Ilya leaned back against the wood, arms resting loosely along the bench behind him, completely at ease. 

Shane tried very hard not to notice how relaxed he looked. 

Or how good he looked. 

The heat had left a faint flush across Ilya’s skin, dark hair still slightly damp from the hammam, a few strands falling loosely over his forehead. Broad shoulders stretched easily against the wood, chest rising slow and steady as if the heat didn’t affect him at all. Even sitting there doing absolutely nothing, he somehow looked… unfairly put together. 

Shane forced his gaze back toward the lava stones. This was exactly the kind of thing he didn’t need his brain focusing on. 

They were rivals. They barely saw each other outside games and the occasional league event. And yet somehow his mind had decided that now was a great time to start cataloguing details like the line of Ilya’s jaw or the way the heat had softened the sharp edge of his usual expression. 

He shifted slightly on the bench, dragging a hand through his hair. 

Get it together. 

The last thing he needed was to sit here in a sauna thinking about how handsome one of his biggest on-ice rivals was. 

Especially when said rival was sitting 5 feet away, looking perfectly calm—completely unaware of the quiet, stupid little war currently happening inside Shane’s head. 

“Is this part where you meditate?” Ilya asked after a moment. 

Shane snorted. “Is that what you think I do?” 

“You have that look.” 

“What look?” 

“Like you are thinking very serious thoughts.” 

Shane wiped a bit of sweat from his forehead. “Maybe I am.” 

“About hockey?” 

“Not everything is about hockey.” 

Ilya tilted his head slightly, studying him. “For you it usually is.” 

Shane opened his mouth to reply, then stopped himself. Instead he stood up, grabbing a towel from the hook by the door. 

“Lake,” he said . 

Ilya grinned immediately. 

Outside, the cool air hit them harder. 

The path led down to a wooden dock stretching into the lake. A few other guests were scattered around the area, some sitting quietly, others dipping their feet into the water. 

Shane didn’t hesitate. 

He stepped to the edge of the dock and dove straight in. 

The cold hit like electricity. 

He surfaced a second later with a sharp breath, pushing wet hair back from his face. 

Shane had barely caught his breath when the water beside him exploded. 

Ilya surfaced a few feet away, pushing wet hair back from his eyes, looking entirely too calm for someone who had just jumped into freezing lake water. 

“Jesus,” Shane muttered half amused.

Ilya shrugged, treading water easily. 

“Is good for recovery.” 

“You say that like you do this every day.” 

“Not every day,” Ilya said, shrugging again. “But often enough.” 

Shane snorted. 

“Right.” 

Ilya gave him a sideways look. 

“Also, someone has to make sure you don’t drown.” 

“In water that barely reaches your shoulders?” Shane said half amused. 

Ilya shrugged again. 

“Stranger things have happened.” 

Shane scoffed and flicked a splash of water in his direction. 

Ilya didn’t even bother moving. 

“Feel better?” he asked. 

“Not really.” 

Ilya started wading toward the ladder. 

“You complain a lot for someone who jumped in first.” 

Shane pushed through the water after him. 

“Yeah, well, you didn’t exactly hesitate.” 

Ilya glanced back, amused. 

“I had good example.” 

Ilya grabbed the metal rail first and pulled himself up a step. 

The movement lifted him partly out of the water, droplets running down the strong line of his back as he climbed. 

Shane stopped short behind him. 

For a split second his brain completely betrayed him. 

Because from this angle—close, the lake water clear, sunlight reflecting off the surface—there was absolutely no missing the view in front of him. 

Ilya’s body was built like it had been carved out of stone, muscles shifting easily as he climbed the ladder. 

And, very unhelpfully, his ass was… perfect. 

Shane’s gaze lingered for exactly half a second too long before he forced himself to look up at the sky. 

Get it together. 

Then Ilya glanced back over his shoulder. 

Their eyes met. 

And judging by the small, knowing twitch at the corner of Ilya’s mouth, he might have noticed exactly where Shane had been looking. 

The moment stretched just a little too long. 

Then Ilya climbed another step up the ladder, breaking the tension. 

“Next time,” he said lightly, though his voice had dropped slightly, “maybe we bring towels to the dock.” 

Shane exhaled slowly and dragged a hand through his wet hair before following him up. 

“Yeah,” he laughed. “Probably a good idea.” 

They grabbed towels from a rack near the dock, drying off as best they could. 

For a moment they stood there in the sunlight, looking at the view in front of them. The cool breeze brushed over their skin, drying the last drops of lake water. 

Neither of them rushed to move. 

They stood side by side, the quiet stretching into something surprisingly comfortable. 

“Beautiful,” Shane said after a moment, looking out over the lake and the forest surrounding it. 

“It is,” Ilya replied. 

But when Shane turned his head back toward him, Ilya wasn’t looking at the lake. 

He was looking at Shane. 

Not the quick, casual glance people usually exchange in conversation. 

Ilya’s gaze lingered, steady and quiet, his eyes resting on him with a clear pull of want beneath it—like he was letting himself look longer than he should, reluctant to let the moment pass. 

For a second neither of them said anything. 

Shane felt a strange warmth creep up the back of his neck that had nothing to do with the sun. 

He cleared his throat and shifted the towel over his shoulders. 

“You do this a lot?” he asked, nodding toward the water, the dock, the quiet stretch of nature around them. 

Ilya’s mouth curved faintly, but his eyes stayed on Shane a moment longer before he finally looked back out over the lake. 

“Not usually with you,” he said. 

The words were light, almost teasing—but they landed somewhere deeper than Shane expected. 

Shane looked back toward the water, suddenly very aware of the warmth in his chest and the fact that Ilya was still standing close beside him. 

For some reason, he couldn’t quite bring himself to move away. 

Then, almost at the same time, they started walking back toward the spa. 

At the fork in the hallway, they slowed to a stop. 

The restaurant was down one corridor. 

The relaxation lounges down another. 

Ilya rubbed the back of his neck. 

“Probably time for lunch.” 

“Yeah,” Shane said. 

His stomach chose that exact moment to growl. 

Ilya’s head turned immediately. 

“You didn’t eat,” he said. 

Shane sighed. 

“Don’t start.” 

“You didn’t eat,” Ilya repeated, more certain now. 

“I had a smoothie!” Shane responded in his defense. 

Ilya stared at him. 

“That is not food.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“No, you’re not,” Ilya said, looking very concerned all of a sudden. “Your body has been though a lot all morning. The hammam. Sauna. Then cold water. You need to eat.” 

Shane blinked at him. 

“Why do you care so much?” 

Ilya paused. 

Shane tilted his head slightly, studying him. 

“Seriously. You’re acting like I’m about to collapse.” 

Ilya exhaled slowly through his nose, like he was deciding how much to say. 

“Because you push yourself too much,” he said finally. “And someone should tell you to stop sometimes.” 

Shane watched him for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly, like he was trying to read something beneath the words. 

“…You sound pretty worried about me,” he said quietly. 

The comment landed harder than it should have. 

Ilya felt something tighten in his chest. 

Of course he was worried. 

He’d been noticing it during the last games they’d had together—the way Shane kept going even when he was clearly running on empty, the tightness around his eyes during warmups, the way he brushed it all off like it didn’t matter. 

It bothered him more than he wanted to admit. 

But saying that out loud would be… complicated. 

So Ilya just shrugged, trying to make it look casual. 

“Someone has to,” he said lightly, even though the concern was still sitting there, stubborn and impossible to ignore. 

“You push yourself too much,” Ilya added, quieter now. “At least eat.” 

A short pause hung between them. 

Then Ilya gave a small nod and headed toward the restaurant. 

Shane watched him for a second, then sighed. 

“Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll eat.” 

Ilya paused halfway down the corridor and glanced back. 

“Good.” 

“You’re unbelievable,” Shane said, falling into step beside him again. “You guilt-trip everyone into lunch like this?” 

“Only the stubborn ones.” 

“That feels targeted.” 

“It is,” Ilya said with a serious look on his face. 

The restaurant was warm and bright compared to the quiet spa halls, sunlight spilling across the wooden tables. A few guests sat scattered around the room, the low murmur of conversation mixing with the soft clatter of dishes. 

They grabbed a table near the window. 

Shane leaned back in his chair while Ilya studied the menu with surprising focus. 

“You’re taking this very seriously,” Shane said. 

“Yes.” 

“It’s lunch.” 

“You need real food.” 

Shane traced a finger along the condensation on his water glass. 

“I just… wasn’t that hungry earlier.” 

Ilya glanced up. 

“Your stomach disagrees.” 

Shane hesitated. 

“I was a little distracted,” he admitted. 

“By what?” 

Shane huffed quietly, looking out the window for a moment before answering. 

Was he really going to do this? 

“You.” 

Ilya blinked. 

His heart stopped. 

His stupid, hopeful heart peeking up at the words. 

The word hung between them. 

Shane rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking a little embarrassed. 

“Before you start enjoying that too much—no, it’s not because you’re charming.” 

“I am very charming,” Ilya said mildly. 

Shane ignored him. 

“It’s just… this whole thing. Us suddenly spending the whole day together. Talking. Not trying to kill each other.” 

Ilya watched him carefully now. 

“It’s weird,” Shane continued. 

Ilya’s face fell. 

“In a good way,” Shane added quickly. “I think. It just… threw my brain off a little.” 

Something tight in Ilya’s chest eased at that. 

“You forget to eat when you are confused?” 

“Apparently.” 

Ilya shook his head softly. 

The server came over then, and before Shane could say anything, Ilya ordered. 

“One grilled chicken, vegetables, rice,” he said, then nodded toward Shane. “Same for him.” 

Shane blinked. 

“Hey—” 

“You were going to order something stupid.” 

“I was not.” 

“You were.” 

“You don’t even know what I was going to get.” 

Ilya looked up at him, unimpressed. 

Hmm let me guess “Plain steamed kale. And maybe, if you were feeling adventurous, a bowl of quinoa.” 

Shane paused. 

“…Okay, that’s actually accurate.” 

“I know.” 

Shane shook his head, a reluctant smile creeping in. 

“You’re bossy.” 

“You’re bad at taking care of yourself.” 

“Excuse me?” 

Ilya leaned back in his chair, studying him for a moment before speaking again. 

“For today,” he said quietly, looking very determined, “I will take care of you.” 

Shane’s brain immediately short-circuited. 

Take care of you. 

That was… not a normal sentence. 

Not in that tone. 

Not from him. 

Shane felt heat creep up the back of his neck and suddenly became extremely interested in the condensation on his water glass. 

His brain, unhelpfully, started replaying the words again. 

Take care of you. 

Nope. Absolutely not. 

That was a dangerous sentence. 

That wasn’t how things worked between them.

There was no reason his stomach should be doing that weird twisting thing right now. 

And there was definitely no reason a small, traitorous part of him was suddenly imagining what it would actually feel like if Ilya meant it the way it sounded. 

Shane shut that thought down immediately. 

Because that path led directly to panic. 

Which was unfortunate. 

Because despite the alarm bells going off in his head, another quieter part of him had already decided he liked the sound of it far more than he should. 

And maybe because of that line of thought  he decided to be brave and ask something they'd ignored for now. 

“Why are you here Ilya?” 

Chapter Text

Ilya 

“Ilya, why are you here?” 

The question hung between them, heavier than Shane probably intended. 

For a moment it felt like the forest itself had gone quiet around them, as if the world was waiting for his answer too. 

This was the conversation Ilya had hoped he could avoid. 

On the one hand, he wanted to answer. After everything they had shared over the weekend already, it felt almost unfair not to. 

On the other hand, he wanted to dodge the question entirely and steer things back to safer ground—jokes, hockey, the comfortable rhythm they usually hid behind. 

Because answering meant opening something up. 

And Ilya had spent most of his life learning how to keep things tightly closed. 

But avoiding it now would feel like betraying the fragile connection they had built over the past two days—one careful moment of trust after another. 

So he felt like he had to choose. 

Was he really going to put his battered heart on the line again? 

Take the risk of letting it be hurt again after everything it had already survived? 

The thought alone made his chest tighten. 

He wasn’t sure he could handle it. 

Not again. 

This felt like one of those moments that split a life quietly in two—before and after. 

Ilya took a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly. 

“Not here,” he said quietly. “Can we … go somewhere, maybe?” 

Shane studied him for a moment. 

There was understanding in his eyes. And something else—something fragile that looked dangerously close to hope. 

It made Ilya’s stomach twist. 

Like Shane somehow sensed the storm going on inside him and was willing to wait it out. 

Like he understood how much it meant that Ilya was even considering answering. 

Almost as if he had felt the weight of the question before he asked it. 

They left the dining hall and walked outside, following the path that curved through the forest around the lake. 

For a while they said nothing. 

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. But it was heavy, thick with all the things neither of them had said yet. 

The path crunched softly beneath their feet. 

Ilya could hear his own heartbeat in his ears. 

Eventually he forced himself to speak. 

“I am here because my team told me to go somewhere to relax.” 

He could have stopped there. 

That would have been the easy answer. 

Shane would probably accept it, even if he suspected there was more underneath. He would never force Ilya to give him something he wasn’t ready to give. 

Somehow, Ilya knew that. 

And maybe that was exactly why it felt impossible to stop now. 

He sighed. 

Why was this so difficult? 

Therapy had helped him understand a lot of things about himself. He knew now that he had learned to suppress his emotions early in life. Sharing didn’t come naturally to him. 

It felt exposed. Unsafe. 

But he had learned in his therapy sessions that it was good to talk about your feelings. That if you kept everything inside, in time it would begin to fester, like an ugly wound.   

“I don’t know if you noticed,” Ilya said slowly, “but I’ve been playing harder on the ice. Too hard. Too rough.” 

“Sorry, i mean.. course you have,” Ilya replied. 

Something flickered across his face—something hurt and tired. 

“I’ve noticed,” Shane said gently. 

There was humor in his voice, but it was careful, like he was trying not to interrupt the moment. 

“I’ve been so angry.” Ilya went on. 

The words sounded strange when spoken out loud. 

“So… so angry.” 

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. 

“I started therapy about half a year ago.” 

Shane looked up immediately. Surprise flashed across his face before he could hide it. 

“It made me process things that happened in the past,” Ilya continued. “At first it just made me sad. I had to relive things I hadn’t thought about in years.”  “That was hard.” 

He stared down at the dirt path as they walked. 

“But after the sadness came the anger.” 

His jaw tightened slightly. “I was angry that that was my life.” 

His chest rose slowly with a breath. 

“Angry that nobody tried harder for me.” 

The words sat there, heavy and uncomfortable. Because he was not only angry at his father for the things he did but also,  at his mother. He hated admitting that feeling—even to himself. It always made him feel disloyal, like thinking it somehow meant he loved her less. But the anger had lived inside him for years, buried under everything else. 

Because she had left. 

Not just died. 

Left. 

The thought slipped into his mind before he could stop it. 

Immediately guilt followed. 

He knew how much pain she must have been in. He knew now, as an adult, that people didn’t choose things like that lightly. That suffering could become bigger than a person could carry. 

But the child he had been back then hadn’t understood any of that. 

That child had just been abandoned by the person who was supposed to stay. 

Ilya swallowed. 

He knew firsthand that when someone ends their life, their pain doesn’t disappear—it quietly moves into the hearts of the people they leave behind. 

Part of him felt terrible for even thinking it. For letting that bitterness exist alongside the love he still carried for her. 

But another part of him knew it was honest. 

You could love someone and still feel angry about the way they left you. 

Both things could be true. 

He focused back on the conversation 

The words felt rough coming out. 

“And I know it’s pointless,” he continued. “That anger doesn’t change anything.” 

“It doesn’t bring anyone back.” 

“It doesn’t make the past hurt less.” 

He let out a slow breath. 

“But I can’t seem to stop feeling it.” 

He shook his head, frustrated with himself. 

“It started affecting my game. And that hit two weeks ago…” 

He paused. 

Regret flashed across his expression. 

“That hit made me realize I needed to fix something. My coaches thought the same. So I booked this retreat.” 

Shane stayed quiet. 

Too quiet. 

For a moment Ilya wondered if he had said too much. 

His heart started pounding in his chest, a familiar instinct telling him he had made a mistake by opening up. 

Then Shane spoke. 

“And there were no nice spas in Boston?” 

The tension snapped. 

Ilya let out a short laugh, relief loosening his shoulders. 

“Maybe there are.” “I don’t know.” 

“Seriously though,” Shane said. 

He stopped walking and turned toward him. 

His hand lifted between them slightly, hovering in the air as if he wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to cross the distance. 

For a moment he hesitated. 

Then he made a decision. 

His fingers closed around Ilya’s hand. 

Warm. 

Firm. 

Steady. 

Like he was lending Ilya his strength.  

Ilya froze. 

The contact sent a small jolt straight through his chest. 

They looked at each other. 

Ilya had expected sympathy. 

Instead Shane looked grateful. 

And strangely proud. 

“Thank you for telling me.” the look in his eyes unwavering.  

He took a breath. 

“What if… just for this weekend… we try to be open with each other?” 

“Here, where nobody knows us.” 

“Where we can just try to be… whatever this version of ‘us’ is.” 

They both laughed quietly. 

The sound carried through the trees. 

“Maybe we just stop thinking about how crazy this situation is,” Shane continued. 

“And just exist in this moment.” 

“Maybe we talk about things.” 

There was a beat of silence.

Then quietly “I’ll try,” Ilya said. Never breaking eye contact with the beautiful man next to him.  

The words felt strange in his mouth. 

“It doesn’t come naturally to me,” he admitted. 

“Talking about my feelings.” 

“And it’s… scary.” 

Shane nodded slowly. 

“It doesn’t come naturally to me either.” 

He closed his eyes for a second like he was steadying himself. 

When he opened them again, something vulnerable shone through. 

“But I want to try.” 

“For you.” 

“For this.” 

Ilya’s lips curved upward into a small smile—soft and unguarded in a way Shane had never seen before. It felt like he was trying to tell him, without words, that he felt the same.  

“Okay.” 

They started walking again. 

Sunlight filtered through the trees in golden streaks, dust motes drifting lazily through the air. 

The tension between them loosened just a little. 

Not gone. 

But softer. 

Like something fragile had been placed carefully between them. 

For a while they walked without speaking. 

Then Shane said quietly: 

“I struggle with anxiety.” 

Ilya slowed his pace slightly, giving him space. 

He was collecting every piece Shane gave him of himself like crumbs while starving. He would wait patiently for every piece. 

“I think I’ve struggled with it most of my life,” Shane said. “I’ve always felt… different.” 

He paused, searching for the right way to explain it. 

“Like everyone else just seems to understand things automatically. What people mean, what they expect, how you’re supposed to react. And I sort of… don’t. I have to think about it. Work it out.” 

He gave a small shrug. 

“I got better at copying it over time. Watching people, figuring out the patterns. But it still feels like I’m a step behind sometimes. Like everyone else got the instructions and I didn’t.”  

He hesitated. 

“I get overwhelmed easily. I have a hard time processing things.” 

Hockey was different. The ice made sense to him—the speed, the patterns, the clear rules of where everyone should be. 

Out there he didn’t have to guess what people meant; the game spoke in movement, and his mind understood it instantly.  

“But everything else…” he said quietly, exhaling slowly. “The expectations people have. The press. I can’t read people very well, so I worry about saying the wrong thing. And then the media twists things, and the next time I’m even more careful. And it just… builds.” 

His voice grew quieter. 

“With all of that I started being even harder on myself.” 

“I like control.” 

“But lately it feels like I’m losing it.” 

He stared ahead at the path. 

“Now I just feel like a dam that’s about to burst.” 

“And that ... that scares me.” 

Only then did he notice they were still holding hands. Ilya’s grip was steady and grounding, and it made the words easier to say. Shane sighed quietly, as if something heavy had shifted off his chest. Admitting it felt strange, but also relieving. Beside him, Ilya listened in silence, thoughtful and steady. 

 “Thank you,” he said after a moment. 

“For giving me this.” 

It was a strange sentence. 

But Shane understood exactly what he meant. 

They both glanced down at their joined hands. 

Neither of them let go. 

These confessions felt like small gifts they had given each other. 

Warm. 

Fragile. 

Like something new had started growing between them. 

Something neither of them fully understood yet. 

They walked together in silence for a while. 

Holding hands. 

Neither of them brave enough to name what it might mean. 

Eventually Ilya cleared his throat. 

“So.” 

Shane looked up. 

“Could you tell me…” 

His expression was completely serious. 

“What a sound bath is?” 

Shane burst out laughing. 

“I have no idea.” 

Ilya laughed too. 

When they reached the edge of the path, they let go of each other’s hands. 

The loss of contact was immediate. 

But walking back into the busy resort still holding hands felt like too much. 

For now. 

They shared a quiet smile. 

“Let’s go find out,” Ilya said. 

The building had that particular kind of quiet that seemed built into the walls—thick stone holding the warmth of the day, soft lighting tucked into corners instead of bright overhead lamps. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and something herbal drifting from somewhere down the hallway. 

Inside, the lights flickered low along the walls. Small crystals had been placed carefully around the edges of the circular space so the light caught them and scattered faint reflections across the wooden floor. 

Above them, the ceiling curved into a smooth dome, making the whole room feel enclosed in something calm and protected. 

Beds had been arranged in a wide circle. Each one held a neatly folded blanket and a small pillow. 

At the front of the room sat the instruments. 

A low table covered in bowls—some metal, some clear crystal—along with chimes and wooden mallets arranged carefully like tools waiting to be used. 

Shane paused just inside the doorway, taking it all in. 

Then he heard footsteps behind him. 

“I assume this is where they finally break us.”  

Shane turned. 

Ilya was leaning against the doorframe with his hands tucked into the pockets of his bathrobe, his expression deeply suspicious. 

Shane smiled despite himself. 

“You knew this was next.” 

“I knew there was a session,” Ilya said. “I did not know it involved… decorative cookware.” 

Shane stepped aside so he could come in. 

“I’m pretty sure it’s called a sound bath.” 

Ilya walked slowly into the room, eyeing the bowls at the front like they might suddenly leap into action. 

“Bath without water,” he muttered. “Already suspicious.” 

“You just lie down and listen.” 

“To bowls.” Ilya was still scowling.  

“To the sounds.” 

Ilya glanced sideways at him. 

“You are saying words,” he said carefully, “but they are not helping.” 

Shane laughed quietly. 

The tension from earlier—the conversation in the forest — still lingered between them. 

But it felt different now. 

Softer. 

Like something fragile had been acknowledged, even if neither of them fully understood what it meant yet. 

Ilya wandered toward the circle of beds and nudged one with his foot. 

“They give us beds.” 

“So we’re comfortable.” 

“Or so we fall asleep and they can steal our wallets.” 

Shane dropped onto one of the beds. 

“You’re impossible.” 

For a moment they just sat there. 

More guests quietly filtered into the room, settling onto the loungers arranged around the circle. 

Outside the doorway, the sky had begun fading into soft evening colors. 

Ilya picked up the folded blanket on his bed and unfolded it halfway. 

“…It is very soft.” 

Shane raised an eyebrow. 

“Oh, now you’re interested.” 

“I did not say that.” 

“You’re literally petting it.” 

“I am evaluating.” 

“Of course you are.” 

Ilya smirked faintly and dropped the blanket back down. 

Then he leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice. 

“If they start chanting, I am blaming you.” 

“You’ll survive.” 

“I have endured many things in life,” Ilya said gravely. “But this may be the limit.” 

Shane shook his head, smiling. 

At the front of the room, the instructor welcomed everyone and began explaining the session—breathing slowly, allowing the sound to move through the body, letting thoughts pass without clinging to them. 

Ilya leaned slightly toward Shane again. 

“I give it five minutes.” 

“You’ll last longer.” 

“You underestimate my commitment to complaining.” 

The first bowl rang. 

A low, resonant tone spread through the room like a ripple moving through still water. 

Ilya’s head turned immediately. 

Shane was already looking at him. 

For a second they both tried to keep straight faces. 

Then Ilya’s mouth twitched. 

Shane exhaled a quiet laugh. 

Another bowl joined the first, a higher note layering over the deep hum. 

Ilya covered his face with one hand. 

“This is unbelievable,” he whispered. 

“Shh,” Shane murmured, though his shoulders were still shaking with silent laughter. 

More tones followed. 

Chimes. 

Soft ringing notes. 

Vibrations that stretched into the curved ceiling and drifted back down again. 

Gradually their amusement faded. 

Not because it wasn’t funny anymore. 

But because the sounds kept unfolding in slow, steady waves. 

Shane leaned back first, settling onto the lounger. 

After a moment, Ilya followed. 

The air in the room felt thick with humming tones. 

They weren’t loud, but they filled every corner of the space—deep vibrations traveling through the floor beneath their backs and into their ribs. 

The cushion supported Ilya comfortably. The blanket rested warm over his legs. 

At first he focused on how strange it all was. 

But slowly the vibrations settled into his chest. 

Into the tight knot that had lived there for years. 

Another bowl rang. 

Low and steady. 

Ilya closed his eyes without meaning to. 

The sound moved through the room like a slow tide. 

And suddenly, without warning, a memory rose in his mind. 

Warm hands brushing his hair back. 

A soft voice speaking Russian. 

His mother. 

The memory appeared gently at first, blurred at the edges like something half forgotten. 

For years every memory of her had carried sharp pain with it. 

The bed where he's found her.  

Her hand peeking over the edge. 

The quiet afterward. 

The way the world had continued moving while his had stopped. 

But this memory felt different. 

Wrapped in the low humming of the bowls, it felt warm. 

Like sunlight after a long winter. 

Another vibration passed through the room. 

It seemed to move straight through his chest. 

Ilya’s throat tightened. 

He could almost feel her again—the way she used to smooth his hair when he was small, the soft humming she made while cooking, the quiet certainty that someone loved him completely and without question. 

His eyes prickled. 

The sensation startled him. 

He blinked once. 

Then again. 

The anger he had carried for years—the hard, stubborn anger at losing her too soon—had always felt like a stone lodged in his chest. 

Heavy and unmovable.

But now something shifted. 

Another deep tone filled the room. 

The memory of his mother softened. 

Instead of loss, it felt full. 

Alive somehow. 

Like she still existed quietly in the shape of the person he had become. 

Ilya inhaled slowly. 

His eyes burned now. 

For a moment he thought the tears might actually fall. 

He pressed his lips together. 

He hadn’t cried in years. 

Beside him, Shane shifted slightly. 

Ilya felt the warmth of soft fingers brushed lightly across the inside of his wrist.

For a split second it felt like they were his mothers and he could clearly see her smiling face in his mind.

But then he felt the calluses on them, and realised... they were Shane’s fingers caressing him, comforting him. 

A soft, careful touch. 

Ilya’s breath caught. 

In his mind his mother smiled a knowing smile, like she was trying to tell him something.  

And then she was gone. 

He opened his eyes halfway. 

Shane’s eyes were still closed, his face peaceful in the candlelight. 

Without thinking, Ilya turned his hand. 

Their fingers slid together and intertwined. 

Shane squeezed gently. 

The small gesture cracked something open inside Ilya. 

Emotion surged upward suddenly—grief, relief, and something warmer that he didn’t dare name. 

His chest tightened. 

For a moment he thought the tears might escape anyway. 

He closed his eyes again. 

The bowls continued humming softly around them. 

And slowly—very slowly—the anger he had carried for so long began to loosen its grip. 

Not gone. 

But softer. 

Making space for something else. 

Something that felt strangely like being held. 

Like healing. 

Shane 

Shane closed his eyes when the first bowl rang. 

The vibration moved through the room, humming against the ceiling and wooden floor. 

He lay back on the lounger with the blanket pulled loosely over his legs. 

At first his mind refused to be quiet. 

It never did. 

Even in a room built for stillness, his thoughts kept racing. 

Practice schedules. 

Games. 

Responsibilities as captain. 

Interviews. 

Expectations. 

Anxiety was like a second heartbeat. 

Always there. 

Always just a little faster than the rest of him. 

Another bowl rang. 

A higher tone layered over the first. 

Shane tried focusing on the sound the way the instructor had suggested. 

But his thoughts slipped somewhere else. 

To Ilya. 

His chest tightened. 

Yesterday had changed something. 

For years Ilya had simply been… Ilya. 

He was loud, stubborn, infuriating.

And his Rival

Shane had always cared about him in some way. 

Mostly in admiration, but that had lived in a safe corner of his mind. 

A place where he didn’t have to examine it too closely. 

Now that safe distance was gone and he noticed everything. 

The way Ilya looked at him. 

The quiet moments between jokes. 

The warmth of his hand earlier on the forest path. 

Another chime rang through the room. 

Bright. 

Clear. 

And Shane realized something he had been avoiding. 

He wanted Ilya. 

Not just as a friend. 

The realization made his stomach twist. 

Because acknowledging that meant acknowledging something else he had spent years pushing away. 

The truth he had always known deep down. 

That he was gay. 

Even thinking the word made his chest tighten. 

Not because it felt wrong. 

But because of everything it could change. 

The locker room, the league, the cameras. 

The endless attention that followed players at their level. 

Hockey wasn’t exactly known for being forgiving. 

What if people found out? 

What if it changed everything? 

What if— 

Another deep tone interrupted the spiral. 

The vibration rolled through his chest like distant thunder. 

Shane inhaled slowly. 

The sound kept moving in waves through the room. 

Gradually his breathing began to match it. 

A slow breath in. 

A slow breath out. 

The noise in his head softened slightly. 

He realized then how exhausting it had been. 

Spending years bracing himself against a future that hadn’t even happened yet. 

Trying to control how everyone saw him. 

Trying to keep parts of himself hidden. 

Another tone filled the room. 

Warm and steady. 

Shane imagined loosening his grip on that fear. 

Just for a moment. 

Then he became aware of something else. 

The quiet presence beside him. 

Ilya. 

He didn’t open his eyes. 

But he could feel him there. 

Still. 

Silent. 

Something about the air next to him felt heavier. 

Like Ilya was carrying something. 

Without fully thinking about it, Shane moved his hand. 

Reaching over to the bed beside him where Ilya's hand lay, slightly clenched.

His fingers brushed the soft skin of the inside of Ilya’s wrist. 

Warm skin. 

A small, careful stroke. 

A silent offer of comfort. 

A few seconds passed. 

Then Ilya’s hand turned beneath his. 

Their fingers intertwined. 

Shane squeezed gently. 

The bowls continued humming around them. 

And lying there in the candlelit room, with Ilya’s hand warm in his own, Shane felt something shift deep inside his chest. For the first time in a long time, the tight knot of fear that usually lived there loosened just enough for him to breathe. The future didn’t feel like something he had to run from anymore, something dark and distant waiting to swallow him whole. Instead, it felt uncertain in a different way—quiet, open, and strangely possible. Maybe being brave wasn’t the absence of fear after all. Maybe it was moving forward anyway, even when your hands were shaking and your heart was still learning how to trust the moment. And for the first time, lying there in the soft glow of candlelight with someone who saw him and stayed, it felt like something he might actually be ready to face.

After the session, they walked out quietly, both lost in their own thoughts and feelings. Shane noticed that Ilya wasn’t really paying attention to where he was walking. He almost stumbled. Shane looked at him with concern. 

Ilya looked… lost. Again.  He looked like a shell of himself.

Shane gently grabbed his arm and carefully steered him toward the lawn in front of the main building, where a large campfire had been lit. He sat Ilya down on a two-person lounger facing the flames.It appeared most of the other guest were at dinner now. So the gras lawn was peacefully quiet.  Ilya’s eyes were rimmed red, and he kept staring into the distance, as if he didn’t really see anything at all. 

It appeared he had been crying, and the sight made something crack in Shane's chest. He knew from what Ilya had told him todat, that Ilya didn't have it easy growing up. 

But this kind of reaction didn't come from nothing. This was heartbreak, a pain so deep it broke a person. 

Something about the session they just did dug something up that had broken him...

And Shane's heart coudn't handle it. 

Shane glanced around and saw that no one was paying attention to them. He made a quick decision and lay down next to Ilya on the lounger. Softly, he placed a hand on his shoulder and gave a gentle pull. 

Ilya seemed to pay attention at that. He shifted instinctively, somehow understanding what Shane was indicating. He looked down at him, and their eyes met in a silent question: Are we really doing this? 

For a moment, they just looked at each other. Then Ilya seemed to find the reassurance Shane was trying to give without words. His red-rimmed eyes shimmered, and he looked so fragile, so completely laid bare. 

Shane guided him a little, pulling him towards him until Ilya lay on his side next to him. His whole body coiled, like he was unsure about this too.

Shane tapped his chest, waiting to see what Ilya would do with that. He held his breath...

After a small moment Ilya lifted his head to let it rest on Shane’s chest. At first Shane didn’t move. His heart seemed to have stopped beating. Then he let out a long breath and allowed himself to revel in the closeness between them. 

He looked at the fire in front of them, the flames seeming to burn away yet another layer of the walls they had built between them over the years. 

Carefully, Shane lifted his hand. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and gently placed his hand in Ilya’s soft curls. At first he simply rested it there, afraid Ilya might say something—might tell him to stop.

But he didn’t. 

Slowly, Shane began to stroke his hair in a quiet gesture of comfort. It felt amazing to run his fingers through Ilya’s curls. They were just as soft as they looked. 

Ilya hummed softly. 

They both stared at the fire and simply existed in the moment, letting the session they had just gone through settle inside them, letting themselves recover from it. 

Shane realized he wouldn’t mind staying there all night. If it meant Ilya could rest like this—safe, quiet, breathing steadily against him—then the hours could stretch on forever and he wouldn’t complain. He had seen the look in Ilya’s eyes after the session, the rawness he so rarely allowed anyone to witness. For now, Shane would keep watch. 

Ilya was always the strong one, the unshakable one, the man who seemed to carry everything without bending. But he didn’t have to be that here. Not tonight. Not with him. 

Shane would protect him. The realization came softly at first, then settled in his chest with startling certainty. If there was anything he could do—anything at all—to spare Ilya the kind of pain he had seen lingering in those eyes, he would do it without hesitation. 

And with a quiet, almost frightening clarity, Shane understood that he wanted to be the place Ilya could fall apart… and still be held together. 

That thought should have scared him. He waited for the familiar panic to rush in. 

But it didn’t come. 

And if Ilya ever decided to speak about whatever had hurt him this deeply, Shane would be there. 

Waiting. Listening. 

Even though there were already so many things between them they had never said out loud—like the fact that neither of them had ever talked about what it meant that they were becoming so close … and that this, whatever this was, felt like far more than a blooming friendship. 

Chapter Text

Ilya stared at the fire. 

His head resting on Shane's chest. He didnt even know how he got here. Everything after the sound bath had been a blurr... But Shane had been there, had guided him, had known what he needed somehow.  

And now he lay here, on Shane's bare chest, his bathrobe open at the top.  

And he was.. Running his fingers through his hair. It was a quiet show of support.  

His skin felt so warm, his pecs so musculair onder his head. He could even hear the fast rythm his heart under his ear. Like he was just as affected by this as him. 

He closed his eyes.  

He felt empty, like every single piece of anger and hurt had poured out of him and now he was just.. Empty. Like he had been turned inside out. 

There were no emotions, just nothingness. A big void inside. 

Part of him wanted to sit up and be strong again, make a joke about the state he was in, be the version of him people expected him to be. 

But he would let himself have this. Because if this was all he was getting from Shane, this weekend, it would be enough. He would hold these 2 days in his heart forever and he was sure, somehow, that it would make living his life easier, even if nothing else happend, if nothing else came of it.  

They stayed like that for a long time.  

His brain quietly came online again.  

And even though he didn't need to explain anything, even though Shane wouldn't ask, wouldn't push. He wanted to finally stop keeping every bit of his hurt so close to his heart. Wanted someone to know.. Everything about him, honestly. But he knew that wasn't possible, at least not for now. But he could and would give Shane another little piece of him.  

So he started talking.

“I was twelve when my mom died.” His voice came out hoarse, rougher than he meant it to.

For a moment he just stared at the fire, watching the flames shift and curl in the grate. The warmth brushed against his skin, but it didn’t quite reach the cold place the memory had opened up inside him.

The hand in his hair stilled.

“I found her.”

The words hung in the air between them.

“At first… I thought she was just sleeping.” He let out a quiet breath, the sound uneven. “She was lying on the bed. Everything looked normal.”

His gaze drifted somewhere far away.

“But she was too pale.”

He swallowed.

“I kept calling her name,” he continued softly. “Over and over. Like if I just said it enough times she’d wake up. Like she always did.”

His fingers tightened slightly in the fabric beneath them.

“But somehow, even as a kid… I knew something was wrong.” His voice dropped lower. “She was too cold.”

He paused, the words catching in his throat.

“Too still.”

“I started crying,” he said quietly, his voice thinning around the memory. “Because I knew something was really, really wrong.”

The words came slower now, like each one had weight.

“I went to get my dad. He was in the kitchen… just eating dinner like it was any other night.”

Ilya swallowed hard.

“I remember standing there in the doorway, trying to tell him, but the words wouldn’t come out right. I just kept saying something’s wrong with Mama.”

His gaze dropped.

“He followed me into the room.” A pause. “He knelt beside the bed and touched her face.”

For a moment, Ilya didn’t speak.

Then, quietly—

“There was an empty bottle of pills on the floor.”

Another breath.

“He picked it up and just… stared at it.”

“And he.”.  his breath hitched. Feeling his eyes burning. He had never, ever told anyone about this. Not his brother, not even Svetlana. 

My dad… he just lost it.”

“He was so angry.” Ilya swallowed. “Not sad. Not even a little.”

“Just… angry.”

His gaze dropped.

“He started yelling. So loud I had to cover my ears.”

A pause.

“Then he started throwing things.”

“The lamp. Her mirror—the one she loved.” His voice tightened slightly. “The chair.”

“Everything.”

He exhaled slowly.

“I hid in the corner with my hands over my head.” A small shrug of one shoulder. “I thought if I stayed quiet enough he might forget I was there.”

Another pause.

“He destroyed the whole room.”

His voice went flat.

“Then he cleaned it up.”

“And made me help.”

“He remarried within 3 months after that.”.  

“We never spoke of it again”

a pause...

“and I haven't cried since.” 

Shane's fist had slowly tightend in his culs. His whole body had gone rigid. The other hand white knuckeld next to him.  It was like Shane wasn't even breathing. 

Ilya felt laid bare. Waiting for Shane to say somthing.  

But he didn't say anything. He just released ilya's hair. Hestitated for a second. A terrifingly long second where ilya started to panic and doubt about sharing this.  

Ilya froze for a moment when Shane pulled him up, the sudden strength of it knocking the breath from his lungs. One second he had been laying against next to him, the next he was pressed fully against Shane’s chest, arms trapped between them as Shane held him like he was afraid he might disappear. 

Two hundred pounds or not, Shane didn’t seem to care. His arms locked around him, unyielding, pulling him closer until Ilya’s head was tucked beneath Shane’s chin. The steady thud of Shane’s heartbeat filled his ears. 

At first Ilya didn’t move. The feeling of being held like this, like mattered,  like his pain mattered to Shane was almost too much. When was the last time someone had.. held... him? 

He was used to distance. To space. To people touching him lightly, briefly, like they weren’t sure they were allowed to stay. 

But this wasn’t careful. 

This was desperate. 

Shane held him like something fragile and irreplaceable at the same time, like letting go wasn’t an option. 

Ilya swallowed hard, his throat tightening painfully. 

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he let his weight sink into him. The tension in his shoulders began to crack, piece by piece, the way ice breaks at the edge of a lake. The weekend so far had been chipping away at it, this felt like a breaking point. It felt scary. 

His hands finally moved, gripping onto Shane’s bathrobe. 

“Shane…” he murmured, but the name came out rough, unsteady. 

For a second he pressed his face deeper into the warmth beneath Shane’s chin, hiding there where Shane couldn’t see the way his eyes burned. 

No one had held him like this in so long. 

Not like they meant it. Not like they weren’t waiting for him to pull away. 

And that was the part that hurt the most. 

Because for the first time in years, Ilya realized how badly he needed it. 

Shane had gone completely still while Ilya spoke. 

At first it had just been the tightening of his hand in Ilya’s curls—a small pause when Ilya said, I was twelve when my mom died. But the longer Ilya talked, the more something in Shane seemed to lock into place. By the time Ilya whispered, I found her, Shane wasn’t moving at all. Not breathing, not blinking. Just listening. 

Every word landed somewhere deep and raw inside his chest, like something heavy being dropped again and again in the same fragile place. 

When Ilya described thinking she was sleeping, Shane’s jaw clenched. When he said she was too cold, Shane’s fingers tightened slightly in his hair. But when Ilya spoke about his father—about the anger, the screaming, the things smashing against the walls while a twelve-year-old boy hid in the corner—something in Shane cracked open. 

His fists had curled slowly in the folds of his robe, knuckles turning white. His shoulders had gone rigid, muscles pulled tight like wires about to snap. It was the kind of stillness that only came from someone trying very, very hard not to react. 

I haven’t cried since. 

That sentence landed harder than anything else. 

Shane’s chest hitched once, sharp and quiet, like his body had briefly forgotten how breathing worked. Because suddenly he could see it—clear as if he had been there. A kid, small, frozen in a corner, not crying because crying wasn’t safe. 

And Ilya had carried that alone for years. 

Shane didn’t say anything when the story ended. 

The silence stretched—one second, two, three. 

His hand slowly slipped out of Ilya’s hair. The loss of contact felt immediate and wrong, but Shane hesitated anyway, his mind racing. 

What do you even say to that? 

How do you respond when someone hands you the worst moment of their life? Worse—what if you say the wrong thing? 

Beside him, Ilya shifted slightly. It was small, almost nothing, but Shane felt it immediately—the subtle tension of someone bracing for rejection. 

That was when Shane moved. 

He didn’t think, he just acted. 

His arms shot out and he grabbed Ilya, pulling him up with sudden strength. In one motion he lifted all of him—every bit of his weight—fully onto his chest, like it didn’t matter at all. Like the only important thing was getting him closer. 

Then he held him, tightly. Maybe it was even a little too much.

But Shane didn’t loosen his grip. He tucked Ilya’s head beneath his chin and wrapped both arms around him like a shield, pressing him firmly against his chest so he could probably feel how hard his heart was pounding. 

For a long moment Shane couldn’t speak. His throat burned, and his eyes stung in a way he absolutely hated. 

Then Ilya murmured his name. 

“Shane.” 

The sound of it made something in his chest tighten. They had always called each other by their last names—on the ice, in the locker room, even during these last two strange, intense days. It had always been easier that way. Safer. Distance built right into the word. 

But hearing his first name like that—quiet, rough, spoken from where Ilya was half-hidden against his chest—felt different. 

Too close. 

Shane didn’t react, but the word settled somewhere deep inside him anyway. After everything Ilya had just shared, after these two days that had somehow turned strangers into something far more complicated, it felt like a line had quietly disappeared between them. 

And that was the dangerous part. 

Because a part of him already knew he never wanted to hear Ilya say his last name again. 

Shane felt it before he fully understood what it was. 

At first it was just a small change in Ilya’s breathing against his chest—uneven, careful, like he was trying to steady it. Then he felt the faint warmth spreading slowly through the fabric of his robe where Ilya’s face was pressed. 

For a moment Shane’s mind went completely still. 

Is he…? 

The realization came quietly but heavily. 

Ilya was crying. 

Not loudly. Not with shaking shoulders or broken sobs. If Shane hadn’t been holding him this close, he might not have noticed at all. The tears were silent, slipping quietly into the fabric of his robe. 

Something tightened painfully in Shane’s chest. 

He remembered the words from only minutes ago. 

I haven’t cried since. 

Years. 

Years of carrying that weight alone, of locking everything away so tightly that even grief hadn’t been allowed out. 

And now it was happening here. 

In his arms. 

Shane’s first instinct was to say something—to comfort him, to acknowledge it—but the words died before they could form. Anything he said suddenly felt too loud, too clumsy for something this fragile. 

So he stayed quiet. 

Instead, his arms tightened just slightly around Ilya, careful not to make it obvious. One of his hands moved back into Ilya’s hair, his fingers threading gently through the curls again. 

Slow. Steady. 

Just something that said I’m here. 

Shane stared at the fire in front of them  while the flames cracked softly in the silence. He listened to Ilya’s uneven breathing against his chest and felt the quiet warmth of tears soaking into his skin.

And somewhere deep in his chest, a quiet, stubborn thought resurfaced.

He wanted to protect him. 

The instinct came fast and fierce, almost automatic—the same instinct he felt on the ice when someone came too close to a teammate. But this was different. More complicated. 

Because after tomorrow—at the next game, the next season—they would be back on opposite sides again. 

Rivals. 

Competitors. 

Men who were supposed to hit hard, play harder, and never hesitate. 

And still, holding him like this, feeling the silent tears soaking into his robe, Shane knew one thing with painful certainty. 

Even if the world they lived in made it feel impossible, Shane knew the instinct wasn’t going anywhere. He could pretend it didn’t exist once they were back on the ice, pretend this was nothing more than a quiet moment that meant too much. But right now, with Ilya pressed against him, warm and real and finally letting someone see the cracks, Shane felt something settle stubbornly inside his chest. 

He didn’t want to let go. 

Finally he swallowed hard, and when he spoke his voice came out low and rough, barely above a whisper. 

“…You were twelve.” 

It wasn’t a question. It sounded more like disbelief. 

Shane’s arms tightened around him. 

“You were just a kid.” 

The words cracked slightly at the end. He pressed his chin harder into Ilya’s hair, like he could somehow hold the past back through sheer force. 

When he spoke again his voice was quieter, rougher, threaded with anger that wasn’t meant for Ilya at all. 

“Someone should’ve held you,” he muttered hoarsely. “Someone should’ve been there for you.”

It's not fair, but then again, life rarely was, in Shane’s experience,  fair. For some people more then others.

His fingers curled tighter into the fabric of Ilya’s robe. 

The words hung heavy between them. 

Shane exhaled shakily against the top of Ilya’s head. 

“…I’m really glad you told me.” 

His voice softened then, almost breaking, the words barely more than breath against Ilya’s hair. 

“And I’m really fucking sorry you had to carry that alone.” 

His arms stayed wrapped around him, steady and firm, like they had simply decided this was where they belonged. Part of him already dreaded the moment this would end—the moment Ilya would pull away, the moment the world would return with all its rules and lines they weren’t supposed to cross. 

Because the truth, the dangerous one he didn’t dare say out loud, was simple. 

Shane could stay like this for hours. 

Maybe longer. 

And somewhere deep down, he knew that if the world were different—if they weren’t rivals, if their lives weren’t built around competition and distance—he might never want to stop holding him at all. 

For a long time, neither of them moved. 

The fire crackled softly in the room, the only sound filling the quiet space around them. Ilya’s breathing had slowly evened out against Shane’s chest, though Shane could still feel the occasional hitch in it, like the last echoes of everything that had been said. 

Eventually, Shane shifted slightly beneath him. 

Not enough to break the moment. Just enough to remind them both that the world outside this quiet space still existed. 

“Ilya,” he murmured softly. Trying it out...

The name felt strange in his mouth too, quieter than the way they usually said each other’s last names across the ice. 

“We should probably get you somewhere warmer.” 

It wasn’t really about the temperature. They both knew that. 

Carefully, Shane loosened his arms and helped Ilya sit up, keeping one steady hand on his shoulder as if he wasn’t quite ready to let go yet. For a moment they just sat there, the closeness still lingering between them. 

Then Shane stood and held out a hand. 

“Come on.” 

Ilya took it. 

Shane led him outside into the now cold night air, guiding him down the small path toward his hut. The resort was quiet at this hour, the lights low and the world wrapped in a kind of peaceful stillness.  

Neither of them spoke. 

They didn’t need to. 

When they reached the cabin, Shane opened the door with his wristband and stepped aside to let Ilya in first. The room inside was dim and warm, the soft glow of a lamp casting gentle shadows across the walls. 

Shane closed the door behind them and leaned against it for a moment, watching Ilya. 

Something in his chest still hadn’t settled. 

And he had the strange feeling that tonight had changed something between them in a way neither of them would be able to pretend away tomorrow. 

They sat quietly for a minute after getting inside the hut, the warmth slowly settling back into their bodies. Ilya had curled into the corner of the couch, robe loosely tied, still looking a little hollowed out from everything that had been said. 

Shane leaned against the small table, rubbing the back of his neck before grabbing his phone. 

“We need food,” he said. 

Ilya glanced over. “Food?” 

“Yeah. Real food.” 

Ilya watched him for a moment, then his mouth twitched slightly. 

“Pizza?” he guessed. 

Shane paused, narrowing his eyes at him. “How did you know I was going to say pizza?” 

“You look like man who wants pizza.” 

“That’s not a look.” 

“It is a look,” Ilya said calmly. 

Shane snorted under his breath and started scrolling. 

“You realize this completely goes against your whole… macrobiotic thing,” Ilya added after a moment. 

Shane shrugged. “Probably.” 

Ilya studied him for a second. “So you’re breaking your own rules.” 

“Temporarily.” 

“For me?” Ilya asked lightly. 

Shane glanced up at him then, just for a second longer than necessary. His expression softened almost imperceptibly. 

“For both of us.” 

There was a small pause. 

Then Ilya nodded once, accepting that. 

“…Pizza is good comfort food,” he said. 

“Exactly.” 

Shane ordered two pizzas without thinking too much about it and tossed his phone back onto the table. 

“Ten minutes.” 

He pushed himself up from the couch and disappeared into the small bedroom area for a moment. When he came back, he had a folded stack of clothes in his hands. 

“Here,” he said, holding them out to Ilya. “Figured you might want something more comfortable than the robe.” 

The clothes were simple—soft gray sweatpants and one of Shane’s dark t-shirts. 

Ilya took them, eyebrow lifting slightly. “You just carry spare clothes for rival players now?” 

Shane snorted. “Don’t get used to it, Rozanov.” 

Ilya’s mouth twitched faintly. He glanced toward the small hallway. “Bathroom?” 

“Second door,” Shane said. 

The door clicked shut behind him. 

For a moment Shane stood there, rubbing the back of his neck before grabbing a clean pair of sweats for himself. He changed quickly and had just pulled his shirt over his head when there was a knock at the door of the cabin.

The pizza. 

He paid the delivery guy and carried the boxes inside, dropping them onto the coffee table. The smell filled the small space almost immediately—warm dough, tomato sauce, melted cheese. 

Behind him, the bathroom door opened. 

Shane looked up automatically—and then froze for half a second. 

The clothes fit. 

Just… not the way they fit him. 

The t-shirt stretched slightly across Ilya’s chest and shoulders, the fabric pulled tight over muscle that Shane’s build didn’t quite have. The sleeves hugged his upper arms, and the sweatpants sat low on his hips, fitting but clearly made for someone just a little smaller. 

Ilya was also a little taller, which meant the shirt rode up just enough when he moved to show a thin line of skin above the waistband. 

Shane’s brain stalled for a moment. Ilya was here, in the living room of his cabin, wearing his clothes. What kind of alternative universe was this?  

There was something strangely intimate about it—seeing Ilya standing there in his clothes, like the space between them had quietly shrunk again. 

And before Shane could stop himself, a brief,  spark of heat curled low in his stomach. 

He cleared his throat quickly and forced his attention back to the pizza boxes. 

“Perfect timing,” he said, a little too casually as he flipped one open. 

Ilya walked over, completely unaware—or pretending to be.  

Ilya opened the lid and looked inside. 

“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “This was good decision.” 

Shane grabbed a slice. “You’re welcome.” 

Ilya took one too, settling back into the couch, a little closer than before without really thinking about it. 

After a bite he glanced over. 

“You’re enjoying this too much for someone who lectures people about fermented vegetables.” 

Shane took another bite without looking at him. 

“Don’t ruin this moment, Rozanov.” 

They kept eating, the easy quiet settling back in. At some point Ilya shifted on the couch, stretching his legs out a little under the table. The space was small, and his shin bumped lightly against Shane’s. 

Neither of them pulled away. 

Instead the contact stayed there, easy and warm, like it had been happening all weekend—like somewhere along the way they had both gotten used to the closeness. 

Like, maybe, they didn’t want to give it up. 

The pizza boxes sat half empty on the small wooden table when Shane finally pushed himself up from the couch. 

The cabin was quiet, warm from the soft glow of the lamp and the lingering heat from the fireplace. Outside, the wellness resort had settled into that deep nighttime calm where everything felt slower—no voices, no music from the main building, just the distant rustle of wind through the trees and the quiet presence of the lake beyond the huts. 

Ilya was still curled in the corner of the couch, one bare foot tucked beneath him. He looked better than he had earlier, but there was still a tired softness to him, like the emotional storm he had opened up had left him gently wrung out. 

He watched Shane move toward the small kitchenette. 

“Where are you going?” he asked. 

Shane didn’t answer right away. He opened a cabinet, then the small refrigerator stocked with the extra, carefully arranged “wellness approved” snacks the resort had left for them. 

He closed it again. 

Then he opened the freezer. 

A second later he made a small sound of surprise. 

Ilya lifted his head slightly, curiosity replacing the lazy calm on his face. 

“What did you find?” 

Shane turned around slowly, holding up a small container. 

“Emergency ice cream.” 

Ilya blinked at it. 

“You had ice cream this whole time?” 

“I didn’t know it was there,” Shane said. 

“You’re lying.” 

“I’m not.” 

“You hid it,” Ilya said with quiet certainty. “You didn’t want to share.” 

“Rozanov, I discovered it thirty seconds ago.” 

Ilya pushed himself off the couch anyway and wandered over, drawn by curiosity more than the ice cream itself. 

“What flavor?” 

Shane squinted at the label. “Vanilla.” 

Ilya looked almost offended. 

“Vanilla?” 

“What’s wrong with vanilla?” 

“That is the most boring ice cream a person can buy.” 

“It’s classic.” 

“It’s boring,” Ilya said. “You definitely chose this.” 

Shane scoffed. “I didn’t choose it. This place probably thinks vanilla is the most spiritually balanced flavor.” 

That earned a quiet snort from Ilya. 

“You’re exactly the kind of person who would order vanilla though,” he added thoughtfully. 

“Oh really.” 

“Yes. Very disciplined. Very nutritionally responsible. Vanilla fits your personality.” 

Shane stared at him, unimpressed. 

“My personality is not vanilla.” 

Ilya reached past him and grabbed two spoons from the drawer. “Sure,” he said mildly. 

Shane narrowed his eyes. “You’re doing this on purpose.” 

“Doing what?” 

“Trying to annoy me.” 

Ilya shrugged, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. 

“Maybe.” 

Shane huffed under his breath, but the irritation in his voice didn’t match the softness in his eyes. 

He nodded toward the sliding glass door. 

“Come on.” 

They stepped outside onto the small wooden terrace attached to the hut. 

The night air wrapped around them instantly—cool and fresh, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. The lake stretched out in front of them, wide and dark and perfectly still, reflecting the pale glow of the moon and a scattering of lights from other distant huts along the shoreline. 

The world felt very quiet. 

Almost like they had stepped outside of time for a little while. 

They sat down on the wooden steps, shoulders naturally drifting close. 

Shane set the ice cream container between them while Ilya scooped the first bite without hesitation. 

“You’re unbelievable,” Shane said. 

“You brought spoons.” 

“That wasn’t permission.”  

“Then why bring two?” Ilya asked calmly. 

“Rule number one, Shane replied, you can never have the first bite”. 

“Ah” Ilya responded with an amused look on his face. "We're making rules now, are we?" 

Shane shook his head,  a blush on his cheeks but there was a quiet smile on his face too. 

They passed the container back and forth slowly, the simple comfort of it settling easily between them. The ice cream softened slightly in the cool night air, the spoons clinking softly against the carton. 

After a while Ilya leaned back on his hands and tilted his head up toward the sky. 

“…You can see so many stars here,” he murmured. 

“I could not see stars in Moscow. The city is too big… too much light. Everything always bright.” He paused, eyes still fixed on the sky. “Boston is the same. Maybe a few sometimes, but not like this.” 

For a moment he was quiet, studying the wide stretch of dark sky above the lake.  

Shane followed his gaze. 

Above them the sky stretched wide and clear, scattered with bright stars reflected faintly in the dark surface of the lake below. 

“Yeah,” Shane said quietly. “I actually have a cottage up in Muskoka, on a lake.” 

He glanced up at the sky for a moment before adding, “You can see the stars even better there. No resort lights—just the lake and the trees.”  

“You should see it sometime,” Shane wanted to add, even though that was ridiculous and probably could never happen.  

For a long time neither of them spoke. 

Their shoulders had drifted together at some point, the warmth of Shane’s arm pressing lightly against Ilya’s. Every now and then their fingers brushed when they reached for the ice cream. 

Neither of them commented on it. 

Eventually Ilya lowered his gaze from the sky. 

Shane was already looking at him. 

The quiet between them shifted. 

Something deeper settled into the space between them—something that had been building slowly all weekend in glances that lasted too long, in quiet moments where neither of them quite knew what to say. 

Shane’s eyes flicked briefly to Ilya’s mouth before lifting again. 

Ilya felt something tight and unfamiliar pull through his chest. 

“Shane,” he said softly. 

The name felt different now. 

Shane hated how much he wanted to hear it again. 

The realization settled somewhere deep and quiet inside him, almost embarrassing in its intensity. Like he’d been starved for something he hadn’t even known he was missing until Ilya said it. 

They were sitting close enough that their shoulders pressed fully together, warm even in the cool night air. The ice cream sat forgotten between them, the spoon slowly sliding deeper into the melting vanilla. 

For a moment neither of them moved. They just looked into each others eyes with a hint of fear, but also longing.  

Up close like this, Ilya could see things he usually ignored when they were across the ice from each other—the sharp line of Shane’s jaw, the beautiful freckles across his nose and cheekbones, the faint crease between his brows when he was thinking too hard, the way the moonlight caught in his dark hair. It made him look unfairly handsome, in a quiet, steady way that felt dangerous when you were sitting this close. 

Shane, meanwhile, had forgotten entirely what he had been about to say. With the stars reflected in Ilya’s hazel eyes, the beautiful mole on his cheek,  and his curls falling loosely around his face, he looked softer than he ever did before, this... 

Then Ilya tilted his head slightly, studying him. 

“You’re thinking again,” he murmured. 

Shane exhaled a quiet laugh. 

“What?” 

“You do this thing,” Ilya said gently. “You start thinking very hard before you do something.” 

“And?” 

“It’s annoying.” 

“Oh, is it.” 

“Yes.” 

Ilya held his gaze for another second. “Can I?” he hesitantly said.  

“Yes” Shane breathed, before Ilya even had the chance to get the words out.  

They collided, the movement was certain, like the decision had been waiting inside him for longer than he realized. The tension between them had build in quiet moments between them from the moment Ilya walked into that steam room.  His hand caught lightly at the front of Shane’s shirt as their mouths met.  Ilya's mouth felt so right on Shane's that it took his breath away. The kiss was soft at first—tentative, almost careful. 

Shane froze for half a second in surprise. 

Then his hand came up automatically, settling at the back of Ilya’s neck as he kissed him back with the ferocity of a man starving.  

The world around them seemed to fade—the quiet lake, the distant lights of the resort, the cold night air brushing against their skin. 

Ilya shifted a little closer without thinking, his fingers tightening slightly in Shane’s shirt like he needed to anchor himself there. Like he didn’t want the moment to disappear. 

The kiss deepened slowly—warm and steady and full of everything neither of them had managed to say out loud all weekend. 

A little reluctantly, Ilya pulled back, Shane following him into the movement for a second, like he wanted to follow him, wanted to keep kissing him. But Ilya needed to make sure this was what Shane wanted.  

“Is this okay?” he asked looking into Shane's eyes, searching them for any uncertainty.  He didn't find any.  

“euhm, we probably need to talk about this”, Shane responded.  

Ilya’s heart sank. There we go, he thought. It had been too good to be true anyway. Shane probably wanted to tell him it was a mistake—that it never should’ve happened, that Ilya had misread the connection between them. 

Shane looked very nervous, shifting a bit where he sat, staring at his hands.  

Ilya braced himself and started to pull away a little, not only physically but emotionally. 

Shane let out a deep breath. “I think I’m gay,” he blurted out. 

Ilya couldn’t help the small smile of relief that escaped him. 

Shane frowned, immediately misreading the reaction. 

“That’s—why are you smiling?” he asked. 

Ilya shook his head quickly. “No, it’s just… I thought you were going to say something much worse.” 

Shane blinked at him, confused. Then his expression shifted, uncertainty creeping back in. 

“Wait,” he said slowly. “Does that—are you…?” 

Ilya understood the question before he finished it. 

He leaned back slightly on his hands, looking out over the dark lake for a moment before answering. 

“…I’m bi,” he said quietly. 

Shane’s eyebrows lifted. 

Ilya shrugged one shoulder. “I figured it out a few years ago. Back in Russia.” A faint, almost amused smile tugged at his mouth. “Not exactly the easiest place to have that realization.” 

Shane winced slightly at that. 

“There was a guy,” Ilya added after a moment. “my coaches son”. It was not serious. We were both very careful. It didn’t last long.” He glanced back at Shane. “But it told me enough.” 

Shane was quiet for a second, processing. 

“So this,” he said slowly, gesturing vaguely between them, “isn’t like… a huge shock to you?” 

Ilya huffed softly. “The kissing you part? A little shocking, yes.” 

That earned a reluctant smile from Shane. 

“But you liking men?” Ilya continued. “Not so surprising.” 

Shane looked at him sideways. “What does that mean?” 

Ilya smirked faintly. “You look at men sometimes.” 

“I do not.” 

“You do.” 

“When?” 

Ilya tilted his head slightly. “During games. When we line up for faceoffs. You think you’re staring me down, but sometimes you look a little… distracted.” 

Shane stared at him. “You’re making that up.” 

“I am not.” 

“Rozanov, that’s called competition.” 

“Sure,” Ilya said mildly. “Very intense competition.” 

Shane groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “Oh my god.” 

Ilya laughed quietly, the sound softer than usual. 

Shane looked back at him after a moment, the nervousness creeping in again. 

“So… this doesn’t freak you out?” he asked. “Me figuring this out right now?” 

Ilya shook his head slowly. 

“No,” he said. “I think it takes courage to say something like that out loud.” 

Shane watched him carefully. “Even if it complicates things?” 

Ilya’s gaze drifted briefly to their hands, still close between them on the wooden terrace. 

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Especially then.” 

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore. 

Shane exhaled slowly. 

“So,” he said after a moment, voice softer now, “what do we do with that?” 

Ilya looked back at him, a small, uncertain smile forming. 

“…Maybe we start by not pretending that didn’t happen,” he said, nodding slightly toward Shane’s lips. 

Shane’s eyes flicked down to Ilya’s mouth again before he could stop himself. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. 

“Yeah.” 

The silence between them grew thicker, heavier. 

Shane was still looking at Ilya like he couldn’t quite stop himself. His eyes kept drifting back to Ilya’s mouth, then up again, like he was trying to hold onto some last bit of restraint. 

Ilya noticed every single time. 

“You’re staring again,” he murmured. 

Shane exhaled quietly.  

Their knees were still touching. Neither of them had moved away. If anything, the contact had become more deliberate. 

“You kissed me,” Shane said, voice rougher now. 

Ilya tilted his head slightly. “You didn’t stop me.” 

Shane let out a quiet breath through his nose. “That’s kind of the problem.” 

Ilya leaned forward a little, closing the distance between them until they were only a few inches apart. 

“You’re thinking about it,” he said softly. 

Shane met his eyes. “Yeah.” 

A small, knowing smile touched Ilya’s mouth. 

“Good,” he murmured. 

The air between them felt almost electric now. 

Shane’s voice dropped lower. “Rozanov… if you kiss me again, I’m not going to want to stop".  

Ilya held his gaze for a long second. 

Then he stood. 

The movement was slow, deliberate. He stepped closer until Shane had to tilt his head up to look at him. 

“You talk too much,” Ilya said quietly. 

Before Shane could respond, Ilya reached down and took his hand, pulling him up from the steps. 

The contact sent a sharp spark straight through Shane’s chest. 

Neither of them let go. 

They stood there for a second, eyes locked on each other, the air between them thickinging with heat, too close, breathing the same air. 

Ilya’s hand slid briefly to the back of Shane’s neck, fingers warm and steady. 

“Come here,” he murmured. 

Still holding Shane’s hand, he led him inside the hut and toward the bedroom, the quiet tension between them stretching tighter with every step. 

Ilya didn’t stop when they reached the bedroom. 

He guided Shane inside, the soft lamplight casting warm shadows across the luxurious bedroom of the wellness resort hut. The wide bed sat in the center, dressed in crisp white linens, with thick blankets folded neatly at the foot. A chair in the corner held their folded clothes, and the large glass doors facing the lake let in the faint silver glow of the night outside. 

For a moment neither of them spoke. 

Shane’s heart was pounding so hard he was sure Ilya could hear it. 

Ilya turned toward him slowly, still standing close enough that Shane had to tilt his head up a little to meet his eyes. 

“You’re nervous,” Ilya said quietly. 

Shane huffed out a breath. “A little.” 

Ilya studied him for a second, something gentler moving through his expression now. The teasing edge from the terrace was still there, but underneath it was something careful. 

“You can say stop,” he said. 

Shane shook his head immediately. 

“I don’t want to stop.” 

That small smile returned to Ilya’s mouth. 

“Good,” he murmured. 

Then he stepped closer. 

One hand slid back to the base of Shane’s neck, fingers warm against his skin, steady and grounding. The other settled lightly at Shane’s waist, pulling him just a little closer. 

Shane didn’t resist. 

If anything, he leaned into it. 

For a second they just stood there, close enough that Shane could feel Ilya’s breath against his lips. 

“Still thinking too much?” Ilya asked softly. 

Shane let out a quiet laugh. 

“Yeah.” 

“Then stop.” 

And this time, when Ilya kissed him, it wasn’t tentative. 

Shane felt it immediately—the difference. The first kiss outside had been discovery, surprise. This one was certain. Slow at first, but deeper, warmer, the kind of kiss that made Shane’s hands move without thinking. 

His fingers caught in the fabric of Ilya’s shirt—the one that belonged to him, smelled like him—and pulled him closer. 

Ilya responded instantly. 

The hand at Shane’s waist tightened, drawing him in until there was barely any space left between them. Shane could feel the solid warmth of him, the strength in his arms, the steady pressure that made his breath catch. 

When they finally pulled back, it wasn’t far. 

Their foreheads rested together, both of them breathing a little heavier now. 

Shane laughed quietly, a little stunned. 

“Okay,” he said under his breath. “Yeah… I’m definitely gay.” 

That made Ilya smile properly. 

“You took long enough to figure it out,” he murmured. 

Shane rolled his eyes, but his hands were still gripping Ilya’s shirt like he had no intention of letting go. 

Ilya noticed. 

His thumb brushed lightly along Shane’s jaw. 

“You are sure?” he asked again, quieter now. 

Shane met his eyes. 

“I am scared I'm going to do something wrong” he said a bit uncertain.  

Hmm,” Ilya hummed softly. 

His hand slid up to the back of Shane’s neck, steady and warm. 

“You won’t,” he said quietly. “We will figure it out.”  

“And you don't have to be perfect at everything... Not right now, not with me.” 

The tension left Shane's body a little at that, he knew somehow, after everything, that he would be safe with Ilya.  

Then Ilya kissed him again, slower this time, guiding them both back toward the bed as the tension that had been building for the past two days finally pulled them the rest of the way together. It was inevitable, it was like the universe had pulled a tight rubber band around them both. Impossible to fight against, impossible to resist.  

Ilya's hand cupped his stubbled jaw, demanding , deepening the kiss, opening his mouth with his tongue, brushing against his.  It was the most erotic thing Shane had ever experienced. To be owned like this, by Ilya of all people. The heat of Ilya's mouth was intoxicating.  

His other hand held the back of Shane's head, claiming him completely. And then agonisingly slowly kissed his way to over his jaw, to his neck, licking his pulse point. Shane groaned, his body coiled so tight already that only this would probably be enough to be his undoing. Ilya kept kissing him. He made his way over from the side of Shane's neck, his collarbode,  tracing a burning path down his peck down to his abs. To his belly button. Shane was panting now, finally, finally Ilya reached the band of his boxers, where his cock had gone so hard it was almost peeking out.  

Ilya watched him for another moment, his pupils were blown wide, his eyes dark with lust.  

“Fuck, Rozanov."

Ilya stood up then, Shane saw his eyelashes fluttering, his expression shifting, he looked almost pleading when he looked straight at him and said: “let's not do that, not now.” 

Shane knew what he meant, no distance, not even in a name. 

“Ilya” Shane whispered, softly, saying it held so much weight.  

Ilya had to breathe through it, hearing his name again on Shane's lips, in this moment. It was almost too much. The sound of it shooting straight to his cock. 

“Come here,” he murmured. 

Shane stepped closer, his heartbeat still loud in his chest. When Ilya’s hands moved to the hem of Shane’s shirt, the gesture was slow, giving him plenty of time to pull back if he wanted to. 

Shane didn’t. 

Instead he lifted his arms, letting Ilya pull the shirt up and over his head. The cool air of the room brushed against his skin, making him shiver slightly. Your turn Shane said, his voice rough.  

Ilya’s gaze moved over him for a second, open and unhurried. Shane was just so beautiful, with those freckles splattered across his nose and cheeks, that dark gaze, focused only on him. His strong body. Ilya wanted to explore it all.  

Then Shane reached for the hem of Ilya’s shirt—the one that technically belonged to him—and tugged it upward in return. Ilya lifted his arms and the fabric slid free, dropping somewhere onto the floor beside the bed. 

For a moment they just stood there, closer now, the quiet of the room wrapping around them. 

Shane let out a small breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “Fuck, you look like you are carved out of marble, its ridiculous".  

Ilya’s mouth curved slightly, his cocky smile back.  

His hands moved again, slower this time, fingers brushing along Shane’s sides before settling at the waistband of his sweatpants. 

“Still nervous?” he asked softly. 

Shane nodded once, honest. 

“But not about stopping.” 

Ilya’s eyes softened a little at that. 

“Good,” he murmured. 

One hand grabbed Shane at his hips, fingers digging in. The other stroked a soft trail over his sides, igniting a fire in him, making its way toward his boxers again—slowly, so slowly. Finger by finger, stroking the outline of his cock, up and down, up and down. 

Shane's breath hitched, and his cock jumped at the contact. Then Ilya started kissing the pulse point in his neck while spreading his hand fully over Shane’s cock, gripping him over his boxers and slowly stroking him. 

“Holy fuck,” Shane muttered, pinching his eyes closed in an effort not to come at that tentative, caring contact. 

Ilya hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Shane's boxers. “Can I?” he asked again. 

Shane let out a garbled “Please,” so Ilya eased them lower with a patience that spoke of reverence rather than haste. The fabric slid away, revealing Shane's strong thighs and the hard curve of his arousal, flushed and eager, standing proud in the dim light—a sight that made Ilya's breath catch in his throat. 

Shane's heart pounded wildly, his dark eyes were wide with a blend of apprehension and wonder, this was probably his first time baring himself so completely to another man. 

“You're beautiful,” Ilya whispered, his voice a gravelly rumble laced with genuine awe. 

He discarded the boxers to the floor, Shane's body now fully exposed, the cool air kissing his heated skin and amplifying the electric tension between them. 

He carefully touched him, circling around the tip, stroking him carefully and keeping a steady rhythm. It was driving Shane insane. With everything that had happened between them, all the tension that had already built, Shane found himself rushing to the edge quicker than he wanted. He knew he wasn’t going to last tonight. 

Shane, drawing from the well of courage Ilya’s words had stirred, reached out tentatively. His fingers brushed over Ilya’s crucifix necklace, pausing there for a second before continuing over the firm planes of Ilya’s chest, over his bear tattoo, and tracing the ridges of muscle down to the scattering of dark hair that led to the prominent hardness in Ilya’s boxers. 

His touch was feather-light at first, almost hesitant, as if afraid of breaking the spell, but the soft sigh that escaped Ilya’s lips emboldened him. 

Ilya was already so hard. Shane softly stroked him, getting used to touching someone like this. He cupped him fully now, stroking him over the fabric. 

“Like this?” Shane murmured, his voice shaky yet filled with curiosity. 

All English seemed to have left Ilya’s brain as he responded with, “Ya tayu v tvoikh rukakh,” then, “Yes, so good.” 

Emotions swirled within Shane—a heady mix of nervousness and exhilaration—as he explored this uncharted territory. He pulled Ilya’s boxers down, tired of waiting, exposing Ilya’s length. 

His breath caught. 

Even this part of him was beautiful. His cock was thick, long, and hard, with a slight curve to it. Shane lifted his hand and touched him, gentle and careful at first, looking up at Ilya to see if he was enjoying this. Ilya’s eyes were so dark with desire that Shane felt confident enough to continue. 

Suddenly, he felt a strong need to taste him. Carefully, he wrapped his mouth around him. 

Ilya’s legs almost gave out at the contact. 

“Fuck, Shane, fuck,” he breathed, faster and rougher. 

Encouraged, Shane licked over the slit, tasting the salty flavor of him. He felt so warm, soft, and thick in his mouth. The sensation was so foreign, instantly sending fire to his groin. He couldn’t get enough of it. He kept licking, kept sucking, trying to take him deeper into his mouth, reveling in the feeling. 

He knew he was probably sloppy, but he was so into it that it didn’t matter. His own arousal kept growing. He wondered if you could come just from sucking someone else off, because at this point he was pretty sure that was where he was heading. 

Ilya’s hand stroked through his hair, not forcing him, not guiding him—just holding him there, like he needed to be sure this was really happening. 

“Stop, stop,” Ilya said. 

Shane stood up, a little flustered. “Was it… was it bad?” he asked uncertainly. 

Ilya’s eyes widened. “No! God, no, Shane. It was too much—too good,” he said, laughing a little. “I want to make you feel good.” 

He started to push Shane toward the bed. “Lay down,” he instructed, his cocky smirk back on his face. 

Shane laughed a little. “Dominant on the ice, dominant in the bedroom?” 

“Careful,” Ilya responded, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You might start to like it.” 

And wasn’t that the truth. 

Shane put his head on the pillow and looked at Ilya—all chiseled muscles, but also soft and careful with him. The contradiction of the man dizzied him, in the best way. 

Ilya’s heated gaze watched him for a second. 

“Ty svodish menya s uma,” he muttered under his breath. 

“What does that mean?” Shane asked breathlessly. 

Ilya waited for a few beats. “That I like looking at you like this,” he responded softly, even though Shane somehow doubted that was the full translation. 

Ilya put a knee on the bed and crawled—crawled—to him. 

Shane’s breaths came faster and faster. Even in his wildest fantasies, he couldn’t have come up with a scenario like this: the sight of that strong, beautiful man, the man who had so much depth to him, crawling toward him. 

Shane was pretty sure he had stopped breathing completely. 

Ilya crawled over him until he hovered above him, leaning down to kiss him, entering his mouth while lowering his hips until they made contact—until their cocks touched, pressing down into him. 

They both gasped into each other’s mouths, and Shane let out a long groan, pre-cum already dripping from his slit. 

Ilya’s strong arms wrapped around Shane to draw him impossibly closer, their bodies pressing together in a tangle of limbs and desire. He captured Shane’s lips again in a slow, deepening kiss, tongues dancing as Ilya’s hand ventured between them, wrapping around both of their erections with a firm yet gentle grip that sent shivers racing up Shane’s spine. 

“Let go with me,” Ilya urged softly, his accent wrapping around the words like a caress as he began to stroke in tandem with Shane’s movements, their cocks sliding against one another in slick, building friction that blurred the lines between dominance and surrender. 

Ilya spit in his hand to lube them up even more, and oh God, that made it feel even better, all slicked up. 

Shane’s world narrowed to the raw sensations—the insistent pressure, the shared warmth, the way Ilya’s eyes held his with unwavering vulnerability—pushing him toward a release that felt as profound emotionally as it did physically. 

Gasping into each other’s mouths, their breaths came faster and faster. 

“I’m going to come,” Shane groaned. “Fuck, Ilya, fuck.” 

“Come for me,” Ilya said, with a rough commanding voice, sounding as undone as Shane felt. 

With a groan, Shane let go. In that moment he felt a kind of release he had never experienced before. His whole body shuddered with it, vibrating. His hips lifted from the bed involuntarily, pressing himself even deeper into Ilya’s hand. It felt like everything came pouring out, all of his pent up feelings, all of the tension in his body, unraveling.  

He gasped. “Ilya—God. Ilya, please, please.” 

He wasn’t even sure what he was begging for. 

As his come shot out of him over Ilya’s hand, ilya started to stroke them even faster, while Ilya started talking in rough Russian again. 

“Mne tak horosho s toboy… Ya seychas umru! Oh, da, da!” 

Finally, he called out Shane’s name as he came, shuddering with a strong release, spilling over both of their cocks. Their release mixed on Shane’s stomach. 

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya whispered reverently, dropping his body next to him. 

Shane just held him there, both of them catching their breath. “Ilya", he whispered into his hair, so much unsaid in that name.  

Shane lay there for a moment, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, the last tremors still fading from his body. The room had gone quiet except for the sound of their breathing and the faint rustle of sheets beneath them. 

Beside him, Ilya shifted closer. “I'm going to get you cleaned up” he said. Somehow knowing exactly that Shane didn't like the mess of this. Shane admired Ilya's ridiculously amazing ass as he walked out of the room. “I know you are looking at my ass”,  “am not” Shane responded, teasing him. “I do not blame you” Ilya said, “It's nice ass”. He said as he walked out of the room. Coming back with a warm wet wash cloth and towel. He carefully cleaned Shane and himself up, Threw the towels in the hamper in the corner of the room and crawled up the bed again, propped up a pillow and lay down on it. “Come here” he said. Shane lay into his side, his head on Ilya's chest. 

He draped an arm over Shane’s waist, pulling him gently into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. Shane went willingly, still a little dazed, resting his head against Ilya’s shoulder. The heat of his body was steady and grounding. 

For a while neither of them spoke. 

Shane traced slow circles on Ilya’s chest with the tips of his fingers, following the line of muscle beneath warm skin, the edge of the bear tattoo, the chain of the crucifix resting there. Ilya’s hand moved lazily along Shane’s back, broad palm sliding up and down in a soothing rhythm. 

Their breathing gradually synced. 

Ilya pressed a quiet kiss into Shane’s hair. 

“You okay?” he murmured, voice rough but soft now, the earlier edge gone. 

Shane let out a small laugh against his shoulder. “Yeah.” He tilted his head up slightly to look at him. “More than okay.” 

Ilya studied him for a moment, dark eyes calmer now, but still warm. His thumb brushed lightly over Shane’s side. 

“Good,” he said. 

Shane shifted a little closer, sliding one leg between Ilya’s, their bodies fitting together easily under the blankets. The closeness felt different now—softer, quieter. 

After a moment Shane muttered, half teasing, half sleepy, “You know… you’re a lot less terrifying when you’re cuddling.” 

Ilya huffed a quiet laugh, the vibration of it warm under Shane’s cheek. 

“Don’t ruin my reputation,” he said. 

Shane smiled into his shoulder, eyes drifting closed as Ilya’s hand continued its slow, absent strokes along his back. The tension that had been buzzing between them all night had settled into something warm and steady. 

His first time with a man. With Ilya... 

The thought alone should have felt overwhelming, maybe even frightening. He’d imagined this so many different ways in his life—awkward, uncertain, something he might regret or second-guess afterward. 

But with Ilya… it hadn’t felt like that at all. 

It had felt safe. 

Shane closed his eyes, letting out a slow breath as Ilya’s arm tightened slightly around him. There had been something in the way Ilya touched him—careful, almost reverent—that made the whole experience feel bigger than just the physical closeness. Like every look, every quiet word, had meant something. 

And that was the part that unsettled him the most. 

Because somehow, impossibly, this man—this stubborn, complicated, intense man—already felt important to him. 

They barely knew each other. Not properly, not like this.  

Yet lying here now, tangled together in the quiet aftermath, Shane felt a connection so deep it almost scared him. Like something had shifted inside him the moment their worlds collided, something that had been building long before tonight. 

He didn’t understand it. 

But as he curled a little closer to Ilya’s warmth, listening to the slow rhythm of his breathing, Shane realized he didn’t really want to understand it either. 

He just knew he’d never felt this way before. And the thought of losing whatever this was already made his chest ache. 

Ilya lay on his back, staring quietly at the ceiling while Shane rested against his side. His arm stayed wrapped around him without thinking, his hand spread over Shane’s back like he was making sure he was still there. 

His breathing had slowed, but his mind hadn’t. 

He wasn’t used to this part. 

The closeness after, the quiet. Usually moments like this were brief, unspoken things that faded as quickly as they appeared. But Shane hadn’t moved away. Instead he had curled closer, like he belonged there, like Ilya’s chest was the most natural place in the world to rest. 

It did something strange to him. 

Ilya turned his head slightly, looking down at the soft mess of Shane’s hair against his shoulder. His first instinct had been to keep things simple between them, keep it physical, uncomplicated. 

But nothing about Shane had been simple. 

The way he looked at him. The trust in his touch. The quiet courage it must have taken for him to open himself like that tonight. 

Ilya felt something heavy and unfamiliar settle in his chest. 

They barely knew each other. By all logic this shouldn’t mean anything. And yet when Shane had looked at him earlier—wide-eyed, breathless, completely open—it had felt like something inside Ilya had shifted into place. 

Like a door he didn’t even know existed had quietly opened. 

His hand moved slowly along Shane’s back, almost absentmindedly, the motion gentle now. 

Ty svodish menya s uma, he thought again. 

You drive me crazy. 

But it wasn’t just desire. That would have been easier to understand. 

This was deeper. Quieter. Something that made him feel strangely protective of the man lying against him. 

The thought sat uneasily in his chest. 

Ilya wasn’t a man who let people get close. Not really. Most of the time he kept things simple—hockey, training, the next game. People came and went around the edges of his life, and that was how he preferred it. That way he coudn't get hurt, he told himself. 

But Shane hadn’t stayed at the edges. 

Somewhere between the sharp looks they traded on the ice and the way Shane had said his name tonight—soft, like it mattered—something had shifted. 

Now Shane was curled against him, warm and trusting, breathing slowly against his ribs like he belonged there. 

Ilya’s arm tightened around him before he could even think about it. 

And the strange part was… he didn’t feel the usual urge to put distance back between them. 

The room had settled into a quiet calm, the only sounds left the soft rustle of the sheets and the slow rhythm of their breathing. Shane lay half draped over Ilya, his head resting on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart beneath his ear. 

Ilya’s hand moved lazily along Shane’s back, warm and slow, like he wasn’t even thinking about it anymore. 

Shane traced the chain of Ilya’s crucifix with sleepy fingers, the metal cool against his skin. His body felt loose, heavy with exhaustion and the lingering warmth of everything that had happened between them. 

For a moment he just stayed there, letting himself enjoy the quiet. 

Then a small, uncertain thought crept in. 

He lifted his head slightly, looking up at Ilya through tired eyes. 

“Hey,” he murmured. 

Ilya glanced down at him, his expression soft in the dim light. “Hm?” 

Shane hesitated, suddenly feeling a little shy. “You’re… not going anywhere tonight, right?” 

Ilya looked at him for a second, like the question itself surprised him. 

Then his arm tightened gently around Shane, pulling him closer until Shane’s cheek was tucked securely against his chest again. 

“No,” Ilya said quietly. 

The word was simple, but steady. 

Shane felt something warm spread through his chest at that. He relaxed instantly, letting out a small breath as he settled back against him. 

“Good,” he mumbled, his voice already thick with sleep. “Stay.” 

Ilya brushed his fingers through Shane’s hair, slow and careful, the gesture softer than anything he’d meant to show. 

“Sleep,” he murmured. 

Shane’s hand curled lightly into the fabric of the sheets near Ilya’s side, like he wanted to make sure he was still there. Within minutes his breathing evened out, his body going completely loose against him. 

Ilya stayed awake a little longer, watching the quiet rise and fall of Shane’s shoulders, feeling the warmth of him tucked against his side. 

After a moment, he pressed a soft kiss into Shane’s hair. 

Then he closed his eyes too, still holding him close as sleep finally pulled them both under. 

Chapter Text

Shane woke up in the middle of the night, disoriented. His head was resting on something hard and warm, and it was… moving. A faint whimpering sound reached him through the haze of sleep. Slowly he opened his eyes and realized he was lying on a broad, muscular chest. 

Ilya. 

For a moment he just stared, trying to orient himself. Ilya was here. Right next to him. But something was wrong. 

Ilya was restless, his brows drawn together, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. His breathing came too fast, his head moving from side to side on the pillow like he was trying to escape something. 

Then the words came. 

“Net… net, pozhaluysta, papa… pozhaluysta, ne nado… Prosto uspokoysya… pozhaluysta…” 

The pleading in his voice made Shane’s chest tighten painfully. He had never heard Ilya sound like that before. Never heard him sound so small. 

“Ilya?” Shane murmured, pushing himself up slightly. “Ilya, wake up. You're having a nightmare.” 

But Ilya didn’t react. His breath came faster now, shallow and uneven. 

“Ilya,” Shane tried again, more urgently, shaking him softly. “Come on, wake up. You're safe.” 

Still nothing. 

“Ilya?” His voice rose despite himself. “Baby, please wake up. Please… wake up for me.” 

Baby? The word slipped out without thinking. 

“You’re safe,” he said quickly, his hand coming up to cradle the back of Ilya’s head. 

He started whispering comforting words, trying to get Ilya out of this terror he was in. “You’re safe with me. No one’s going to hurt you. I’ve got you. Just wake up… please.” 

Slowly, the tension in Ilya’s body began to loosen. His breathing steadied a little, the frantic movement of his head slowing. 

So Shane kept talking, his fingers moving gently through Ilya’s hair. 

“You’re okay,” he murmured softly. “You’re okay.” 

Somewhere between sleep and waking, the nightmare began to fade for Ilya. His father’s face blurred and slipped away, replaced by something softer—Shane’s voice, warm and close, saying things no one had ever said to him before. 

Slowly, his eyes fluttered open. 

“Shane?” he whispered hoarsely, blinking up at him. “Are you… really here? Or is this another dream?” 

“You were having a nightmare,” Shane said quietly. “It was really bad.” 

“Oh.” Ilya rubbed his face, looking faintly embarrassed. “Yes… it happens.” 

Shane froze. “What do you mean it happens?” he asked, staring at him in disbelief. “That was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever witnessed.” 

Ilya only gave a small, tired shrug. “It’s normal for me. I think with all the… talking I’ve been doing here, maybe it made things come out.” 

He sounded exhausted. 

Shane stared at him for a long moment before letting out a quiet, broken breath. “Fuck, Ilya…” 

He shifted slightly on the pillow and opened his arms. “Come here.” 

“I’m fine, Shane. Your ribs—” 

“I said come here,” Shane cut in, more firmly now. “If not for you, then for me. My ribs are fine. I just… need to make sure you’re okay.” 

A small pause. 

“I need to hold you.” 

Ilya looked at him for a moment, something soft passing across his face. Then he smiled faintly and moved closer, resting his head against Shane’s chest. Shane immediately pulled him in, tucking him under his chin like he was afraid to let go. 

Outside, the world was still pitch black. 

Shane’s hand began to move slowly over Ilya’s back, the same steady motion he’d used at the lake. It felt so good that Ilya’s eyes drifted closed again almost immediately. He could get used to this, and that was a very dangerous realisation to have.

He was a little embarrassed Shane had seen that, but honestly it hadn’t even been the worst of the nightmares. There had been nights so bad he had woken up shaking, running to the bathroom to throw up. 

Tonight had almost been mild. 

Still, the day had been heavy. Too many memories dragged out into the open. But Shane being there beside him brought a strange kind of calm. 

He felt safe enough to fall asleep again. Some nights even that felt impossible. 

Now he simply breathed Shane in. There was still a faint eucalyptus scent clinging to his skin from earlier, mixed with something that was just… Shane. Ilya had no name for it, but to him it smelled like safety. 

Had it really only been two days?  It was madness. 

But he didn’t question it. He only pressed a little closer, letting himself sink into the warmth. 

If this was all he was going to get, then he would selfishly take every second of it. 

Shane traced his fingers over his back, stopping at the scar.Ilya froze.

“Do you… do you want to talk about it? It might help.” 

Ilya sighed. He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about his past anymore, but the scar was impossible to miss. He understood why Shane wanted to know. If it had been the other way around, he would have wanted to know too. But god was he exhausted.

Still, he started talking. 

“I brought up my mom once in all those years.” The hand on his back paused for a moment, then slowly started moving again. “I think I was sixteen… something like that.” A bit of a rebellious age for every kid. “It was the anniversary of her death, and I was just so tired of never speaking about her.” Being forbidden to. 

“I was holding on so tightly to the little pieces I remembered, and even those were starting to slip away. Like how her voice sounded… or how she smelled.” His voice softened slightly. “I could feel her disappearing from my memory, piece by piece.” 

My father has started drinking after her death, he was a mean drunk, not always but... often enough. Not only getting physical with us but also with his new wife. Besides the physical abuse there was verbal abuse, making him feel like he was nothing. For Ilya the bruises would always be in places where no one would immediately notice. So no one had ever asked.

"That day, my father had already had a few glasses too much to drink, so I should’ve known it was bad timing.” Ilya went quiet for a moment before continuing. “But I was desperate for more of her. Desperate enough to risk it.” 

He lay still on the bed after saying that, Shane’s hand moving slowly over the scar on his back while Ilya stared up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused. “So I asked him about her. Just something small. What she was like before she had us. What kind of music she liked. If she laughed a lot.” 

The table had gone completely silent. 

“Paulina stared down at her plate. My brother stopped eating. My dad didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at me.” Shane’s fingers slowed slightly where they rested against his skin. “And then he said her name.” Ilya swallowed. “Not loudly. Just… cold.” 

You know that subject is forbidden in this house. 

“I told him it had been four years,” Ilya said quietly. “Four years since she died and we still weren’t allowed to say her name. I told him I was starting to forget her.” 

“That’s when he stood up. He’d already been drinking. Not falling-down drunk, but enough that everything sounded like an insult to him.” Ilya’s gaze stayed fixed somewhere far away. “He started yelling that I was disrespecting his wife. That Paulina was sitting right there. That bringing my mother up was cruel.” 

He paused briefly. “I told him forgetting her felt cruel.” 

That had been the wrong thing to say. 

“He grabbed my arm when I tried to leave the table,” Ilya continued quietly. “He didn’t like people walking away when he was angry. I tried to pull free.” His voice softened. “There was a knife on the table. Just a steak knife. He’d picked it up while he was yelling, pointing with it the way people do when they’re angry and not thinking.” 

“When I twisted away, he yanked me back again.” Ilya exhaled slowly. “And the knife caught my back.” 

For a moment he was quiet. 

“I didn’t even realize how bad it was at first. It just burned.” Then his brother had shouted. “I remember looking down and seeing blood on the floor.” 

Shane’s hand had gone still against the scar. 

“My brother was staring at me in shock, asking if we should go to the hospital,” Ilya said softly. “My dad said no.” A small breath left him. “He said if anyone asked how I got cut with a knife at the dinner table, it would cause problems.  Paulina even tried to reason with him. She told him it needed stitches.”  

But he wouldn’t listen. 

“He was police, and he didn't want to," he made a motion with his hand " damage his reputation.” 

“So Paulina cleaned it and wrapped it with bandages.” Ilya’s fingers brushed lightly over the uneven scar. “We never went to  doctor.” 

A quiet sigh left him. “It healed eventually.” 

He looked back up at the ceiling. 

“Just… badly,” he whispered. 

“I never asked about her again, and I had a reminder of it that I felt every day".  

Silence stretched for a moment before he spoke again. “People asked about it later in NHL.” A faint, humorless breath left him. “I told them I got it during training. I said I slipped while doing weights in gym and fell against metal rack.” He shrugged faintly against the mattress. “It sounded like thuth. Athletes get injuries all the time.” 

Another pause. 

“No one ever doubted.” 

His fingers traced the edge of the scar slowly. 

“And after a while… I almost started thinking this story was the real truth.” 

Shane didn’t interrupt while Ilya kept talking. At some point his hand had stopped moving entirely, his fingers still resting on the scar but gone stiff, like he’d forgotten how to breathe properly. When Ilya mentioned the story—the gym, the metal rack—Shane’s hand slowly curled against his back. For a moment he just stared at the scar. Really stared at it. His thumb traced along the ridge of it once, carefully, like the skin might still hurt. Then he stopped halfway and pressed his palm flat against Ilya’s back instead, covering as much of the scar as he could. 

Shane swallowed hard. “Jesus,” he whispered, the word sounding more broken than angry. 

He dragged a hand over his face for a second, trying to steady himself, but when he looked back at Ilya something in his expression had changed completely. There was anger there, but it wasn’t directed at him. Mostly it was grief. Disbelief. 

“You were sixteen,” he said quietly. "Fucking hell".

Then his hand slid up to Ilya’s shoulder and, almost suddenly, he pulled him closer—firm, protective, until Ilya was pressed fully against his chest. Shane’s arm wrapped around him and stayed there, strong and unyielding, like he had no intention of letting go. One of his hands came up to the back of Ilya’s head, holding him there, his chin resting against his hair. 

“That wasn’t your fault,” he said, voice low and rough. His hand moved slowly through Ilya’s hair. “None of that was your fault”, “you hear me?” 

Ilya’s eyes burned at that. No one had ever said those words to him, and he felt now how badly he needed to hear them.

Shane pressed his lips briefly against the top of his head. 

His arm tightened around him again. 

"I am so sorry..." The words fell short, Shane knew that, but he gave them anyway.

His thumb brushed slowly over the back of Ilya’s neck. “The fact that you had to walk around and tell everyone some stupid gym story just so nobody would ask questions…” He stopped for a moment, his breath uneven. 

His arm stayed wrapped around Ilya, his hand still resting over the scar like it had settled there without thinking. After a while the room grew quiet again.  Ilya lay against Shane’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, feeling the warmth of him beneath his cheek. His mind kept circling back to what he had just told him. Too much. He had said far too much tonight. Usually he was careful with people—careful with what he shared, careful to keep the harder parts of himself tucked away where no one could reach them. It was easier that way. Safer. But Shane had asked about the scar, and somehow the words had just… come out. The knife. His father. The lie he had carried for years afterward. Now the quiet afterward made him feel strangely exposed, like he had taken off armor he had been wearing for so long he had forgotten it was there. And yet Shane hadn’t pulled away. Hadn’t looked at him with pity. He had just held him tighter.  Ilya knew one thing for certain, that he felt safe, and he hadn't felt safe in years,..

Ilya shifted slightly against him. Shane’s hand was still warm against his back, resting over the scar as if guarding it. It was strange, trusting someone like this. Strange that it felt… easy. Two days, he thought tiredly. Two days of knowing Shane, and he had ended up telling him the worst memory of his life. It should have felt reckless. Instead, it felt quiet. Safe. Ilya let out a slow breath, his eyes growing heavier as the steady rise and fall of Shane’s chest beneath him slowly pulled him toward sleep. 

Shane felt the moment the tension in Ilya’s body began to fade. He stayed awake, his hand moving slowly over his back in calm, steady strokes. When Ilya shifted again, like he was still hovering somewhere between sleep and thought, Shane’s arm tightened slightly around him, grounding him there. He softly kissed the top of his head. His hand slid up Ilya’s back before settling again over the scar, warm and firm, like he was standing guard over something fragile. 

He lowered his head a little, his voice quiet in the dark. 

For a moment he just held him there, listening to the slow rhythm of his breathing beginning to deepen. Then he murmured softly, almost like a promise. 

“Rest.” 

His chin rested lightly against the top of Ilya’s head. 

“I’ve got you.” 

“I know,” Ilya had said so softly Shane had almost missed it. 

It took a while, but Ilya's body slowly relaxed fully against Shane, his breathing evening out as sleep finally claimed him. Shane stayed awake a little longer, his arm still wrapped securely around him, his hand resting over the scar like a quiet shield. 

Only when he was sure Ilya was truly asleep did his own breathing finally slow. His grip loosened just slightly, but his arm never left him. 

Shane had no idea how to proceed after this. Ilya had gone through so much. The weight of what he had just told him, all that he'd told him today, really, still sat heavy in Shane’s chest. He wanted to fix it somehow, wanted to take the hurt away, but he didn’t know how—or if he even could. Not that Ilya needed fixing. That wasn’t it. Ilya was strong, stronger than anyone Shane knew. Shane just wanted the hurting to stop. The idea that Ilya had carried something like that alone for so many years made something in him ache. 

And realizing how much he cared about protecting him from further harm… that was the strange part. 

Two days ago, they had barely been able to stand each other. 

Now Ilya was asleep against his chest. 

He stared quietly into the darkness, his hand still resting protectively over the scar on Ilya’s back. His mind drifted through everything that had happened since they had arrived at the retreat. The first sharp words between them. The tension that had always existed whenever they were in the same room. Then slowly, somehow, things had shifted. A conversation here, a quiet moment there. The lake. The sauna. The strange, peaceful hours they had spent talking about things Shane had never expected either of them to say out loud. 

It had all happened so quickly it barely made sense. 

And yet none of it felt forced. 

It felt… inevitable. 

Like something that had been building quietly for years beneath all that rivalry, waiting for the right moment to surface. 

How had he gotten this close to his rival? 

How had the thought of having to part ways with Ilya—of going back to the way things had always been between them on Monday—started to feel almost unbearable? 

Outside this place there would be competitions again. Cameras. Expectations. The pressure of winning. The sharp edge of their rivalry that everyone else seemed to love so much. 

How could they possibly go back to that after this? 

How could they step out of this strange little bubble of the wellness retreat and pretend none of it had happened? 

Shane looked down slightly at the sleeping man curled against him. Ilya’s breathing was slow and steady now, his body finally relaxed in sleep. Without the tension he usually carried, he looked younger somehow. Softer. 

Shane’s arm tightened around him just slightly. 

He didn’t want to let him go. 

The thought settled quietly in his chest, simple and undeniable. 

Somehow, in just two days, Ilya had become something important to him. Something he wasn’t sure he could easily walk away from. 

It felt like they were two missing puzzle pieces that had finally found each other and locked into place. And now that they had… the thought of separating them again already felt almost impossible. 

Shane let out a slow breath, his chin resting lightly against the top of Ilya’s head. 

Whatever this was… he wasn’t ready to lose it. 

Eventually, still holding him close, Shane drifted off to sleep too. 

Chapter Text

Morning came slowly. 

Soft light slipped through the curtains, pale and quiet, filling the room with the gentle gray of early morning. For a long time nothing moved. 

Shane woke first. 

Not abruptly, the way he usually did during competition weeks, when his mind was already racing before his eyes were even open. This time it was slow. Heavy. Peaceful. 

For a moment he didn’t even understand why he felt so… rested. 

Then he noticed the warmth. 

Something warm and solid was pressed against him, breathing softly against his chest. There was a comfortable weight draped partly over him, an arm loosely resting across his stomach. 

Shane opened his eyes. 

Ilya was still asleep against him. 

Curled into him like he had belonged there all night. 

Shane went completely still. 

The memories of the night before came back slowly—the nightmare, the conversation, the story Ilya had told him, the quiet afterward. The way they had ended up falling asleep exactly like this. 

He looked down at him. 

Ilya’s face was relaxed in sleep, the tension he usually carried, had caried during that nightmare he had was gone completely.

A feeling of relief washed over Shane. Ilya's curly hair was a little messy, one cheek pressed lightly against Shane’s chest, his breathing slow and deep. 

Shane realized something then. 

He had never slept this well in his life. For the past few months, anxiety had followed him into his sleep, to the point that his body couldn’t relax at all. Sometimes he woke up with the indentations of his fingernails pressed into his palms.

His body felt loose in a way it almost never did, his mind clear and quiet. 

And judging by the way Ilya was sleeping—completely out, unmoving except for the slow rise and fall of his shoulders—he hadn’t slept like this in a long time either. 

Carefully, Shane brushed a small curl away from Ilya’s forehead. 

The movement made Ilya stir. 

Not awake yet—just shifting slightly closer, his fingers tightening unconsciously into Shane's side as if making sure he was still there. 

That did something funny to his insides, made his heart flutter. Shane huffed out the quietest laugh. 

“Easy,” he murmured softly. 

Ilya’s lashes fluttered a moment later. 

His eyes opened slowly, still foggy with sleep. For a few seconds he just blinked, clearly trying to figure out where he was. 

Then he looked up. 

Right into Shane’s face. 

He froze. 

Shane could see the exact moment everything clicked into place—the room, the memory of the night before, the things he's shared in the dark, the fact that he was still lying half on top of him. 

Neither of them moved. 

“Morning,” Shane said quietly. 

Ilya blinked again, his voice rough with sleep when he finally answered. 

“…Morning.” 

For a moment he didn’t move away. Instead he stayed exactly where he was, still waking up, his hand resting loosely against Shane’s chest. 

Then something seemed to occur to him. 

“…Did we sleep like this the rest of the night?” 

Shane gave a small shrug against the pillow. 

“Looks like it.” 

Ilya let out a slow breath, something almost amazed in it. 

“…I slept,” he said quietly, like the realization surprised him. 

Shane raised an eyebrow. 

“You usually don’t?” 

Ilya hesitated. 

“Not like this.” 

He shifted slightly then, still not pulling away, just lifting his head enough to look at Shane properly. 

“I mean really slept,” he added softly. “No more nightmares. No waking up every hour. Just… sleep.” 

He looked a little stunned by it. 

Shane’s arm tightened slightly around him without thinking. 

“Good,” he said simply.  He wanted to make sure Ilya slept well every night.. It worried him to hear that Ilya had such a hard time sleeping. 

Ilya studied his face for a moment longer, something warm slowly appearing in his expression. Then, to Shane’s quiet surprise, he relaxed again and let his head drop right back down onto Shane’s chest. 

Like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

“Maybe I should sleep next to you more often,” Shane murmured, voice still thick with sleep. 

Ilya’s lips twitched. wouldn't that be something

“Careful,” he said. “You might get used to it.” 

Shane didn’t answer. 

But he didn’t move away either. 

And for another quiet minute, they just stayed like that—both a little amazed by how well they had slept, and neither of them in any hurry to let go. 

Eventually Ilya stretched a little, blinking toward the window. 

“…I think I am starving,” he admitted. 

Shane let out a quiet laugh. “For what?”

Ilya blinked at him, then let out a surprised laugh. “For breakfast, you pervert.”

They ended up ordering breakfast to the cabin, mostly because neither of them felt like getting dressed and facing the outside world just yet. When the knock came, Shane slipped out of bed to, get dressed into a grey sweatpants, grabbed the tray from the staff member at the door and returned with it balanced carefully in his hands. 

The smell hit them immediately. Warm bread, fresh coffee, butter… and chocolate. 

Shane just stood there for a second, holding the tray, staring at it, looking back to the bed, and to the tray in his hands again. Ilya seemed to notice the inner turmoil Shane was having. He frowned “are you okay?” he said.  

“I don't even know why I'm doing this, I HATE crumbs in the bed...” Shane sighed in aspiration. “Room service will probably be here within an hour” Ilya said to calm him down. He knew now that Shane hated getting dirty, and he was crossing so many of his own boundaries over the weekend that; he knew this might be the one that would be too much for him. “We can go sit at the table if you want?” He asked, not wanting to make him more uncomfortable.  

Shane thought about that for a second, he looked at the morning light drifting through the window, Ilya in all his morning glory sitting up in the bed with a sheet around his lower body, looking so relaxed.  So he made a decision, “no, It's fine, I promise".  

So he sat the tray down and crawled back into bed,  

The tray was ridiculous. 

There were bowls of fresh fruit and creamy yogurt with honey, soft scrambled eggs and bacon, thick slices of sourdough toast with butter and jam melting into them, an assortment of cheeses—and a small basket overflowing with croissants. 

Regular ones. And chocolate ones. 

The chocolate croissants were glossy and golden, dark chocolate peeking out of the flaky layers. 

Ilya stared at them for a moment, then slowly looked at Shane. 

“I thought you were on some extremely strict macrobiotic athlete diet,” he said suspiciously. 

Shane was staring at them too. “…I am,” he said. 

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “So these are… what? Decoration?” 

Shane hesitated for about two seconds, groaned. Then he reached over, picked up one of the chocolate croissants, and took a bite.The pastry cracked softly, layers flaking everywhere, warm chocolate melting slightly inside. 

Shane closed his eyes for a second. 

“…oh my god.” he muttered over the bite, sounding almost emotional. 

Ilya started laughing, watching him with open amusement. Shane shook his head slowly, taking another bite.“You don't understand, I haven’t had one of these in… I don’t even know how long.” 

“Years?”     

“Maybe.” 

He looked down at the croissant like he had rediscovered something incredible. 

“…Worth it.” he smiled. Looking at Ilya with glittering happy eyes. Like a kid who just tasted candy for the first time.  

Ilya grabbed one too. “Well,” he said with a soft smile, already biting into it, “Nice to see you let go for once.” Shane sighed.  

They ended up sitting cross-legged on the bed, passing things back and forth between them, stealing bites off each other’s plates without even thinking about it. 

The fruit was incredibly sweet. The eggs were perfect. The croissants practically melted the moment you bit into them. 

At one point Ilya leaned back slightly, coffee in one hand, looking almost dazed. 

“I think this is the best breakfast I have ever eaten,” he declared. 

Shane looked at him over the rim of his cup, still holding half of his chocolate croissant. Their eyes met for a moment longer than necessary, both of them smiling without quite realizing it. 

“…Yeah,” he admitted. 

“Pretty sure it is.” 

They cleared up the breakfast quickly and stared at each other for a moment. “Shower?” Shane asked, heat creeping up his neck, his face getting a bit red. 

Ilya looked at him. He looked so adorable like this, so unsure. Ilya's mind started to race; he should probably go, create some distance between them. He had already given Shane far too much of himself. But then Shane reached out and took his hand. “Come on,” he said. And Ilya was a weak man in that moment, because he could never say no to that hopeful smile on Shane's face. So he smiled back at him, said “okay,” and followed him into the bathroom. 

The bathroom was already filled with soft light from a large frosted window, the kind that made everything look a little hazy and warm. The shower itself was wide, built with smooth stone tiles and a rainfall showerhead overhead. 

Shane turned the water on, letting it warm. Steam began filling the space almost immediately. He got undressed while Ilya was still naked next to him. The sight of Shane undressing was so pornographic that he had to think about visions of a dry desert to calm himself down again. Not that it was helping much. 

Shane grinned at him. “Enjoying the view?” 

Ilya groaned. “You always say I am an asshole, but you are the real asshole.” 

They both laughed a little at that. 

Shane felt like they were running out of time, and he hated it. His brain started to panic about it, and his face fell. For a moment they both just stood there, the quiet between them strangely comfortable now in a way it hadn’t been two days ago. 

Ilya seemed to see something in his expression and took his hand to pull him under the stream. They enjoyed the warm water for a bit before Ilya picked up the shampoo bottle and said, “Can I?” Shane assumed they had done more intimate touching than Ilya washing his hair, even though it still felt a little surreal. He nodded. 

Ilya stepped closer to him and brought his mouth to his ear. “Ah, ah, your words, Shane, give them to me.” Shane's breath stuttered. Okay, this was just unfair; Shane shivered at the sound of that, heat spreading to his lower belly.  “Yes,” he said breathlessly. “Good boy,” Ilya whispered with a rough deep voice, and fuck , that did it , Shane was fully hard now. What a moment to find out he had a fucking praise kink.

Ilya squirted some shampoo on his hands and stepped behind Shane. 

Ilya worked the shampoo slowly into Shane’s hair, his fingers moving in steady circles against his scalp. The warmth of the water and the gentle pressure of his hands sent a relaxed shiver down Shane’s spine. He let out an indecent moan. 

Ilya chuckled. “That good? If you keep making those sounds, I won't be able to focus on washing you,” he said. “Hmm,” hummed Shane. He took his time carefully washing Shane's arms, back and front until he finally dropped to his knees to do his legs, purposefully ignoring Shane's erection in front of his face. Every nerve ending in Shane's body felt alive. He was hyper-aware of Ilya and his hands on his legs. Until finally he looked up at Shane. The sight of such a strong man on his knees for him undid Shane. How was he ever supposed to let him go? 

Ilya slowly, while keeping eye contact, gripped his hips and leaned forward. Without using his hand, he licked his way from the base of Shane's cock to the tip. He licked up the precum already flowing from the tip before slowly taking him deep into his mouth. Shane groaned. He reached behind him, looking for something, anything to ground him. “Fuck, Ilya, fuck… feels so good.” 

Ilya kept sucking, kept hollowing his cheeks, while lifting his right hand to softly massage his balls, his left still gripping his hip. He kept an even pace that drove Shane to insanity.

His breaths came in pants now; he was rambling. “Fuck, Ilya, yes, keep going, yes, you are so beautiful like this, I am so fucking lucky.” It was probably too much, but he couldn't stop himself. When Ilya's hand shifted from his balls to the skin behind them and finally to his puckered hole, where he pressed down, Shane lost it.

“I'm going to come, you have to get off,” pressing softly to his forehead. But Ilya didn't let go; he kept sucking him into his tight throat, deeper even than before. And that was just too much for Shane. With a loud “FUCK,” he came hard down his throat. His orgasm so overwhelming that he blacked out for a second.

It blew his mind how good this felt, how good it was with him, with Ilya. He had never experienced something like this. He gave himself a few seconds to calm his breath before pulling Ilya up and kissing him, hoping the kiss conveyed everything he couldn't say, not caring about tasting himself on Ilya's tongue. 

He dropped to his knees and took Ilya in his mouth. Ilya's cock was long and thick. Since he was still fairly new at this, he couldn't manage to get him to the back of his throat, but he tried to make up for that by tightening his throat and sucking him hard. Ilya tilted his head back against the shower wall behind him. “Fuck, malysh,” he groaned, his voice rough. “Fuck, you are trying so hard for me, aren't you? You are such a good boy for me.” Shane found himself shivering again at those words, loving the praise.  Maybe it was his crazy sexy accent, but whatever it was, it spiked his arousal and he started to try even harder to make Ilya feel good. 

It didn't take long for Ilya to start pulsing. “I am close, ugh, so close, Shane... please.” Shane had no idea what he was begging for, but there was just no way he would let Ilya come anywhere else than down his throat. It was his first time doing it, but he knew how good it felt and he wanted to please Ilya, make him feel as good as he had made him feel. So he gripped Ilya's ass in his hands and took him as deep as he could. Ilya let out a loud groan and came down Shane's throat. The sensation was foreign, a little overwhelming at first, but he quickly swallowed and looked up at Ilya. 

The look on his face made him sure that this had been worth it. It was pure, undiluted wonder and devotion in his gaze, like Shane had given him some kind of present. 

Ilya pulled him up and just hugged him tightly to his chest. 

They didn't speak, just held onto each other tightly, faces pressed into each other's shoulders. 

They stood there for a few minutes, catching their breaths. 

Shane lifted his head off Ilya's shoulder.  "was that okay?", he asked looking unsure. Ilya groaned, a quiet laugh "You killed me, I am dead". 

Shane sighed contently, but his mind started racing. Ilya seemed to feel it. 

They looked at each other, not knowing how to go from here. 

“Can we talk?” Shane asked. 

“Probably, yes,” Ilya responded with a sigh. 

They quickly dried off, got dressed in fresh bathrobes and towels, and sat on the couch, a little awkward now. 

Shane started looking at the floor. “I am not good at asking for what I want… I usually just follow whatever plan someone makes for me. But with this, I want to ask for what I want. I want—no, I need—to know where this is going. What are we doing here?” 

Ilya sighed. “We can't be anything, Shane. The league would never accept it, and if they fire me… I can never go back to Russia.” 

“Because of your family?” Shane asked. 

“No,” Ilya responded. “Once I got into the NHL and I realized what I had been through growing up, I decided to stay here and not return. They call sometimes, always to ask for money.” Ilya sighed. 

“But Russia is a scary place for…” He waved his hand in the space between them. “People like you and me.” 

“I can't come out Shane, not for a long time. So that makes this,” he gestured at them, “complicated.” 

Shane nodded. That was that then. He was going to lose this one beautiful thing, the person who made him feel seen, made him feel wanted, made his body and soul feel calm. It felt almost impossible to let this go. 

“Let's just…” he started, desperately searching for a solution. “Let's just take this day to be ourselves. I don't think anyone knows who we are here. I don't think anyone here even cares. Everyone comes here for their own shit, their own process. No one is even looking at us here. And with the NDAs… I don't think I have ever felt so safe to try to be myself.” 

He looked at Ilya now. “Do you think we can just let ourselves be for today?” 

“Let me come up with a plan for tomorrow when we leave,” he said.

“We can do that together,” Ilya responded, seeing how stressed Shane was about this. 

Shane said again, more quietly, not having quite heard him, “I'll come up with a plan.” 

Ilya softly smiled. “Okay, but let us also enjoy our day, right?” “We are going to freeze to death first.” 

“Wait, what?” Shane's head snapped up. 

Ilya grinned. 

The hallway leading to the cryotherapy room was quiet, the kind of quiet that seemed to absorb every footstep. Soft lights glowed along the walls, and faint mist drifted from the half-open door ahead. Inside stood the cryotherapy chamber—tall, white, and slightly ominous. Vapor curled slowly from its opening like breath on a winter morning. 

Shane stopped in the doorway and stared at it. “So that’s it?” he said. “That’s the machine that freezes people.” 

Beside him, Ilya rolled his shoulders, studying the chamber with calm curiosity. “It does not freeze people,” Ilya said. “It just makes them very cold.” 

Shane glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Ilya,  minus one hundred and twenty degrees is not ‘very cold.’ That’s the temperature where Canadians start questioning their life choices.” 

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Ilya’s mouth. “In Russia,” he said, “we call that a nice breeze.” 

Shane snorted softly. “Yeah, well, we’re in Canada now, and I’m telling you this is colder than anything outside right now.” 

“Why are we doing this again?” he asked, suddenly unsure.

Ilya laughed. “Because it’s good for reducing inflammation and muscle soreness,” he said. 

He gave a small shrug. “The cold helps calm everything down. Muscles recover faster, swelling goes down. Keeps your body from feeling like it’s falling apart by thirty.”

Shane smiled "So it basically prevents us from turning into Scott Hunter". Ilya laughed at that. "But he is still a very good hockey player" Shane conceded. 

The technician handed them gloves and thick wool socks. Shane turned the gloves over in his hands. “That’s the protection? Gloves and socks?” 

“You also have your bravery,” Ilya said. 

Shane looked up at him. “Yeah,” he said dryly. “Pretty sure I left that somewhere on the couch this morning.” 

Ilya was already pulling on the socks, calm and unbothered. “I thought you Canadians are strong in winter.” 

“We are,” Shane replied, a little defensive pointing toward the chamber. “But our winter doesn’t involve stepping into a metal freezer on purpose.” 

Ilya huffed a quiet laugh. 

For a moment their shoulders brushed as they stood side by side, both watching the mist curl from the chamber. Shane noticed the contact immediately—warm, solid—and suddenly he was far more aware of the cold air in the room. 

A low hum filled the room as the machine powered up. Cold vapor spilled slowly over the edge of the chamber. 

The technician nodded toward it. “Who’s first?” 

Without hesitation, Ilya stepped forward. “Russian goes first.” 

Shane folded his arms, watching him. “Of course he does,” he muttered. “If you survive, I’ll admit Russia wins the cold competition.” 

Ilya paused beside the chamber and glanced back at him, something amused flickering in his eyes. 

“You will admit it anyway.” 

The door opened with a quiet hiss and cold vapor poured out. Ilya stepped inside. 

Almost immediately the freezing air wrapped around him. Frosty clouds swirled around his shoulders as the temperature dropped. 

Outside the chamber, Shane leaned closer to the glass. 

“How’s Siberia?” he called. 

Inside the fog, Ilya’s voice came out steady. “Feels like Moscow in January.” 

Shane laughed softly. “Yeah, but you’re not in Moscow now. You’re in Canada.” 

“Still warm compared to Russia,” Ilya replied. 

Shane shook his head. “You’re unbelievable.” 

The timer ticked down while Ilya stood calmly inside the chamber, shifting slightly as his breath turned into pale clouds. 

Two minutes later the door opened again. 

He stepped out, rubbing his arms lightly, but he looked completely composed. 

“Easy,” he said. 

Shane narrowed his eyes. “Liar.” 

Ilya gestured toward the chamber. “Your turn, Canadian.” 

Shane sighed and stretched his neck. “Okay, fine. But if this kills me, you’re the last person I ever trusted.” 

“I will tell everyone you died dramatically,” Ilya said. 

“Fuck you.” Shane laughed.

Shane stepped into the chamber and the door closed. 

Ten seconds passed. 

Then suddenly— 

“OH MY GOD.” 

Ilya laughed immediately, the sound warm in the cold room. “How is Canadian winter hero doing?” 

Shane’s voice echoed from inside the chamber. “This is NOT Canadian winter!” 

“You said minus forty normal in Canada.” 

“Yeah!” Shane shouted. “Outside. Not inside a metal freezer!” 

He shifted from foot to foot. 

“I can’t feel my nose!” 

“You are Canadian,” Ilya said calmly. “You are used to this.” 

“Not THIS!” 

Another moment passed. 

“Ilya,” Shane said through clenched teeth. 

“Yes?” 

“If we survive this… we stop arguing about which country is colder.” 

Ilya considered it. 

“Okay.” 

A pause. 

Then he added quietly, “Because Russia obviously wins.” 

The chamber door opened. 

Shane stepped out quickly, wrapping a towel around his shoulders. His skin was flushed and he was still shivering. 

“I hate you,” he muttered. 

Ilya stepped closer without thinking and placed a warm hand on his arm. 

“You did good, Canadian.” 

For a moment Shane didn’t move. The warmth of Ilya’s hand against his freezing skin sent a strange rush through him that had nothing to do with the temperature. 

He looked up at him. 

“…Sauna?” Shane asked. 

Ilya nodded immediately. 

“Sauna.” 

They walked down the hallway together. Shane was still shivering slightly, and without thinking about it, Ilya pulled the extra towel around his shoulders more securely. 

Shane glanced sideways at him. 

“You trying to keep me alive, Rozanov?” he teased. 

Ilya’s expression softened just a little. 

“Maybe.” 

Shane smiled faintly. 

After minus one hundred and twenty degrees, the sauna waiting ahead sounded perfect. 

The sauna they walked into was massive and there were a lot of people already inside, there was a glass panel build into the ceiling,  seemingly waiting for something. “Is there some activity planned here?” Ilya whispered, looking skeptical... Shane replied, brows furrowed “not... sure...”, “lets just sit down.  

After a few minutes of waiting, a woman walked in with a feathered bodysuit and a bowl of ice. She looked like some kind of showgirl, which was confusing because they were, in—still—in a very hot sauna. They looked at each other with confusion on their faces.  

What followed after that was the most confusing thing either of them had ever whitnessed. A loud voice boomed though speaker in the ceiling, it started to tell a story about a phoenix who would rose from the ashes. The woman started dancing while simultaneously performing the sauna infusion experience, and in stead of waving around a towel she moved the hot air over the people with feathered wings that she had put on.  At one point she even blew ashes in their faces which made them cough.

They tried to stay serious and respectful of the woman’s performance.  

They. Really. Did.  

But the longer it went on, the more they realized that under no circumstances should they look at each other—because if they did, they would absolutely lose it. The whole thing was just so unexpected and dramatic for the setting. Maybe it was the build-up of emotions from the past few days, or just the ridiculousness of it all, that this was the moment that would finally break them. 

Shane was gritting his teeth, biting his lip as hard as he could. Ilya was staring very intensely at the floor, his shoulders already shaking. 

And when the woman hid behind the lava stone table and then suddenly jumped out to symbolize the phoenix rising from the ashes, that was it. 

They both stood up at the exact same time, hurried outside, and only managed to close the door behind them before completely losing it. 

Outside, the door had barely closed before they both completely lost it. 

Shane pressed a hand over his mouth, laughing so hard he had to lean against the wall. Ilya turned away, shoulders shaking, trying—and failing—to stay quiet. 

“I told myself not to look at you,” Ilya managed between breaths. 

“I didn’t even look at you!” Shane said, wiping at his eyes. “I just knew you were about to start.” 

They both tried to calm down for a moment, taking a few deep breaths. 

Then Ilya straightened slightly and said, very seriously, “The way she disappeared behind table—” 

Shane immediately bent over again, groaning. “No, stop.” 

“And then she just—” Ilya made a small jumping motion with his hands wide. 

“That was supposed to be the phoenix!” Shane said, which only made it worse. 

They leaned against the wall, completely helpless with laughter. “We are definitely going to hell for this,” Shane said. 

“Absolutely,” Ilya agreed, still grinning. “But that was so dramatic.” 

God, the sight of Ilya right now was amazing to Shane. Seeing him so unburdened and bright, the way his whole face lit up with laughter, made something warm bloom in Shane’s chest. It had only been two days, but it felt like Ilya had shed some invisible weight that must have burdened him for a long time. It was one of those moments Shane knew he would carry with him long after the day was over. 

The way Ilya looked at him. Shane just knew that he couldn't lose this—he simply refused. 

He had to find a solution for them. But they still had some time to figure it out. 

“What a day, huh?” Ilya said, still smiling at him. They went to the cold plunge bath. Ilya took Shane's hammam towel from him, which felt like the most natural thing in the world now, and hung it up for him. 

It was one of those bigger plunge baths with two ladders. Since the show wasn't over yet, there were only a handful of people around them, all cooling off in their own way. 

They went in at the same time. 

“This is like a bubble bath after that freezer we went into this morning,” he smiled at Shane. 

“Right??” Shane responded laughing at that. “I think nothing will feel cold again after that.” 

He still needed to focus on his breathing from the pure shock of the cold water. They smiled at each other. This felt so easy, so natural between them.

Why did the world need to make it so hard? It was just unfair. 

They got out and dried themselves off before walking back to the big lawn in front of the building with the sun loungers. The weather was lovely today. It was warm on the skin, but since it was still spring and they were in Canada, it wasn’t overly hot. They were very lucky with the weather this weekend. 

When they exited the Viking-like building, Ilya grabbed his hand. Shane looked at him in shock. Somehow this seemed more intimate than everything they had done until now. There were a lot of people outside, enjoying the sun. Shane wasn't sure how to feel about it; it made him panic a little. But the thought of letting go was somehow unbearable. 

First of all, he knew Ilya would see it as rejection, and the last thing Shane wanted to do was hurt him. And second of all, Shane simply didn't want to let him go. 

But it also made him nervous. 

He looked around to see if someone was paying attention to them, and sure, some people looked. Most of them didn’t. But the ones that were looking… were looking at them with an almost bored expression, like this was the most natural thing in the world—seeing two men hold hands. 

Shane realized something in that moment. 

The world he and Ilya existed in—the hockey world, the NHL—might not represent the rest of the world, the rest of humanity. These people were used to it, at least. Most of them didn’t even care, even though some must know who they were. 

It changed Shane's whole perspective. 

Maybe, if he were to come out, it… maybe wouldn't be so bad? Some people would even be supportive of it, maybe… 

Ilya seemed to notice Shane's inner turmoil and said, “Sorry, I just… I've never held someone's hand out in public before. Especially a man's hand. And you said we should just let ourselves be for today, and I really, really wanted to hold your hand, so I didn't think too much about it. But you can…” 

He went quiet. 

“…let go if you want,” he finished, his babbling ending a little brokenly. 

Fuck, Shane thought. Ilya never babbled. 

He stopped walking and looked at him. 

“No, Ilya, no—,” he said quickly. “Do you know what I noticed? Look around you.” 

Ilya did, somewhat confused about what Shane was talking about. 

“They don't care, Ilya. The people here don't care,” he said, looking almost giddy about it. 

Ilya noticed now that no one was looking at them anymore, even though they were walking very close to each other, even though they were holding hands. 

Out in the open. 

He looked back at Shane, who had a look of pure wonder on his face. 

“Maybe… maybe there is a place for this. For us. In this world,” he whispered, his voice full of emotion. “Maybe this isn't as impossible as we think.” 

Ilya was quiet for a moment after Shane said it. 

He looked around again, slower this time, like he was trying to really see what Shane meant. People were stretched out on loungers, talking, reading, napping in the sun. A couple walked past them without even glancing their way. No whispers, no staring. No one cared. 

But the knot in his chest didn’t loosen the way Shane’s seemed to. 

He squeezed Shane’s hand a little, almost unconsciously. 

“Maybe,” he said softly, though the word came out hesitant. 

His eyes moved back to Shane’s face. There was so much hope there it almost hurt to look at. 

“I want that,” Ilya admitted quietly. “God, I want that.” He let out a small breath and glanced away again, his thumb brushing nervously over Shane’s knuckles. 

“But this…” he gestured vaguely around them, “…this isn’t our world.” 

His voice dropped a little. 

"Out there it’s reporters and cameras and locker rooms full of guys who’ve known us for years.” He gave a small, uneasy laugh. “And Twitter. Lots and lots of Twitter.” He hesitated, then looked at Shane more seriously. “I can’t come out, Shane. I can’t.” 

“You don’t have to explain,” Shane said quickly. 

“No… I do,” Ilya replied quietly. “I don’t really have anything else. Hockey saved my life, I think. You have your family, your parents… I have hockey. And my teammates. That’s it.” He swallowed. “I can’t lose that. It would break me.” 

He paused for a moment before adding, almost awkwardly, “I do have a friend. Svetlana. From Russia.” 

At the look on Shane’s face, he quickly added, “Just a friend. Trust me.” 

Shane’s expression softened at that. 

“But still,” Ilya continued, his voice lower now, “I don’t want to lose you. I don’t. It just… feels", he searched for the right word... "impossible.” 

He looked back at Shane then, something vulnerable in his expression. 

“I’m just… scared that it’s easier here than it would be everywhere else.” 

His grip on Shane’s hand tightened slightly. 

Shane’s face fell. “Yeah… I guess you’re right.” 

He stared down at their joined hands for a moment, his thumb slowly tracing over Ilya’s knuckles. 

“I mean,” he added quietly, “it’s not like I’m not scared too.” 

He let out a small breath, almost a laugh, though there wasn’t much humor in it. 

“I worked my whole life for this. Since I was a kid. Every practice, every camp, every stupid early morning skate.” He shook his head slightly. “Everything was always about making it to the NHL.” 

For a moment he didn’t look at Ilya, his voice softer now. 

“And I did. I made it.” He swallowed. “I’m not exactly eager to lose that either.” 

There was a pause. 

Then Shane finally looked back at him. 

“But that’s the part that’s messing with my head,” he admitted. “Because somehow…” he squeezed Ilya’s hand gently, “…this already feels just as important.” 

Ilya’s fingers tightened around his hand, like he was afraid Shane might disappear if he loosened his grip. 

“I know” Ilya replied in a whisper.  

For a moment they just stood there on the path, the quiet hum of people talking and the soft rustle of wind through the trees around them. Somewhere someone laughed, and a bird called from the edge of the lawn. It all felt strangely normal. 

Ilya looked down at their hands, then back at Shane. 

“Hey,” he said softly. 

Shane met his eyes again. 

“We don’t have to solve everything today” Ilya said. 

Shane let out a small breath through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. 

“You still look like you definitely want to solve everything today,” Ilya teased. 

Shane huffed a quiet laugh. “Okay, maybe I do want to solve everything today.” 

That earned him the smallest smile. 

“But we can’t,” Ilya continued. “So maybe… we just do this part.” 

He lifted their joined hands slightly between them. 

Shane looked down at it like it was something fragile. 

“Just… exist?” Shane asked. 

“Yeah,” Ilya said. “Just exist, like you said this morning.” 

For a second Shane looked like he was still arguing with himself. Then he nodded once, slow and careful, like he was making a decision he didn’t fully trust yet. 

“Okay,” he said. 

They started walking again toward the loungers, still side by side, still holding hands. Shane could feel the slight tension in Ilya’s fingers, the way he kept glancing around like he expected someone to suddenly shout at them. 

But nothing happened. 

A group of people walked past them, chatting in French. A woman adjusted her sunglasses and rolled over on her lounger. Someone nearby opened a soda can with a soft click. 

The world kept moving. 

After a minute, Shane bumped his shoulder lightly against Ilya’s. 

“If you’d told me two days ago this is how this weekend would go,” he said quietly, “I would’ve assumed you’d hit your head.” 

Ilya grinned. “I mean, we did sit in freezer this morning. Maybe that did something to our brain.” 

Shane snorted softly. 

“Maybe,” he said. Then after a small pause, more quietly, “I’m… really glad it did.” 

Ilya felt his chest tighten at that. 

“Yeah,” he said, squeezing Ilya’s hand gently. “Me too.” 

They had reached the loungers by the time the conversation slowed again. Shane looked at them. “Duo or single?” Shane asked Ilya, a little shyly. 

“Duo,” Ilya responded, feeling more of his brave self now that he was fairly sure not many people were paying attention to them. He would take every moment he could get until the spell they seemed to be in was broken. 

He dropped onto a double sun lounger, stretching his legs out in the sun. Shane lay down beside him, their hands naturally finding their way back to each other, their fingers loosely lacing together. Their bodies were close enough that their shoulders still touched, the warmth of Shane’s arm resting against his. 

Ilya let out a quiet sigh. 

The proximity to Shane still made his body hum and his skin burn in the best way. Every small point of contact felt strangely electric—the brush of their shoulders, the warmth of Shane’s hand in his, the steady rise and fall of his breathing beside him. 

It was such a small thing, lying next to someone in the sun like this. But to Ilya it felt almost overwhelming how good it was—how right it felt. He found himself relaxing deeper into the lounger, just a little closer to Shane without even thinking about it, soaking in the warmth of the sun and the quiet comfort of being beside him. 

For a while neither of them spoke. 

Shane’s mind, however, was still running. 

Now that they had started talking about what would happen after the weekend, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. The idea had planted itself in his head and was spinning through a hundred possibilities. Some of his anxiety was returning because of it, though it didn’t turn into a full-blown panic attack. Ilya’s proximity somehow helped keep it at bay. 

He stared up at the sky, squinting slightly against the sun, but he barely noticed the warmth on his face. His thoughts were somewhere else entirely. 

Same league, he kept thinking. 
Same cities. 

It wasn’t impossible. Difficult, sure. Complicated, absolutely. But not impossible. 

Beside him, he could feel the steady warmth of Ilya’s shoulder against his own, their hands still loosely intertwined between them. Every now and then Ilya’s thumb brushed absentmindedly over the back of his hand, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. 

The simple touch grounded him a little. 

Shane turned his head slightly to look at him. Ilya had his eyes closed, face relaxed in the sunlight, dark lashes casting small shadows against his cheeks. 

For a moment Shane’s thoughts quieted. 

God, he’s beautiful, he thought. 

And that was exactly the problem. 

Because now that Shane had seen this version of Ilya—laughing, relaxed, glowing in the sun beside him—there was no way he could go back to pretending none of it mattered. 

This is the part where reality catches up, Shane thought. 
Planes. Different cities. Different locker rooms. Cameras. Reporters. Rival teams. 

Everything that made this—them—feel impossible. 

Finally Ilya said quietly, “So what happens when this weekend ends?”.  

Shane didn’t answer right away. 

Because that was the question, wasn’t it? 

Across from him, Ilya’s mind was running through the same things, only darker. 
Back to the league. Back to the locker room. Back to pretending. 
The thought of stepping onto the ice against Shane again and acting like this—like they—had never happened made something twist painfully in his chest. 

Shane turned his head to look at him. “We’re in the same league.” 

Ilya snorted softly. “That is not helping your argument.” 

“No, hear me out.” Shane shifted in the lounger so he was facing him more fully. “Same league means same cities. Same road trips. Same hotels half the time.” 

Ilya looked over at him, cautious now. 

He can’t actually be suggesting what I think he is. 

“Shane…” 

“We don’t have to… you know. Announce it to the world tomorrow,” Shane continued. “But that doesn’t mean we have to stop seeing each other.” 

The idea hung there between them. 

Ilya frowned slightly, considering. 

Still see each other.     It sounded reckless. Impossible. 

But the alternative—walking away after this weekend and pretending none of it mattered—felt worse. 

“How?” Ilya asked quietly. 

Shane shrugged a little. “Away games. Days off. We already travel constantly.” 

A slow idea began forming between them. 

Ilya leaned back in his chair, thinking it through the same way he would break down a play on the ice. 

“If our teams are in the same city for a game…” he murmured. 

“We meet,” Shane finished. 

“And if we’re on a road trip nearby—” 

“We steal a night.” 

Ilya glanced at him again, something careful but hopeful in his expression. 

Steal a night.       God, he wanted that more than he should. 

“You make this sound very easy.” 

Shane huffed a quiet laugh. “I didn’t say it would be easy.” 

A small silence fell again. 

Ilya looked down at the grass, turning the idea over in his head. 

It would mean secrets. Careful timing. Making sure no teammates noticed too much. Leaving hotels quietly. Acting normal on the ice. 

Playing against him like nothing changed. 

The thought was terrifying. 

But losing this entirely felt worse. 

Then Ilya said, almost shyly, “We could… text.” 

Shane blinked at him. 

“Text?” he repeated. 

Ilya shrugged, suddenly looking a little embarrassed. “Normal people do it.” 

God, that sounded stupid, he thought immediately. Professional hockey player discovers texting. 

But Shane laughed softly.  “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve heard about that.” 

Ilya bumped his shoulder into his. A soft smile on his face “I’m serious.” 

“I know,” Shane said, still smiling. “We text. We call. We meet when we can.” 

“Maybe we can make up fake names to put in our phones” Ilya said, a hint of excitement in his voice “you can be Jane, I'll be Lily”  

Shane smiled at that. “Good thinking".  

He hesitated, something heavier passing through his mind. 

Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s hard. Even if the league, the media, half the world would lose their minds if they knew. 

“We don’t let this just disappear because it’s complicated.” 

Ilya studied his face for a long moment. 

There was no hesitation there. Just stubborn certainty. 

He really means it. 

Something in Ilya’s chest loosened a little. 

Then he nodded slowly. 

“Okay.” 

The word sounded small, but it carried a lot of weight. 

Shane felt something in his chest settle, like a decision clicking into place. 

Okay means we’re trying. Okay means this wasn’t just a weekend. 

Ilya looked down at their hands again, still loosely tangled between them. 

“So,” he said after a moment, “we’re… secretly dating across rival NHL teams.” 

Shane grinned. 

“When you say it like that it sounds kind of cool.” 

Also completely insane, he thought. 

Ilya rolled his eyes, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth. 

“You are unbelievable.” 

“And yet,” Shane said lightly, squeezing his hand once, “you’re still here.” 

Ilya glanced at him, softer now. 

Yeah, he thought. That’s the problem. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. 

“I am.” 

They were quiet for a while after that, just taking in the beautiful view while they were still here, in their little bubble. Both of their minds had calmed now that they had managed to form some kind of plan. The sheer proximity of each other seemed to heal something in them, helping in some quiet, mysterious way neither of them could really explain. 

Shane was still struggling to make sense of the past two days. It felt like everything that had happened between them had been inevitable from the start. The second they had stepped away from hockey—from the NHL, the rivalry, the expectations—and had been thrown into close proximity in a steam room of all places, something between them had just… clicked. Like all the noise around them had fallen away and suddenly they could see each other clearly. 

And he couldn’t stop thinking that if he hadn’t been so stubborn, if he had looked past the rivalry sooner, maybe they would have seen it earlier—maybe they could have had more time. 

“Ilya?” he said softly. 

“Yeah?” Ilya replied, a little sleepily. 

“I’m sorry,” Shane said, emotion creeping into his voice. 

Ilya turned his head to look at him, confusion flickering across his face. 

“What for?” 

Shane sighed. 

“For shoving you into the box of my rival and never bothering to look deeper,” Shane said, his voice rough and unsteady. “For not even trying to see who you actually are beneath all that cockiness you show the outside world.” 

He swallowed hard, shaking his head a little. 

“I just… decided who you were. Made it easy for myself. The loud, cocky guy on the other team, the one everyone around me told me to hate.” His jaw tightened. “And I never stopped to think there might be more to you than that.” 

His grip on Ilya’s hand tightened slightly. 

Ilya watched him for a moment, the confusion on his face softening as he seemed to understand what Shane was apologizing for. 

He shook his head a little. “Hey… it’s okay.” 

Shane frowned slightly. “It doesn’t feel okay.” 

Ilya shifted a bit on the lounger so he could look at him better, their shoulders still touching. 

“Shane,” he said gently, “it’s not exactly common to connect like this.” 

“With someone?” Shane asked. 

“With someone who lives the same life,” Ilya clarified. “Someone who’s at the same level, dealing with the same things. The NHL, the pressure, the travel… everything that comes with it.” 

His thumb brushed slowly over the back of Shane’s hand. 

“Most people only see what’s on the ice,” he continued quietly. “The rivalry, the competition. Not who you are when all of that is stripped away.” He gave a small breath. “And to be fair… I didn’t exactly look at you very closely either.” 

A faint, almost self-conscious smile appeared on his face. 

“You were just Hollander. The guy on the other team I was supposed to annoy.” 

Then the smile softened a little. 

“And apparently,” he added dryly, “the one person I end up actually connecting with like this turns out to be my rival in the NHL.” 

He lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. 

“So no,” he said more softly, looking back at Shane, “I don’t think it’s strange it took us a while to see it.” 

A quiet settled between them after that. 

The sun had started to sink a little lower now, the light turning softer across the lawn. People moved lazily around them, some heading back toward the baths, others already drifting toward the restaurant. 

Shane didn’t really notice any of it. 

He was looking at Ilya again. 

Up close like this, it was almost distracting how good he looked—his curly hair still slightly damp from earlier, a few curly strands falling over his forehead, his skin warm from the sun. The crucifix resting on his chest. His soft breathing.  

 The tension Shane had always associated with him was gone, replaced by something softer. Relaxed. Open. 

Shane realized he was staring. 

Ilya noticed after a moment and cracked one eye open. 

“What?” he murmured. 

Shane blushed “Nothing.” 

Ilya studied him for a second, clearly not believing that. 

“You’re doing the thing again.” 

“What thing?” 

“The staring thing.” 

Shane huffed out a quiet laugh and looked up at the sky instead, though he didn’t let go of Ilya’s hand. 

“Can you blame me?” he said after a moment. 

Ilya turned his head slightly, watching him now. 

Shane glanced back at him, softer this time. 

“You look… really happy.” 

For a second Ilya didn’t say anything. The words doing something to him, because that was the truth wasn't it. He felt truly happy, and he hadn't been happy in so, so long. 

Then the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. 

“I am,” he said quietly. Realising it for himself too. 

His fingers tightened a little around Shane’s, almost shyly. 

Shane felt warmth spread through his chest at that. It was ridiculous, really—two days ago they had barely tolerated each other, and now he felt like he could spend hours just lying here, watching Ilya smile. 

They stayed like that for a while longer, their shoulders brushing now and then, Ilya’s thumb absentmindedly moving over the back of Shane’s hand. His gaze lingered on Shane’s face, soft and thoughtful. 

After a moment he lifted his free hand to lightly brush his thumb across the bridge of Shane’s nose. 

“I always liked your freckles,” he said quietly. 

Shane blinked at him. “You noticed my freckles?” 

Ilya let out a small, amused breath. 

“Of course I noticed,” he said. “Hard not to when you spend half the game staring at someone you’re trying to score against.” 

A faint smile tugged at his mouth as his thumb traced lightly across one or two of them before he dropped his hand again. 

“They show up more in the sun,” he added softly.  

Shane felt a lump in his throat at that. He had to blink his eyes a few time, he cleared his throat.  

For a moment they just looked at each other again, something warm and a little shy passing between them. 

Eventually Ilya stretched one leg. 

“We should probably get up soon,” he said reluctantly. 

Shane groaned softly. “Probably.” 

But neither of them moved.  

The sun had dipped lower now, warm on their skin. Shane shifted slightly on the lounger, turning toward Ilya without really thinking about it. Their shoulders brushed. 

Ilya’s gaze flicked briefly to Shane’s mouth, then back to his eyes. 

They both seemed to realize the same thing at the same time. 

They were outside. 
In public. 

And still—neither of them moved away. 

“Are we…” Ilya murmured quietly, glancing around the lawn for a second. No one seemed to care. When he looked back at Shane, his voice softened. “…doing this?” 

Shane felt his heart kick in his chest. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. 

They leaned in slowly, almost lazily, meeting halfway. Their lips brushed in a soft, warm kiss. They were on a lawn full of strangers—but nothing happened. No one stared. The world simply kept going.  

When they pulled back, they stayed close, foreheads nearly touching. 

Ilya let out a quiet breath, a small smile forming. “Huh.” 

Shane smiled back. “Yeah.” 

They lingered there another moment, hands still tangled between them. 

Eventually Ilya sighed softly. “We really should go to dinner.” 

Shane hummed. “Probably.” 

But they stole one more lazy kiss before finally getting up. They would secretly steal any moment they could while this fantasy lasted. 

And as they finally got up and started toward the restaurant, their hands brushing together every few steps, Shane felt a quiet warmth settle in his chest. 

They still had tonight. 

And tomorrow. 

After that… the real world would be waiting.  

But they tried to let themselves have this, for now.  

For the people who like visualising things:

The Avalon sauna where the Phoenix show took place. 

The plunge bath:

The view from outside, the viking like building. 

The Wellness centre: Elaisa Wellness in Maasmechelen Balgium  (It doesn't have cabins where you can stay but it's definitly full of open minded people)

Chapter Text

They made their way to the restaurant together, deciding to stay on this path of bravery and picking a table near the window. Ilya confidently pulled Shane's chair out for him, and that small gesture was so new to him that he blushed a little. Ilya smiled contentedly at the reaction and sat down in front of him, looking quietly pleased with himself. 

“What?” he asked when he noticed the questioning look in Shane's eyes. “We decided we are doing this, so I am doing this.” He smirked, but there was something warm and soft behind it. 

They sat down, both picking up a menu from the holder on the table and starting to flick through it. 

“So,” Ilya asked after a moment, glancing up at him, “what are we doing?” 

“About what?” Shane asked a little nervously. He had gone on dates with women in the past, but this felt like so much more. Like this was important, like this mattered. He was hyper-aware of how near Ilya was, how he was smiling at him across the table. And that question made his mind spiral about what they were doing here. 

“Are you going to let yourself have something from the menu,” Ilya asked gently, “or should I ask if they have something that fits your diet? I don't mind asking her for you.” He looked serious now, not teasing anymore. 

Shane stared at him. He realized Ilya would be okay with whatever he chose. He wasn't making fun of him, wasn't pressuring him into either choice. And Shane knew this was something as simple as dinner, but it felt like more than that. It felt like support, like someone quietly standing on his side. 

But making decisions was also something he struggled with sometimes. 

Ilya seemed to notice his indecisiveness, because when the waitress scanned their bracelets and asked what she could get them, he answered easily, “Just a ginger ale, a Coke, and some water please.” 

“And for dinner?” she asked. 

“We need a little more time,” he said, “but could you ask the cook what he can make that fits a macrobiotic diet, please?” 

“No problem at all,” she responded, walking away. 

Shane smiled at that. It felt strangely nice to be taken care of like this, as if Ilya had quietly stepped in to carry something that had been heavy for him all day. 

“How do you know I like ginger ale?” he asked after a moment. 

“As I've said,” Ilya replied, sounding a bit too proud of himself, “I pay attention.” 

Shane's heart bloomed in his chest. “That's…” he started, not really sure how to finish that sentence. Because it meant something. It meant that even before this weekend they had been drawn to each other, enough for Ilya to notice little things like that. To have someone see him like that made something warm spread through his chest. 

So he just smiled at Ilya, soft and grateful, hoping that said enough. 

“It's been a long day,” Shane admitted quietly. “I have trouble making decisions, even over something as simple as what food to get. That's also the reason I don't eat sometimes—just thinking about what to make is too much. But cooking in bulk helps me, it just gets a bit…” 

“Boring?” Ilya guessed, lifting one eyebrow. 

“Repetitive,” Shane corrected with a small smile. 

“Do you want me to do the deciding?” Ilya asked. There was no pressure in his voice, only an easy offer. 

Shane nodded, his gaze dropping to the table. 

Ilya reached across the table then, gently cupping Shane's chin and lifting his gaze back up to meet his. 

“Hey,” he said softly, smiling in a way that felt steady and reassuring. “It's okay. I'm happy to do this for you.” 

And he did look genuinely happy about it. That was the strangest part. So Shane let him. 

When the waiter came back, Ilya chose something for him from the macrobiotic menu they had put together—salmon and brown rice. For himself he ordered a burger with fries, because of course he did. Ilya ate like a teenager and seemed completely unapologetic about it. 

When the waitress left, Ilya leaned back a little and said, “If the food is in front of us, you can just pick whatever you want. I don't mind eating whatever you don't want.” 

That small gesture meant so much more to Shane than Ilya probably realized. It made his throat feel tight. 

He loved being taken care of like this, even though that feeling was dangerous. He could feel himself becoming addicted to Ilya already, and he knew it, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. 

So he lifted his arm from where he had been nervously wringing his hands under the table and gently reached for Ilya's hand, pulling it toward him and holding it on top of the table. 

His thumb started to softly trace over Ilya's knuckles without him really thinking about it. 

Ilya stared down at their hands for a moment before lifting his eyes to Shane, surprise written clearly across his face. 

Sure, they had held hands in the woods when no one was looking. And then again today, walking across the lawn and lying in the sunlounger. Those moments had already felt incredible. 

But this was different. 

This was out in the open. 

Shane knew how much it cost Ilya to be this open with him, to try this between them, even if it was only for the length of this weekend. And he wanted Ilya to know that he felt it too. That he was grateful for it. That he was just as much in this moment as he was. 

The food arrived not long after. Shane found himself oddly relieved by the normalcy of something as simple as dinner and stuck with the salmon. 

But when the dessert menu appeared later, he could practically hear Ilya's voice in his head. It's okay to let go sometimes. 

So he ordered the chocolate lava cake. Because honestly—fuck it. 

Ilya laughed immediately at the contradiction of it and happily ordered the same, doing a small, delighted little dance with his shoulders when the cake arrived. Shane couldn't help smiling at that. He thought it was adorable. 

Being outside of the NHL was quietly breaking apart some of the convictions Shane had built over the years. One of them was the belief that whatever was happening between them was wrong. Something to be ashamed of. 

The other one—though that one was really more about himself—was that he had to be perfect in everything. That the impossible expectations the fans, the coaches, and the league had for him were the same expectations he should have for himself. And if he couldn't meet them, he would be failing everyone. 

It was an impossible standard to live by. He had known that somewhere deep down for years. But now he could actually feel it. 

And suddenly he felt very tired. 

It was a strange thing to realize that you had been living inside a version of reality that wasn't actually the reality of the world. 

“You are thinking very loud,” Ilya said, his brow furrowing as he studied him. 

And before Shane could even try to explain—before he could even find the words for what he was feeling—Ilya seemed to make another decision for him and stood up. 

Ilya pushed his chair back and stood up, before Shane could even protest. 

“Come on,” he said simply, already holding his hand out for him. 

Shane blinked at him for a moment, still a little lost in his own thoughts, before slipping his hand into Ilya’s. The warmth of it helped, grounding him again. Ilya gave his fingers a small squeeze, as if he had noticed that too. 

The evening air outside was cooler now, the sun already dipping lower toward the horizon. The resort grounds were quieter than earlier in the day, most people still lingering inside the restaurants and bars. It gave them a strange kind of privacy as they walked slowly down the path together. 

Ilya didn’t say much at first. He just kept holding Shane’s hand, swinging their arms a little as they walked. It was such an easy, unbothered gesture that Shane felt some of the tightness in his chest loosen. 

At the fork in the path where the cabins split off, Ilya slowed for a moment. 

Shane assumed they would turn toward Ilya’s cabin. 

Instead, Ilya guided them the other way. 

Shane looked over at him, a little surprised. 

“You looked like you needed your own space,” Ilya said casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Your place is probably more comfortable for you right now.” 

Something about the way he said it—so matter-of-fact, like Shane’s comfort had simply been the deciding factor—made warmth bloom quietly in Shane’s chest again. 

They reached his cabin a few minutes later. The small porch light had already switched on automatically as dusk settled in, casting a soft glow over the door. 

Shane unlocked the door and stepped inside. Ilya hesitated on the porch for a moment. 

Shane glanced back over his shoulder. Ilya was still standing there, one hand resting lightly on the doorframe, looking strangely uncertain again. 

“Do you… do you want me in there?” he asked quietly. “In your space?” 

Shane smiled at him at first, but the expression quickly softened into something more serious. Something vulnerable. 

“Ilya… you…” 

The words seemed to get stuck somewhere in his chest. 

“You bring me peace,” he said finally, so softly it was almost a whisper. 

He was looking down at the floor now, like the admission itself felt too big to hold eye contact through. 

Ilya stared at him. 

You bring me peace. 

No one had ever said something like that to him before. Not once. 

He had to swallow against the sudden tightness in his chest. 

Ilya had never brought anyone peace. Not really. His life had always been loud, sharp-edged, full of pressure and collision. He had grown up surrounded by hardness and, somewhere along the way, had learned to become hard himself—on the ice and off it. 

At some point he had stopped letting himself feel too much at all. 

Slowly, over the years, he had built a wall around himself. Thick and solid and ugly. The only thing people ever saw was the outside of it, the facade—the polished version of him. The easy confidence, the cocky smirk, the charm he could throw around like armor. 

It was enough to distract people from what was actually behind it. 

But peace? 

The idea that he could bring someone peace made it feel like he had somehow tricked Shane into believing something that wasn’t real. Like it was some illusion he had accidentally created. 

But then he looked at Shane again. 

And he remembered the moment they had first met in the steam room. 

Shane’s shoulders had been practically up to his ears that day, his whole body tight with tension. Like he was bracing against something invisible. 

The man standing in front of him now looked different. Still nervous, sure. Still waiting anxiously for Ilya’s reaction. But his body wasn’t coiled like it had been before. His shoulders were loose. His breathing steady. An openness to him that hadn't been there before.  

Relaxed. 

And yes, part of that had probably been the retreat itself. The quiet, the treatments, the time away from everything. 

But Ilya knew, deep down, if he would let himself see some good in himself for once, that some of it had been him too. 

Shane had softened around him. 

The realization landed somewhere deep in his chest, heavy and warm at the same time. 

“You’re serious,” Ilya said quietly after a moment, still staring at him. 

Shane nodded, still looking down at the floor like he wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t just said something embarrassing. 

“I feel… calmer when you’re around,” he admitted. “Like my brain finally stops running for a minute.” 

Ilya let out a slow breath through his nose. 

God. 

No one had ever trusted him with something like that before. He still wasn't sure if he was worthy of it, but he would take this and would never let it go. He was sure of it.  

He stepped fully inside the cabin then, closing the door gently behind him. For a moment he just stood there, studying Shane like he was trying to understand something new about him. 

Shane started to ramble now. “I know I'm saying too much, but I just wanted you to know that, I—”. 

Ilya stepped closer to him now, cupped his jaw with two hands, lifting his gaze up to his. 

“No, no Shane, it's just,” he sighed. “I was too much all my life, I took up too much space after my mama died. I have been considered a burden..” 

“It is strange for me to hear you saying this, about me. Thank you, for seeing this in me.” 

Shane’s chest tightened when he heard that. 

He hadn’t meant to make it sound like something big, like some kind of revelation. To him it had simply been the truth. The quiet truth he had discovered somewhere between the steam room, the walks, the emotional vulnerablity, the care Ilya had given him, the soft moments where nothing had been asked of him. 

But the way Ilya was looking at him now—like the words had landed somewhere deep and painful—made Shane realize that maybe no one had ever said something like that to him before. 

“You’re not a burden,” Shane said softly. It hurt him that people had even made him feel like that, it cut into his chest. Sometimes he wondered how Ilya had kept going after all the hurt he had lived through. He would make sure, even if it was difficult for him, that Ilya knew what he had done for him, how Shane had seen who Ilya truly was, how wonderful and beautiful he was. Even if expressing himself didn't come naturally, he would try.  

Ilya’s thumbs stilled against his jaw. 

Shane swallowed before continuing. 

“You’re the first person in a long time who made me feel like I could breathe.” 

The words hung in the air between them. 

Ilya’s expression shifted slightly, something fragile flickering across his face before he could hide it. 

Shane kept going, quieter now. 

“When I first met you, I was so wound up I thought I might snap in half,” he admitted. “Everything in my head was loud all the time. The expectations, the noise, the pressure… it never stops.” 

His hands came up slowly, hesitantly, resting against Ilya’s wrists where they held his face. 

“But when you’re around,” he whispered, “it goes quiet.” “I can't even explain how much of a gift that is to me”.  

Ilya’s throat moved as he swallowed. 

Because that wasn’t a small thing to give someone. 

Peace. 

People fought entire lifetimes trying to find that. 

And Shane was standing here telling him he had somehow given it to him without even realizing it. 

Ilya’s hands loosened slightly on Shane’s face, not letting go but softening. 

“I don’t know how to keep something like that,” he said quietly. “Peace… it is not something I know how to give people.” 

Shane shook his head immediately. “You already did”, He whispered softly. 

For a moment neither of them spoke. 

The cabin felt impossibly quiet around them, the soft hum of the evening outside barely reaching through the walls. 

And suddenly the reality of it hit Shane again. 

Three days. 

That was all this had been. A weekend where the world had loosened its grip just enough for them to find each other in the quiet space between everything else. 

His voice broke a little when he spoke again. 

“I’m really glad that we met here,” he said. Shane looked at him then, something raw and unguarded in his eyes. “That you walked into that fucking steam room.” He let out a quiet breath, almost like a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his voice. 

“Because if you hadn’t…” he said softly, his fingers tightening a little around Ilya’s wrists, “I think I would have kept going like that, pretending I was fine, slowly breaking myself inside.” 

His eyes dropped for a moment before lifting again. 

“And I would have left this place as broken as I arrived.” 

Something inside Ilya’s chest cracked at that. 

Because Shane said it like he had already accepted the ending. 

Ilya pulled him closer without thinking then, his hands sliding from Shane’s jaw to the back of his neck, pressing their foreheads together. 

For a moment he just stood there, breathing the same air, trying to steady something inside himself that suddenly felt dangerously close to breaking open. 

“You say things like that,” he murmured hoarsely, “like this is already finished.” 

Shane didn’t answer. 

The fact was that this weekend was already slipping away from them faster than they wanted to admit. They didn’t have much time left. 

He looked back up at Ilya. 

“Stay,” Shane said quietly. 

Ilya’s expression softened almost immediately, something warm settling in his eyes. 

“Yes?” he asked. 

Shane nodded, a little shyly. 

“We don’t have that much time left,” he admitted. “I don’t… want to waste it.” 

For a moment Ilya didn’t say anything. Then a small smile spread across his face, softer than the teasing ones he usually wore. 

“Good,” he said. 

He pushed himself off the door and walked over to Shane, stopping just in front of him. For a second he simply looked at him, like he was making sure he was really okay. 

Then he reached out and gently pulled Shane into a loose hug. It wasn’t rushed or heated like some of their earlier touches had been. It was slow and steady, Ilya’s arms wrapping around him like he had all the time in the world. 

Shane melted into it almost immediately. His hands slid up to Ilya’s back, holding on a little tighter than he meant to. For a moment they just stood there in the quiet cabin, breathing each other in. 

“How did we let this happen?" Shane asked.  

“We are both very stupid”, Ilya responded  laughing softly. 

“And it was also inevitable, I think".  

“Wow, inevitable” Shane said in his neck with a soft smile.  

Shane lifted his head after a while, their foreheads brushed as he looked up at him. They were close enough now that their breaths mixed. Ilya’s gaze dropped to Shane’s mouth before drifting back to his eyes. 

“Is this okay?” he murmured softly. 

Shane nodded. “Yeah.” smiling softly at him. 

Ilya cupped his jaw again, tilting his face up slightly before leaning in. The kiss was slow, careful, almost hesitant at first—like they both understood how much weight was behind it. 

Shane’s fingers carefully curled around the chain of Ilya’s crucifix as he kissed him back, holding him there. Not just holding him—but pulling him closer, like he meant it, like he was taking all of him without hesitation. The good and the broken parts alike. 

The small metal cross pressed between them as Shane’s hand tightened slightly, and something about that simple gesture made Ilya’s chest ache. It felt like Shane was reaching past everything Ilya usually hid behind—the bravado, the smirks, the armor he had spent years building—and still choosing him anyway. 

Ilya’s heart, his poor, disappointed heart that had spent so long expecting very little from people, began to swell painfully in his chest. 

Because in that moment it felt like Shane wasn’t just kissing him. 

It felt like he was believing in him. 

Like all the quiet affection Shane carried for him was pouring into that small touch, filling the hollow places inside Ilya that he had long ago stopped hoping anyone would notice. 

And for the first time in a very long time, something inside him softened. 

The moment stretched quietly between them, soft and full of something deeper than the heat that had sparked earlier in the weekend. 

When they finally pulled back, they didn’t move far. Their foreheads rested together, breaths uneven, the space between them still warm with it. 

Shane let out a small, shaky breath. 

“Okay,” he whispered. 

“Okay,” Ilya responded. 

For a moment neither of them moved. Their noses brushed when they breathed, and Ilya’s hands were still resting loosely at Shane’s waist, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go yet. Shane’s fingers lingered in the fabric of his bathrobe, holding on just the same. 

Neither of them seemed to know exactly what okay meant. 

Not what came next. Not what would happen when the retreat ended and the real world came rushing back in. 

But somehow, standing there in the quiet of the cabin, it felt like they were agreeing to something anyway. 

Like they were both choosing each other. 

Ilya’s hand came up to the back of his neck, his thumb brushing slowly against the warm skin there. He suddenly noticed how tired Shane looked. 

“Long day, huh?” he murmured. 

Shane huffed out a quiet laugh against his shoulder. 

“Yeah.” 

But standing there like that, held close and safe in Ilya’s arms, the day didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore. 

They stayed like that for a while, swaying slightly without meaning to. Ilya’s hand kept moving in slow circles at the back of Shane’s neck, the rhythm absentminded and comforting. Shane’s breathing gradually evened out, his shoulders loosening more with every minute that passed. 

Eventually Shane shifted a little, his cheek resting against Ilya’s chest now. 

“Should I make tea?” Ilya asked softly after a moment. 

Shane looked at him like he had just suggested something deeply suspicious. 

“Tea?” he said. “We literally never drink tea.” 

Ilya shrugged.“Yes, but here everybody drinks tea. I think it is requirement.” 

Shane raised an eyebrow. “A requirement?” 

“Yeah,” Ilya said, nodding toward the window like the retreat staff might be watching from the trees. “You come to wellness retreat, you drink tea, you talk about feelings.” 

Shane laughed under his breath. “We’ve already done the feelings part.” 

“Then tea is next step.” Ilya shrugged 

Shane shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Okay,” he said. “Fine. We can try it.” 

They moved around the cabin quietly after that, the moment soft instead of heavy now. Shane filled the small kettle while Ilya opened the cupboard and found a wooden box filled with an assortment of tea bags. 

He pulled it out and set it on the counter between them. 

“Ah,” he said, peering inside. “Luxury.” Shane glanced over from the kettle. “What’ve they got?” Ilya started pulling them out one by one, squinting slightly at the labels. 

“Chamomile. Peppermint. Ginger. Something called… forest calm.” 

Shane laughed softly. “Forest calm?” 

“Yes,” Ilya said suspiciously. “Sounds like they boiled a tree.” 

Shane stepped closer to look into the box himself, his shoulder brushing lightly against Ilya’s arm. 

“There’s vanilla too.” 

Ilya snorted immediately. 

“Of course there is.” 

Shane looked up at him right away. “Don’t start.” 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“You made a face.” 

“I always make face.” 

Shane shook his head, reaching in and pulling out two tea bags. 

“Peppermint for me.” 

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Adventurous.” 

“Oh my god,” he groaned. “You are such an asshole.” 

“You like me,” Ilya said smirking. 

Shane smiled “Unfortunately, I do, you big idiot,” 

Ilya smiled and kissed his neck.  

It felt strangely natural. 

Two people sharing a small kitchen. The soft clink of mugs. The low hum of the kettle. The quiet between them that didn’t feel awkward at all. 

When the tea was ready they sat on the couch, knees brushing. Shane curled slightly into the corner while Ilya stretched out beside him, their shoulders pressed together as they drank. 

Shane reached automatically for the folded blanket at the foot of the couch and pulled it over them. 

Ilya glanced down at it., frowning. “You cold?” 

“No,” Shane said, a little sheepishly. “It just… feels like something people do.” 

Ilya huffed a soft laugh. “Very domestic, Hollander.” 

“Don’t make it weird.” A blush apearing on Shane's cheeks.  

“I  think it is sweet”, Ilya said kissing his head softly.  

The room was quiet, the kind of quiet the retreat seemed to be built around. Outside, the night had settled over the cabins, and the faint sounds of wind in the trees drifted through the cracked window. 

After a minute Shane shifted closer, leaning into Ilya’s side almost without thinking. 

Ilya lifted an arm and wrapped it around his shoulders, pulling him in until Shane was resting comfortably against him. Shane let out a slow breath, like his body had been waiting for that permission. 

“You okay?” Ilya asked softly. 

Shane nodded against his chest. “Yeah. Just… tired.” 

“Hmm.” 

They sat there for a while longer, not talking much. Shane’s fingers idly traced the chain of the crucifix at Ilya’s neck, the small motion slow and thoughtful. 

After a moment Shane spoke again, his voice quieter now. “Tomorrow’s the last day.” 

Ilya’s hand paused for a second on his back. 

“Yeah,” he said. 

Neither of them added anything else to that. 

They both knew what it meant. 

Shane turned around, sat up, and straddled  Ilya's lap. He looked into his eyes and saw his own sorrow reflected in them. He rested his forehead against Ilya’s for a second before leaning down to kiss his neck. 

Slowly at first, he reveled in the warmth of his skin and the salty taste of it. He stayed there, softly kissing him over his pulse point while Ilya’s breath slowly picked up, his head falling back against the edge of the couch. Shane pressed a kiss over his exposed Adam’s apple. 

Ilya lifted his hand and started running it through Shane’s soft black hair, gripping the strands, unclenching, and gripping them again. 

Shane slowly made his way down, kissing his necklace, kissing the bear tattoo on his left pec, kissing his pink nipples—the right, then making his way over to the left. Then he slowly moved further down toward Ilya’s happy trail, where his bathrobe was tied and a towel was secured around his waist. 

He started unwrapping Ilya slowly, so slowly, like it was some kind of present. First he untied the bathrobe, opening it. Then he grabbed the knot of the towel, his fingers brushing Ilya’s side. He heard Ilya’s breath hitch as he untucked it from his side, slowly opening the towel until Ilya’s thick thighs and proud cock came into view. 

“Fuck, Ilya,” he said, closing his eyes at the sight. “How are you so fucking beautiful?” 

Ilya had been called a lot of things by past bed partners—sexy, handsome—but never… beautiful. 

Shane looked up at him. “It’s a bit like I’m devoting myself to some mythical Greek god,” he said , his voice full of arousal , “worshipping you on a throne.” 

Ilya stared at him incredulously, then tipped his head back and groaned. “Fuck, Hollander, you have a way with words.” 

That was definitely a compliment Shane had never gotten before. He blushed but kept looking at him as he leaned forward and took him into his mouth. They both groaned at the sensation. Ilya felt the vibration of Shane’s throat at the sound. 

Ilya was panting now, letting out rough sounds of pleasure. 

Shane was used to the sensation of sucking him off now. It was starting to be the best thing in the world to him—to have that control over someone, to make them feel good. The salty, musky taste of Ilya overwhelmed his senses. 

He decided something in that moment: he wanted to give up all control. To let himself stop thinking completely. To show his trust in Ilya.  

So he reached out to grab Ilya’s hand and moved it to the back of his own head. He stopped moving, hoping Ilya would understand what he wanted. 

“Shane… are you sure?” Ilya asked, his voice worried but his expression very aroused. “Are you ready for that?” 

Shane nodded. 

“Shane,” Ilya tsked, his voice rough. He pulled gently on Shane’s hair to make him pull off with a soft popping sound. “I need your words, remember? So I’ll ask again.” 

“Do you want me to fuck your face?” he asked, eyes wide. “Is that what you want, malysh?” 

His eyes were blazing with lust now. 

Ilya knew what Shane was giving him—the trust it took. His whole body vibrated with anticipation as he waited for the answer. 

“Please, Ilya. Please let me do this for you. I want… I want to please you.” 

A blush spread across his freckles, but his eyes were dark with desire. Ilya searched his face for a moment. 

“Fuck,” he murmured. “My name on your tongue… it lights me on fire.” 

“Okay,” he said finally. “But if it gets too much, just tap my thigh, okay? Tap means stop.” 

“Yes, Ilya,” Shane responded, a excited smirk on his face now. 

“Good boy,” Ilya said, purring. Shane shivered at that. 

Ilya guided Shane back down by his hair. 

Shane opened his mouth and took him in again, keeping completely still this time. Ilya started moving his hips slowly at first. Shane moaned softly, and encouraged, Ilya moved a little deeper, a little faster, slowly building the rhythm. 

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya panted. 

The whole thing was so erotic, so unbelievably good. He loved every second of it. The heat in his groin built and built, and it didn’t take long before he felt his orgasm approaching. 

“I’m close,” he gritted out. 

At that, Shane tightened his throat even more, flattening his tongue against the underside of Ilya’s cock. 

That was too much. 

“Fuck, Shane—I’m coming,” Ilya warned. 

He thrust faster now. Tears ran down Shane’s face, but he was still moaning, his face flushed with pleasure. 

At the sight, Ilya groaned loudly, panting Shane’s name as he came hard enough that he could swear he saw stars for a second. His whole body pulsed. 

Still, Shane didn’t let go. 

When Ilya was fully spent, Shane finally pulled off. Ilya released his grip on Shane’s hair and breathed out shakily. 

“That was amazing, solnyshko,” Ilya murmured hoarsely, the Russian word warm and soft in his mouth. 

Shane blinked up at him, still catching his breath, his cheeks flushed and his hair a complete mess. He wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand, a shy smile tugging at his mouth. 

“What does that mean?” he asked quietly. 

Ilya’s thumb brushed over his cheek, gentle now. 

“It means little sun,” he said. “Because you burn me up.” 

Shane huffed a small, embarrassed laugh at that, shaking his head. 

“You’re ridiculous.” 

“Maybe,” Ilya said. 

But there was something soft in his expression as he looked at him, something almost disbelieving, like he still couldn’t quite accept that Shane was here with him, looking at him like that. 

He reached down then, helping Shane up from the floor and pulling him easily back into his arms. Shane leaned into him automatically, his forehead dropping briefly against Ilya’s shoulder. 

“You okay?” Ilya asked quietly. 

Shane nodded. 

“Yeah.” 

Ilya pressed a brief kiss to the top of his head. 

“Come on,” he said after a moment, his voice gentler now. “we need to do something about that, he gestured at Shane's angry rock hard cock, weeping with pre-cum. “Bed is better place for this.” 

Shane let himself be guided, his hand still loosely holding onto the front of Ilya’s robe as they moved through the dim cabin. The lights were low, the quiet of the retreat wrapping around the little space like a blanket. 

The gift of seeing Shane like this was like looking at something sacred—something he knew, deep down, the world would eventually take back, buy maybe, because they had formulated some kind of plan, he hoped to see again.  

He sighed.  

“Know this” Ilya said, “If you think I am greek god, than you are one too".  

“We are the same you and I” “always on top together, in whatever universe, I know it”.  

“So I want to worship you too, the same as you did for me”.  

“Because you deserve same devotion”. He ended with his deeply accented voice. 

Shane stared at him with emotion in his eyes, holding his breath, a watery line in his eyes.  

Ilya sank to his knees and took Shane deep into his mouth. Licking the base of the head, then setteling on a fast rhythm, knowing Shane was already close. “Fuck Ilya”, Shane panted. “Fuck, I'm close”. Ilya took him all the way to the back of his troath, bumping the back of it. And that was Shane's breaking point, coming hard, his whole body spasming with the ferocity of it.  “Fucking hell”, he sighed when his body had calmed down, falling back onto the bed.  Ilya sat up, smiling, playfully tapped the side of his thighs, and lay down next to him on the bed “I think my heart just stopped for a bit” Shane said lauging. They both laughed at that.  

They both realized that they had never ever had sex as good as this. This connection between added another deep layer to it.  

For a moment they stayed where they were, still laying next to each other on the bed, both breathing a little unevenly. The warmth between them lingered, but the quiet of the cabin slowly settled back in. 

Ilya eventually brushed a hand down over Shane's arm. 

“You should shower,” he murmured. “You look like you fought small war.” 

Shane let out a tired laugh against his shoulder. 

“Pretty sure you helped with that.” 

“Maybe a little.” He smiled 

Shane pulled back, rubbing a hand through his hair before standing up. His legs felt a little wobbly, which made Ilya smirk. 

“Don’t start,” Shane warned. 

“I say nothing.” 

“You’re literally smirking.” 

“I always smirk.” 

Shane shook his head and gestured toward the small bathroom. 

“Come on. Before I fall asleep standing up.” 

The bathroom filled quickly with warm steam as the shower ran. Shane stepped under the water first, letting out a quiet sigh as the heat hit his shoulders. 

Ilya stepped in behind him a moment later, the space small enough that they had to stand close. The water ran down both of them, washing away the long day and the last of the tension in their bodies. 

For a while they didn’t say anything. 

Shane leaned back slightly without thinking, his shoulders resting against Ilya’s chest. Ilya’s hands came up automatically, steadying him at the waist. 

“Careful,” he murmured. 

“I’m tired,” Shane said softly. 

Ilya hummed in acknowledgment and reached for the soap. He worked it into his hands before gently running them over Shane’s shoulders, slow and careful, like he was smoothing away the last knots of tension there. 

Shane closed his eyes. “That’s… nice,” he admitted quietly. 

Ilya kept going, his hands warm and steady as he rinsed the soap away. Shane turned slightly after a moment, returning the favor by grabbing the shampoo and working it into Ilya’s hair. 

“You missed a spot,” Shane muttered. 

“I did not.” 

“You absolutely did.” 

Ilya stood still while Shane rinsed the soap from his hair, tilting his head back obediently when Shane nudged him. Shane kissed his cheek, “all done". Ilya smiled.  

When they finally stepped out, the room was warm and foggy. Shane grabbed two towels, tossing one at Ilya before drying his own hair quickly. 

Shane glanced at his closed, then took out 2 sets of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt from his bag. He gave one to Ilya,  

Ilya caught the clothes and held the shirt up, squinting at it. 

“This is very small.” 

“It’s not small,” Shane scoffed. “You’re just enormous.” 

Ilya pulled the shirt on anyway, the fabric stretching just a little too slightly across his shoulders. Shane watched for a moment and snorted. 

“Okay, maybe it’s a little small.” 

“Is fine,” Ilya said, looking down at himself. “Now I look like tough guy in soft clothes.” 

“You look ridiculous.” 

“You like it.” He smiled, and Shane smiled back as he climbed into bed. 

Ilya followed a moment later. The borrowed clothes were warm and soft, smelling faintly like Shane’s laundry detergent. 

As soon as Ilya lay down, Shane shifted closer without even thinking about it. He tucked himself against Ilya’s side like that space had already been waiting for him. 

Ilya wrapped an arm around him automatically, pulling him closer until Shane’s head rested on his chest. 

For a while neither of them spoke.  They just breathed together.Slow and uneven at first, then gradually settling into the same rhythm. 

Shane’s voice was softer when he finally spoke. 

“I wish we had more time.” 

The words were quiet, almost swallowed by the room. 

Ilya didn’t answer right away. His hand moved slowly up and down Shane’s back in a steady, soothing motion. “Me too,” he said eventually. Shane nodded against his chest, though Ilya couldn’t see it. His fingers curled tighter in the fabric of Ilya’s shirt, like he was memorizing the feeling of being here. They both knew tomorrow was their last day.The thought sat heavy between them. Unspoken, but understood. 

Shane shifted slightly, tucking his head closer under Ilya’s chin. Ilya responded by pressing a slow kiss into his hair, his hand coming up to cradle the back of Shane’s head. 

“Sleep,” he murmured. 

Shane let out a small breath that sounded almost like surrender. 

“Okay.” 

But neither of them fell asleep immediately. 

Instead they stayed there in the dark, holding each other a little tighter than usual. Shane’s leg tangled with Ilya’s under the blanket, his arm sliding further around his waist. 

Ilya’s grip around his shoulders tightened in return. 

Like he was trying to anchor him there. 

Like if he held him close enough, morning might take longer to come. 

Eventually Shane’s breathing grew slower and heavier as sleep finally caught up with him. Even then, his hand stayed curled against Ilya’s chest, refusing to let go. 

Ilya watched him for a while longer. 

He traced his thumb gently along Shane’s arm, memorizing the warmth of him, the weight of him pressed against his side. 

“Spokoynoy nochi, malysh,” he whispered quietly. 

Shane stirred faintly in his sleep and pressed even closer. 

And sometime later, still wrapped around each other like they were afraid the other might disappear, they both drifted off—holding on as tightly as they could while they still had the chance. 

Chapter Text

The next morning, Shane woke up to the sound of rain ticking softly on the roof of the cabin. He hadn't felt this rested in months, maybe years. 

He was desoriented for a second because the warm feeling of deep sleep quickly faded into a strange, empty, cold feeling in his chest. Like the sun had been shining, warm and steady, and then—just gone. Swallowed by clouds. 

His eyes still closed, he reached a hand to the bed beside him. A cold mattress greeted him. Empty. 

Shane’s breath hitched before he could stop it. He pinched his eyes shut harder, like he could push it all back down, like if he didn’t look, it wouldn’t be real. But it already was. Somewhere, deep down, he’d known this was how it would be. 

Still, it hurt. God, it hurt. 

He scolded himself for feeling so much. He had slept without the man for years, for crying out loud. Years. He had been fine on his own. Had built a life on that kind of fine. 

And now this? After three fucking days? 

It was ridiculous. One weekend. Just one fucking weekend. The logical part of his brain kept repeating it, over and over, like that would make it mean less. Like that would make the hollow feeling in his chest shrink. 

It didn’t. 

Had he left after Shane had fallen asleep? No. Shane was almost sure of that. He would’ve known. Somehow, he would have known. He wouldn’t have slept like that—so deep, so soft, like the last of the tension inside him had finally unclenched. 

And now that he thought about it, there had been moments in the night where his sleep had gone lighter. Where he’d drifted just enough to feel it—warmth at his back, an arm around him, the quiet, steady presence of someone who wasn’t going anywhere. 

He had felt so safe. So held. 

The memory made his chest tighten until it almost hurt to breathe. 

He blinked his eyes open and stared at the room. It was still dim, the sky outside a heavy grey pressing against the windows. It felt like the weather reflected the feeling inside him.  

The clothes he had lent Ilya were gone from the floor. 

Of course they were. 

Maybe he would keep them. Wear them sometimes... 

 Like that would help. Like that would bring any of this back. 

Shit. 

His throat felt tight. Those thoughts were useless—worse than useless. They just made everything sharper, like pressing on a bruise just to feel how bad it was. 

The ache in his chest wasn’t fading. If anything, it was settling in—deeper, heavier. Like something vital had been there, and now it wasn’t, and his body didn’t know what to do with the absence. 

How could it be that your heart started relying on someone so much in such a short time? 

It was dangerous. Stupid. He knew better than this. He had always known better than this. And still, he had let it happen. 

Of course Ilya had left. Maybe it was easier this way. No goodbyes. No standing there, pretending they had any real way to make this work. No promises they couldn’t keep, even though they had tried to come up with something—anything—to hold onto. 

It wouldn’t have worked. It couldn’t have. 

A clean cut like this would be better. Cleaner. But it didn’t feel clean. It felt like something had been ripped out of him while he was asleep. 

It would hurt for a while… 

Who was he even kidding? This wasn’t the kind of hurt that just passed. This was the kind that stayed. The kind that carved something out of you and left the shape behind. He could already feel it settling in, like a hollow he wouldn’t quite be able to fill again. 

Maybe forever. 

He swallowed hard, forcing his thoughts to shift before they swallowed him whole. Because even through all of it—through the hurt, through the anger at himself—there was something else, just as sharp. 

Worry. 

Would Ilya have someone to talk to? Someone who actually saw him? Someone who would take care of him, or at least try to? Would anyone be there to stop him from getting hurt again? 

Would he be okay? 

Shane let out a shaky breath. 

Stop it, just stop it. He felt himself spiraling; this was not helping.  

Ilya could take care of himself. Of course he could. On the surface, at least. He was good at that. Too good. 

But the frayed edges of him… would he ever let someone see those again? Let alone touch them? 

Or had Shane just been… a one-time thing? Something that slipped through the cracks and would never happen again? 

The thought made something twist painfully in his chest. 

He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. 

They hadn’t even exchanged numbers. 

He pushed himself up, the room tilting for a second before settling. He got dressed in grey sweatpants and a shirt, not even bothering with anything else. What was the point? 

The weekend retreat still lasted until breakfast ended at 11:00. After that, he had to check out at reception. 

He didn’t move. Felt his body stuck in some kind of freeze state. The rain kept falling, steady and indifferent, tapping softly against the glass like nothing had changed. Like the world hadn’t shifted overnight. But it had. Shane stared out at the grey sky, the mug cooling in his hands, and tried not to think. It didn’t work. 

The weekend came back in fragments—too vivid, too close. The steam room, the tension, the couples massage, Laughing in the lake, the sound bath, the gods damned freezer. The first touch, the soft caressed, the first kiss, them holding hands and them finally unraveling together. This whole weekend had been so intimate, so unexpected that no matter how much time passed, Shane wasn't sure he could ever wrap around how this had happened.  

Then finally, the way Ilya had said his name, like it meant something, what Ilya had trusted him with, opening himself up to him, being vulnerable with him, letting him be held by him, essentially showing him his deepest darkest corners.  

 He pressed his eyes with the palms of his hands, trying to keep the rushing emotions at bay. It had been so easy. No effort, no pretending. Just… falling into it. Into him. Like it had always been there. It just felt so natural, so meant to be, between them. 

The thought sat heavy in his chest, restless, refusing to settle. Shane pushed himself up , moving more on instinct than intention. The quiet of the room pressed in around him as he crossed to the kitchen, every step feeling louder than it should have. He filled the kettle, set it on, went through the motions he knew by heart—something simple, something steady. Something he could control. 

Shane considered himself a man of logic, he liked things that were easy to explain, something as “meant to be” was not something in his vocabulary. But he couldn't deny it now. This truly felt inevitable. They were like magnets together. And only sheer determination and stupidity had prevented them from ever truly seeing it before.  

Three days. That’s all it had been. And somehow it had felt like more. Like something bigger than it should have been. He had known it wasn’t safe, had felt it even then, somewhere in the back of his mind—but he had done it anyway. Because it had felt right. And that was the problem. 

If it had just been good—just physical—he could have handled it. Walked away like he always did. But it hadn’t been that. It had been quiet mornings, shared space, feeling seen without having to explain himself. Safe, in a way he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt.  

And now it was gone. Just like that. 

He understood it even… Ilya had felt too much this weekend, Shane had seen it. Maybe he had done this because he had learned, long ago, that feeling too much always came with a cost. And after everything he had told Shane... If this was the easiest way for Ilya to deal with all that had happened between them, Shane would carry it, if that was the price of letting Ilya breathe again. 

His eyes dropped to the tea in his hands. Same cup. Same taste. Different everything. A weak breath left him.  A weekend. That’s all it had been. He tried to make it feel small, manageable. It didn’t. Because it hadn’t felt small. It had felt like something that could have lasted—something that should have. 

And maybe that was the worst part. Not just that it was over, but that it hadn’t had to be. If they had been different people, with different careers. He knew now, after a weekend withing the figurative walls of the retreat that there were a lot of people who would accept them. That in another life, it didn't have to be so hard. 

But that wasn’t the reality they got to live in. 

His jaw tightened as he looked back at the rain-streaked window. They hadn’t even exchanged numbers. No way to reach him, not until next season. No way to know if any of it had meant the same. Nothing. Just this. The memory of something that had felt real enough to change him—and no way back to it. 

The tea had gone lukewarm in his hands, but he didn’t drink it. He just sat there, staring out at the grey, holding onto what little warmth was left. 

He would learn to live with the pain, in time. For now, he let it move through him, because this weekend had shown him that what he tried to silence only found other ways to be heard. 

He didn’t hear the door at first. 

The rain filled the space, steady and soft, and his own thoughts were louder than anything else. It wasn’t until there was a quiet shift behind him—wood creaking, something being set down—that his body went still. 

For a second, he thought he’d imagined it. 

Then— 

“Shane ? ” 

His name, low and familiar. 

Not memory. Not imagination. 

Real. 

Shane’s breath caught so sharply it hurt. He didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. His fingers tightened around the mug, like if he moved too fast, it would disappear again. Like this—whatever this was—would slip through him if he tried to look at it directly. 

“I—” Ilya started, still warm, still unaware. “I went to get breakfast.” The sound of a heavy bag dropped at the entrance.  
And then he saw him—really saw him—and the warmth drained from his voice. “What happened?” 

Shane’s vision blurred. 

There was a soft rustle, the faint sound of paper. 

Breakfast. 

Of course. Of course he had. Something so small, so normal—and it hit harder than anything else. 

Because he hadn’t left. 

He hadn’t left. 

A shaky breath broke out of him, and that was all it took. 

The mug slipped from his hands onto the small table beside him with a dull clink as his face crumpled, the tears coming all at once—sharp, uncontrollable, like something inside him had finally cracked open. 

Ilya didn’t wait for an answer. He moved in closer, dropping down in front of him, one knee hitting the floor. His hands came up without hesitation, gentle but firm as they cupped Shane’s face, thumbs brushing along his cheeks as if to steady him, to make him look at him. 

That broke something even further. 

“Hey… hey,” he murmured, softer now, searching his eyes. “Talk to me.” 

There was a soft rustle, the faint sound of paper. 

Shane let out a choked sound, shaking his head as he dragged a hand over his face, trying and failing to stop it. “I thought—” His voice broke completely. He swallowed hard, but it didn’t help. “I thought you left.” 

The words came out smaller than he meant them to. Smaller than everything he was feeling. He didn't know how to navigate this complex situation, he couldn't fall back on past experiences, he couldn't follow a certain script or a reference. This was so new to him, and he didn't know how to handle it. And somehow within that confusion his emotions had taken over and just poured out of him.  

Usually he was controlled and collected, but something had changed this weekend and no matter how desperately he had tried from the moment he woke up alone he couldn't put himself back into that version of him. It just wasn't possible. Like the mask he had used for so long simply didn't fit him anymore.  

Ilya looked worried now. “I am so sorry, solnyshko. I should have thought about it better. I just… wanted to get my things from my cabin, so we would not have to worry about it anymore. So we could just spend rest of the time we have together.” 

He hesitated, his voice softer. “And I wanted to see you enjoy those chocolate croissants again… just one last time.”  A small pause. “I thought I would be back before you woke up.” his brows were furrowed.  

“Come here.” 

He pulled Shane up and guided him to the couch, sitting down and tugging him close, almost into his lap. It should have felt ridiculous—they were both big, solid men—but it didn’t. Not now. 

Ilya shifted slightly, one arm wrapped around him, the other coming up to nudge his chin. “Hey,” he murmured, a hint of a grin slipping back in. “Don’t start missing me before I’m actually gone.” 

His thumb brushed lightly along Shane’s jaw, teasing now, softer at the edges. “It’s terrible for my ego,” he added, quieter, but with that familiar lilt. “And trust me—it does not need the help.” 

For a second, it almost felt normal. 

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad now, because they could still stick to the fragile plan they had made together.  

Ilya just held him. Fuck—he hadn’t expected Shane to be this torn up about him leaving. 

For a second, his mind went blank. This wasn’t how he had imagined it. He’d thought it would be softer, easier—something they could pretend didn’t hurt yet. Not this. Not Shane shaking in his arms like something had cracked open. He hadn't expect to see the aftermath that would follow for Shane.  

He thought I left. 

The realization hit hard. Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he? Ilya’s chest tightened as he pulled him closer, his hand steady at the back of Shane’s head, holding him there like he could make up for it. 

He hadn’t thought it through. Had been so focused on making the morning feel normal—stretching what little time they had left—that he hadn’t considered what it would feel like for Shane to wake up alone. Like it was already over. 

Guilt settled in, heavy and sharp. 

Because this meant something. More than he had let himself admit. 

His eyes closed briefly as he held him, memories from the weekend slipping in whether he wanted them to or not—too clear, too warm. Seeing Shane sitting in the steam room, tense and lost, them touching for the first time, kissing for the first time, the intimacy, sharing the deepest parts of himself with him, letting Shane hold him. This weekend had broken him and he had let Shane help him put himself back together, brick by brick. The quiet moments after, when words hadn’t been needed. The way Shane had leaned into him like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Like he’d found something there. 

Like they both had. 

A safe place. 

Something easy, in a way nothing else in their lives ever was. No expectations, no pressure—just them. 

Ilya swallowed. 

Because it hadn’t just been him. 

Shane felt it too. That much was obvious now, in the way he was holding onto him like this mattered—like he mattered. 

And that made it worse. 

Because this didn’t exist outside of here. 

Tomorrow, everything would snap back into place. Different cities. Different teams. Back to being rivals on the ice, pretending none of this had ever happened. 

Like they hadn’t spent three days learning each other in ways that went deeper than they should have. Like they hadn’t found something in each other they didn’t even know they were missing. 

His hold tightened slightly, almost without thinking. 

Texts. That’s what it would be reduced to. Messages between flights, between games. Small pieces of something that had felt whole just hours ago. 

Not this. Not real like this. 

Ilya pressed his cheek lightly against Shane’s hair, his chest aching in a way he hadn’t expected. 

He hadn’t planned for this part, hadn’t planned for it to matter this much. 

And now it did. 

Ilya pressed his cheek lightly against Shane’s hair, he smelled like pine trees in the morning dew from Shane's shampoo they'd both used the past two days. He was going to miss this smell. He would probably have to sneak in the shower to read the label and buy some on the way home so he could still smell him after they separated. He held him close for a moment longer before his hand began to move—slow, steady, grounding along his back. 

He murmured softly. “It’s okay. I’m here.” 

Shane was starting to settle—just a little. The sharp edge of it softening into something quieter, heavier. 

Ilya pulled back just enough to look at him, one hand coming up to brush clumsily at the tear tracks on his face. He hesitated for half a second, then huffed out a quiet breath. 

“You cry like I died,” he said, a faint, crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “Is a bit dramatic, no?” 

“Fuck you,” Shane muttered, voice rough, but softer now. 

Relief flickered across Ilya’s face, quick and subtle. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That sounds more like you.” Ilya teased , like he was testing the ground beneath them. 

For a second, Shane just stared at him, eyes still glassy, breathing shaky. Then something in his expression cracked—just slightly. Not quite a smile, but close enough. 

“I didn’t expect this either.” His gaze dropped for a moment before lifting back to Ilya, softer now, steadier. “I didn’t think three days with you would feel like… this,” he said. “Like waking up and—” he exhaled quietly, “—something already feels off.” He swallowed. “When I thought you left, it didn’t feel like nothing.” His eyes met Ilya’s. 

The words hung between them, quiet and heavy. 

Ilya didn’t answer right away. For once, he didn’t have something quick, something easy. His expression softened instead, something almost startled in it—like hearing it out loud still caught him off guard, even if part of him had already known. 

His hand, still resting against Shane’s arm, tightened just slightly. 

“I get it,” he said quietly. 

A small pause. 

“I woke up before you,” he admitted, his voice softer now, more careful. “And for a second, I thought—” He let out a quiet breath, shaking his head. “I thought maybe I imagined all of it. That I would look at you and it would feel… different in the morning. More distant, easy” 

His thumb brushed absently against Shane’s sleeve, grounding, almost shy. 

“But it didn’t.” 

He glanced at Shane then, something warm and steady in his gaze. 

“So no,” he added more gently, “it’s not stupid.” 

His fingers curled slightly, holding on just a little more. 

“I didn’t expect it either.” 

Ilya knew Shane’s reaction wasn’t just because of him leaving this morning. It was everything around it—the sudden shift, the unfamiliar weight of it, the way it had all come at once without warning. And the weekend itself hadn’t helped. Too much of it had been new, unplanned, out of step with what Shane usually allowed himself. He’d gone along with things he normally would’ve avoided, let himself be pulled into moments he couldn’t prepare for, couldn’t structure, couldn’t fully understand while they were happening. And now it was all catching up to him at once, feelings stacking faster than he could sort through them, louder than he knew how to handle. 

He let his hand linger for a moment longer before pulling back, just enough to reach for the paper bag on the table. The crinkle of it filled the small space as he opened it, the smell of chocolate and warm pastry slipping into the air. 

“Come,” he added, nudging it closer. “Before they get cold. Then all of this is for nothing.” 

Shane let out a weak breath, dragging a hand over his face as they stood up and sat at the little table in the kitchen. His movements were slower now, heavier—but steadier. 

Ilya pulled the other chair closer, sitting down beside him instead of across, close enough that their knees brushed. Close enough that the space between them didn’t feel empty again. 

For a moment, neither of them spoke. 

Shane reached into the bag, fingers brushing against the pastry before he pulled one out. He stared at it for a second, like it meant more than it should. 

Then he took a bite.   It tasted the same.  

He let himself indulge for the last time, it felt like he was doing something he wasn't supposed to, like the croissant represented everything in that moment . Like eating it was something forbidden, something that he wasn't supposed to be doing. Like a lot of things this weekend, he wasn't supposed to do.  

Ilya watched him carefully, like he was waiting for something—for a reaction, for a sign. 

“Still good?” he asked, quieter now. 

Shane nodded once, swallowing. “Yeah.” A pause. “Still good.” 

Ilya let out a small breath, something in his shoulders loosening as he reached for one himself. 

Shane swallowed, still staring at what was left in his hand before taking another bite, slower this time.  

“…You’re staring,” he muttered eventually, voice rough but quieter now.  

Ilya didn’t even try to deny it.  

“Yeah.” A small pause. “You make it hard not to.”  

Shane huffed faintly, not quite a laugh, not quite anything.  

“It’s a croissant.” “Mm.” Ilya leaned his shoulder lightly against his. “You’re acting like it’s a life decision.” Shane’s mouth twitched, just barely. “Feels like one.”  

That softened something in Ilya’s expression. He nudged him, gentle this time.  

“Relax. You’re allowed to enjoy something without overthinking it.”  

Shane glanced at him, something quieter lingering behind it.

“Says you.”

Ilya let out a breath, almost a smile. “Hey. I’m very simple.”

Shane’s lips twitched again, a little more this time. “That’s not the word I’d use.”

“Rude,” Ilya murmured, but there was no heat to it. Just something softer, steadier. The silence that followed wasn’t as heavy. They ate like that, side by side, the rain still tapping softly against the window. 

The cabin felt different after breakfast. Not quieter in the peaceful way it had the night before, but in that hollow, stretched kind of silence where every small sound seemed too loud. The rain hadn’t stopped; it tapped steadily against the windows and roof, filling the space where conversation used to be. Shane stood in the middle of the room for a moment without moving, like his body hadn’t quite caught up to the fact that this was ending. Then he exhaled, slow and tired, and bent down to grab his bag. Ilya lingered nearby, watching him for a second before stepping closer, quiet in a way that felt careful rather than distant. 

Packing should have been simple. It always was. He’d done it a hundred times—on the road, between games, in hotel rooms that all blurred together after a while. Quick. Efficient. Detached. But this wasn’t that. Every little thing felt heavier now, like it carried something with it he couldn’t quite put down. His shirt from yesterday lay crumpled on the floor, and when he picked it up, he hesitated. It still smelled faintly like the cabin—like wood, like rain… like Ilya. His fingers tightened in the fabric before he shoved it into his bag a little too quickly, like keeping it in his hands for even a second longer would do something to him he couldn’t afford right now. 

Ilya noticed. Of course he did. He didn’t say anything at first, just reached past him to pick up something Shane had missed, folding it with absent care before placing it gently into the bag. The small, ordinary gesture felt heavier than it should have. When their hands brushed for a second, Ilya didn’t pull away immediately. His fingers lingered, warm and steady, like a quiet reassurance he wasn’t sure how to put into words. 

The bed was still unmade. Shane looked at it longer than he should have, the sheets twisted, one side still slightly indented, like the shape of it hadn’t fully let go yet. He swallowed and forced himself to look away, moving again just so he wouldn’t have to think about it. But this time, when he turned, Ilya was already there—closer than before. His hand came to Shane’s arm, not stopping him, just there. Grounding. 

Ilya watched him for a second too long before speaking. 

“Hey,” he said, softer this time. 

Shane didn’t look up. “What?” 

Ilya hesitated, like he was choosing his words and hating all of them. “You don’t have to… handle it like that.” 

That made Shane huff faintly, something strained in it. “Like what?” 

“Like it’s just another thing you can push through,” Ilya said. “Like it doesn’t get to you.” 

Shane’s jaw tightened. He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “What’s the alternative?” he muttered. “Because this—” he gestured vaguely between them, “—this isn’t exactly something I know how to do.” 

Ilya didn’t answer right away. 

He just stepped a little closer. 

“Yeah,” he said finally, quieter. “I know.” 

Shane let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “Great.” 

There was a pause. Not empty—just full of things neither of them were saying. 

Then Ilya reached out, almost absent, like he wasn’t fully thinking about it, and let his hand settle against Shane’s arm. 

Shane stilled.   Ilya didn’t pull back. “You don’t have to get it right,” he said, voice low. “Not with me.” 

That landed. Shane’s shoulders dropped just slightly, like something in him gave way. 

“…That’s not really how it works for me,” Shane said after a moment, quieter now. 

“I know,” Ilya said again. 

His fingers shifted, sliding down to Shane’s wrist, resting there like it was the most natural thing in the world—and also like he was aware of it all at once. 

He should probably let go. 

He didn’t. 

“Just—” Ilya started, then stopped, his jaw tightening. He exhaled through his nose, gaze fixed somewhere past Shane instead of on him. “Don’t act like it’s nothing.” 

A small pause. 

His thumb brushed once, slow, deliberate. 

“Because it’s not,” he added, almost under his breath. 

That was all he said. 

But the way his hand stayed, the way he didn’t move back, didn’t make space— that said the rest. 

Then he looked like he just thought of something and said:

“you have phone?” 

Shane said confused for a minute, “yeah? Why --. 

“Give” 

Shane smirked at his commanding tone and left to get his phone. 

He went through the motions after that—gathering his things, folding what he could, leaving the rest messier than usual—but it didn’t feel as sharp as before. Not with Ilya there, moving around him, helping in small, quiet ways. Passing him things. Zipping a compartment when Shane’s hands stilled for too long. Being there without forcing anything. 

Still, his mind drifted. It pulled him back to moments he didn’t want to replay and couldn’t stop thinking about—the quiet laughter, the way everything had felt easy, the way it hadn’t felt temporary—until now. 

He zipped up one of the compartments harder than necessary, the sound cutting through the room. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. 

Ilya stepped closer again at that, his hand sliding more firmly onto Shane’s arm, turning him just enough to face him. 

“Look at me,” he said softly. 

Shane hesitated, then did. 

Ilya’s expression was steady, but there was something raw underneath it now. “You are not the only one it hurts for,” he said. “You think I can just walk away from this and be fine?” 

Shane’s breath caught slightly. 

“I am,,,  better at hiding it,” Ilya added, quieter. “That is all.” 

That hit harder than anything else. Shane’s gaze dropped again, his shoulders tightening like he didn’t know what to do with that. 

Nothing had really changed—the same furniture, the same soft grey light filtering in, the same quiet—but it didn’t feel the same. Because he wasn’t the same. Because they weren’t. 

The walk to reception felt longer than it had any right to. 

The rain had softened to a steady drizzle, but it still clung to everything—the damp air, the wet gravel, the quiet weight of it settling into Shane’s chest with every step. Their shoulders brushed occasionally as they walked, neither of them quite willing to create space again, even if they weren’t speaking. 

There wasn’t much left to say. 

Not anything that wouldn’t make this harder. 

Inside, the reception area was warm. Too warm. It felt wrong after the cold outside, after everything sitting heavy between them. The soft lighting, the quiet hum of conversation, the normalcy of it—it all felt almost distant, like they’d stepped into something that didn’t belong to them anymore. 

Shane shifted his bag higher on his shoulder, his gaze flicking briefly around the room before settling anywhere but on Ilya. 

A woman behind the desk smiled politely. “Checking out?” 

“Yeah,” Shane said, then glanced at Ilya beside him. “Both of us.” 

Ilya gave a small nod. “Yes.” 

They stepped forward together. Close enough that their arms brushed again. 

The process was quick. Too quick. Names, cabin numbers, keys placed gently on the counter. Shane slid his forward first, the small wooden tag making a quiet sound as it touched the desk. A moment later, Ilya set his beside it. 

Side by side. 

Just like they’d been all weekend. 

“Did you enjoy your stay?” the receptionist asked, her tone warm and practiced. 

For a second, neither of them answered. 

Shane let out a quiet breath. “Yeah,” he said finally, looking at Ilya his voice softer now. “Yeah… we did.” 

Beside him, Ilya looked back, he gave a small nod. “Very much,” he added. 

It felt like the biggest understatement either of them had ever made. 

The receptionist smiled as she finished typing something into her computer. “I’m glad to hear that. We hope to see you again sometime.” 

Something about that stung unexpectedly. 

Shane’s hand lingered on the counter for a moment before pulling back. Ilya noticed but didn’t say anything. 

“Have a safe trip home,” the woman added. 

Home. 

The word landed strangely. 

Shane nodded once, unable to say anything else, and stepped back. Ilya moved with him automatically, the two of them standing there for a moment like they hadn’t quite figured out how to leave yet. 

“This is it,” Shane said quietly, more to himself than anything else. 

Ilya glanced at him, something heavy and soft at the same time in his expression. “Yeah,” he murmured. 

For a moment, neither of them moved. The quiet felt different now—less sharp than it had been before, like something inside it had settled over the past few days. 

Shane let out a slow breath, his shoulders dropping in a way they hadn’t when he first got here. “I didn’t know you were—” he stopped, shaking his head slightly, a faint, disbelieving smile pulling at his mouth. “I’m glad I found out.” 

Ilya’s jaw tightened just a little, but there was no real resistance in it anymore. “Yeah,” he said, quieter. “Wasn’t supposed to happen like that.” 

Another pause. 

Shane glanced around briefly, like he was taking it in for the last time—the stillness, the space, the version of himself he’d been allowed to be here. “I feel… different,” he admitted, almost like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to say it. “Lighter, I guess. Like I can actually breathe again.” 

Ilya huffed softly under his breath, something close to a smile. “That’s kind of the point.” 

Shane shook his head. “No, I mean—” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “Not just this place. Just… everything.” His gaze flicked back to Ilya, softer now. “You.” 

That made something in Ilya’s expression shift, just for a second—something unguarded. 

Shane swallowed. “I didn’t know I needed that.” 

Ilya looked away briefly, like it was easier than holding his gaze through that. “Yeah,” he said again, quieter. “Me neither.” 

The words were simple, but they carried more than he let himself say. 

And for a moment, standing there at the edge of leaving, it didn’t just feel like an ending— 
it felt like they were both walking away with something they hadn’t had before. 

But neither of them sounded convinced. 

Shane let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair before shifting his weight toward the exit. Ilya followed a step beside him this time, close enough that their shoulders brushed again. 

The door opened, letting the cool, damp air back in. 

And with it— 

the part they had both been trying not to reach. 

The rain had gotten heavier by the time they stepped outside.  

It soaked through everything too quickly—hair, clothes, skin—cold and relentless, like it was trying to wash the moment away before either of them was ready for it to end. 

They walked to their cars side by side. They reached Ilya’s car first. 

It was ridiculous—low to the ground, all sharp lines and dark gloss, like it had no business being anywhere that wasn’t a racetrack. 

Shane let out a quiet breath. “Of course you drive something like this.” 

Ilya glanced at him. “Something like what?” 

Shane gestured at it, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “This whole… thing. It’s very you.” 

Ilya huffed softly. “You don’t like it?” 

Shane shook his head, still looking at it, smiling. “No, I do.” A beat. “That’s the problem.” 

Ilya’s mouth twitched. 

Shane glanced at him then, softer now. “It fits you a little too well.”  

It just screamed Ilya, if only the car had a fluffy pink inside.  

“Where's yours then” Ilya asked, teasing.  

Shane pointed behind him to his Honda CR-V. 

“Ah, Ilya said, smirking, very on brand for you, very.. He waved his hand,  vanilla” 

“Fuck off, Shane said, “It's good in the snow” 

Ilya looked at him like he had just proved his point.  

They laughed at that.  

The smiles slowly faded, because this was it.  

Neither of them moved at first. 

They just stood there, a few steps apart, like if they didn’t close the distance; they wouldn’t have to say it out loud. 

Goodbye. 

Shane’s hands were shoved into his pockets, shoulders tense, his eyes fixed somewhere just past Ilya—like looking at him directly might make this real in a way he couldn’t undo. 

“This is…” he started, then stopped. His voice was already too tight. He let out a shaky breath, shaking his head. “Yeah. Okay.” 

Not okay. 

Nothing about this felt okay. 

Ilya watched him, quieter than usual, something heavy sitting behind his eyes. For once, there was no easy comment, no half-smile to soften it. Just the truth of it, sitting there between them. 

“I hate this part,” he said finally, his voice low, roughened by something he wasn’t trying to hide. 

Shane let out a weak, almost disbelieving breath. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, me too.” 

A pause stretched between them, filled only by the sound of rain hitting everything around them. 

“We’ll text,” Shane added quickly, like he needed something to hold onto. “Right? We said we would.” 

“Of course,” Ilya said immediately. Too quickly. Like he needed it just as much. 

But they both knew it wouldn’t be enough. 

The distance between them suddenly felt unbearable. 

Ilya stepped forward first. 

Shane closed the rest of it without hesitation. 

For a second, they just stood there—close enough to feel each other’s breath, rain dripping between them, neither one quite able to say it. 

Then Ilya reached for him. 

And Shane caught Ilya’s face with both hands and kissed him—hard, desperate, like it was the only way to say everything he couldn’t put into words. 

Ilya froze for half a heartbeat—then kissed him back just as fiercely. 

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. 

It was everything they hadn’t said, everything they didn’t have time for, everything they already knew they were going to miss. 

Shane’s grip tightened, pulling him closer like he was trying to keep him there, like he could stop the world from moving forward if he just held on hard enough. 

Ilya’s hands slid to his waist, then higher, one tangling into his hair, anchoring him there—like he needed to feel this, remember this, prove it was real. 

Rain ran down their faces, into the space between them, but neither of them pulled away. 

Not yet. 

Not when this was the last thing they had. 

When they finally broke apart, it wasn’t because they wanted to. It was because they had to—breathless, shaken, still too close. 

Shane rested his forehead against Ilya’s, eyes closed, like he couldn’t quite let go. 

Shane spoke softly. “You know… this weekend—” He exhaled slowly. “It changed something in me.”

Ilya's breath stopped.

“I think I needed it more than I realized,” Shane added. “Needed... you.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then Ilya looked at him, something raw in his expression. “Good,” he said quietly. “Because I needed you too.”

“Fuck,” Shane whispered, his voice breaking. 

Ilya let out a quiet, unsteady breath, his hand still in Shane’s hair, holding him there for just a second longer. 

“Fuck, sounds about right” he murmured, his voice wrecked. 

Neither of them moved. 

Then Ilya looked up at him, jaw clenching, like it took every muscle in his body to pull away, to compose himself. Shane opened his eyes, and they tried to convey every unspoken feeling. 

Finally, they pulled away. 

“Okay,” Ilya said. 

Shane nodded sadly, a small smile on his face. “Okay.” 

They let go because there was no version of this where they didn’t. 

It still felt wrong—like forcing distance where something in them refused it, like going against a pull that hadn’t weakened at all. 

But they did it anyway. 

They were both soaking wet now. 

Shane turned around first and walked to his car. Ilya just stood there, watching him walk away. 

Shane turned around then, walking backward, and yelled, “Don’t forget—you’re a fierce warrior raccoon!” he said, smiling through watery eyes.

Ilya let out a broken laugh. “Don’t forget you are pretty princess,” he called back, “and do not forget to breathe.”

They smiled at each other from a distance, the rain pouring down hard enough that neither of them could tell where the tears began and the rain ended.

They both turned around, a soft smile on Ilya's face. 

So this was really it, he was trying desperately to put his armor back around his heart. He let out a broken breath. Even though this hurt—saying goodbye—he knew this was not over. He simply couldn’t let it be. 

And it would be hard, and it wouldn’t be the outcome they both wanted—but at least they would be in each other’s lives, and that would be enough. Even if they wouldn’t see each other for a few months.  Not untill the next season at least.

Ilya realized he would still take every crumb he could get. 

He closed his eyes. 

His heart felt full after this weekend. Whatever they had shared had healed something vital within him. He didn’t even know how he had survived before—because where there had been cold, now there was warmth. 

He opened the car door... 

“Ilya?” 

Ilya quickly turned around, his heart beating fast. 

Shane stood there, ten feet away from him. 

Soaking wet, breathing heavily, looking indecisive for just a second. 

Then, like he had come to some kind of conclusion, he started walking back toward him. 

Ilya’s heart started to beat faster with every step Shane took toward him. 

He stood in front of him now,  looked into his eyes—soaking wet and panting. 

“I was gonna ask you…” 

“Will you come to my cottage this summer?” 

Ilya smiled, Shane smiled back

Chapter Text

A few weeks later:

At eight, Shane answers Ilya’s FaceTime call. They had been doing this for a few weeks now. The first week after their weekend had been strange for him. With some distance from Ilya, his mind had started to second-guess everything again. They had texted a bit, sure, but it wasn’t the same. Going back into the bubble of the NHL had been disorienting; the two worlds felt like water and oil. He was having trouble letting them coexist beside each other.

But Ilya had texted him every night before bed, just talking about how his day had been, and that had calmed his mind. It made him want to make it work. One night, though, he had been shorter in his responses, doubt creeping in again—wondering if this was ever going to work, trying to retreat back to safety, to normalcy.

Ilya had called him that night, a large tub of ice cream on his lap—vanilla, of course. He had looked at Shane through the screen and asked, “You’re pulling away from me?” Shane hadn’t answered right away, just staring down at his lap. Ilya had continued, softer this time, “Is it the distance, or is it me?”

Shane’s head had snapped up immediately. “No, definitely not you! It’s just hard. I miss you and it… fuck, it hurts. My brain is all messed up about it.”

Ilya had nodded, thinking for a moment before saying, “What about we FaceTime one evening a week? Have dinner together, eat ice cream together, just talk about our week. Like a long-distance date.”

Shane had smiled at that. He liked the idea. “Did you have to look that up? ‘Long-distance’?”

Ilya had blushed a little, shaking his head. “No. It’s not like I looked it up when I got home after saying goodbye to you.”

Shane had felt his own face warm at that.

And so they had done exactly that. They met once a week, talked about everything and nothing, and for one night at least, Ilya didn’t feel so far away. It was nice—something Shane found himself looking forward to every week.

Just a few more weeks until Ilya would fly to Toronto. And here they were, on their weekly. Long.distance.date.

One rule was that there always had to be vanilla ice cream involved. Ilya showed up each time with a tub of Häagen-Dazs, while Shane had his Halo Top Vanilla Bean—a slightly healthier option with more protein. But for him, even that felt like indulging. All of it did.

He had loosened the reins on his macrobiotic diet a little, but his need for control—especially while everything else in his life felt so uncertain—kept him from letting go completely.

Ilya props his phone up in his kitchen, the angle slightly off so it catches more of his shoulder than his face. There’s a tub of vanilla ice cream resting on his thigh, already open, spoon halfway buried in it.

At eight, right on time.

“Okay,” Shane says, squinting at his screen, “one day you’re actually going to drop your phone.”

“I haven’t yet,” Ilya replies simply. “So it’s fine.”

Shane huffs quietly. “That’s not how that works.”

Ilya just shrugs, digging his spoon into the ice cream. “Feels like it works.”

Shane shakes his head, but there’s a small smile there. He’s curled into the corner of his couch, his own ice cream balanced carefully in his hand. For a moment, neither of them says anything. It’s not awkward anymore—just easy. The kind of quiet that feels shared instead of empty.

Ilya is the one who breaks it. “So,” he says, a little more casual than he feels, “your cottage.”

Shane glances up. “What about it?”

“A few weeks,” Ilya says, eyes flicking briefly to the screen and then away again. “You still want me to come?”

Shane frowns slightly, like the question doesn’t make sense. “I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t.”

“I know,” Ilya says quickly, shifting a little where he sits. “Just… checking.”

There’s something in his voice that makes Shane pause. He watches him for a second, then looks back down at his ice cream. “You don’t have to if your schedule gets crazy,” he says, quieter. “I know how it is.”

Ilya’s head lifts immediately. “No. I want to come.” He hesitates, then adds, softer, “I want to see you.”

Actually, he couldn’t wait to see Shane, and every minute they were apart felt like one too many, but he didn’t want to overwhelm him.

Shane’s spoon stills, just for a second. “Okay,” he says, and something in his tone eases.

They fall into another small pause, but it feels different now—full, like there’s something sitting just under the surface of it.

“I’ll pick you up, it'll be just a two hour drive to the cottage from the airport.”

Ilya blinks, like he hadn’t expected that. “You will?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, a little more firmly. “It’s not far.”

Ilya watches him for a second, something soft settling into his expression. “Okay,” he says quietly. “I like that.”

Shane nods, trying to act like it’s nothing, even though it doesn’t feel like nothing. “Just send me your flight details. I’ll be there.”

Ilya actually beams at him—a very rare sight—and Shane melts a little. God, he is gorgeous.

For a second, neither of them looks away.

The spark between then, Shane had learned, hadn't dulled at all. It was in every look, in every sentence, in every promise.

Ilya nods, a faint smile pulling at his mouth, and looks down at his ice cream again like it suddenly needs his full attention. “Okay. Good.”

“And then we’ll just go straight to the cottage,” Shane adds, a little more quietly now. “No rush. Just… relax together.”

Ilya nods again, slower this time, like he’s picturing it. “Yeah,” he says. “Will be good.”

The silence that follows is warm, almost careful. Shane leans back into his couch, watching him without really meaning to. It’s strange, how something as simple as a drive from the airport can feel like this—like something important, even if neither of them says it.

“I’ll get the vanilla ice cream,” Shane says after a moment, nudging the quiet into something lighter.

Ilya glances up, frowning. “Not your one.”

Shane smiles. “We’ll get both.”

Ilya considers that, then nods. “Okay. That is fair.”

Another pause settles between them, softer now, steadier.

“A few weeks,” Ilya says.

Shane nods, his voice just a little quieter than before. “Yeah.”

A year later:

Shane picked up immediately. Ilya was smiling a little secretively at the camera. Shane smiled softly back at him.

“Hi.”

“Hello, solnyshko,” Ilya replied.

“So… can I finally tell you?” Ilya looked like an excited puppy, almost bouncing, his eyes bright—but there was a hint of insecurity there too.

“Tell me,” Shane said, smiling.

Ilya let out a breath. “Okay, but you can’t freak out about this, okay?” He paused, then muttered to himself, “Why am I even saying that… okay, I just tell you now.”

“I bought a house for us,” he blurted out.

“A house…” Shane repeated. He had gone completely still. “For us?”

“Yes,” Ilya said quickly, now a little nervous, his words coming faster. “I want us to have a nice place, just for us. When you have games here, we can stay there and just… live our life. Together.”

He hesitated, then added more quietly, “I want space where we can just exist. Private. Not big apartment building. Somewhere to relax.”

Shane didn’t move.

Ilya’s expression shifted, panic starting to creep in. “Is it too much?” he asked. “I asked Yuna to help me—she helped me pick it. She is very smart, your mom. She thought of things I wouldn’t—like distance to the rink, and privacy. There’s even a lake. And a sauna.”

Shane was still completely silent.

And then—

He burst out laughing.

Ilya’s smile dropped instantly. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because,” Shane said, trying to catch his breath, “because I bought a house for us too.”

Ilya blinked. “What?”

“In Montreal,” Shane added, still half-laughing.

Ilya just stares at him. “What?”

Shane huffs out a breath, still a little in disbelief himself. “Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “I was going to tell you when you got here.”

There’s a pause.

Ilya’s expression shifts slowly, the surprise settling into something deeper. “You bought house,” he says carefully, “in Montreal.”

Shane nods his smile soft.

“For… us?”

The question lands softer this time. Not disbelief—something more fragile.

Shane swallows. “Yeah.” He hesitates, then adds, “I mean… so you’d have somewhere to stay. With me. Not just hotels. Not just… visits. Somewhere we can relax together”

Ilya goes very still.

“And when I’m in your city,” Shane continues, voice quieter now, “I didn’t want it to feel temporary all the time.”

There’s another pause.

Ilya exhales slowly, like something is settling into place inside him. “I did same,” he says. “I wanted… place for you. Where you can come, and it is ours. Not just mine.”

Shane’s chest tightens at that.

“Somewhere we don’t have to leave right away,” Ilya adds, softer now. “Where we can just… be.”

Shane nods, his throat a little tight. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of them says anything.

It’s quiet, but it feels full—like something important just clicked into place between them.

“Two houses,” Ilya says after a second, a small, almost disbelieving smile forming. “Two cities.”

Shane lets out a quiet laugh. “Yeah.”

“For same thing,” Ilya adds.

Shane looks at him properly now.

“For us,” he says.

Ilya stills again, and this time he doesn’t look away.

“For us,” he repeats, softer.

The words don’t feel rushed. Or scary.

Just… true.

Ilya leans a little closer to the screen, like he wishes the distance wasn’t there. “We are building something,” he says, almost like he’s testing it.

Shane’s smile softens. “Yeah.”

Ilya nods, a small, certain movement. “Okay,” he says. “Then we keep both.”

Shane laughs quietly. “Obviously.”

“More time,” Ilya adds. “Less leaving.”

Shane’s chest aches a little at that. “Yeah. That’s the idea.”

A pause.

Then, softer—like it slips out before he can overthink it:

“I just… want a life with you.”

“I want that too,” Ilya responds.

For a second, neither of them moves.

Shane’s eyes flicker up to his, searching, like he’s trying to make sure this is real, that it won’t disappear if he reaches for it. Ilya doesn’t look away. He just holds his gaze, steady, open in a way he rarely lets himself be.

“You mean it?” Shane asks, quieter now.

Ilya nods once. “I do.” They both knew they weren't talking about the houses anymore.

There’s a small pause.

Shane exhales softly, his shoulders dropping.

"I wish you were here right now so I could kiss you", "yeah me too".. Ilya sighed. 

“I think your house will be better,” Ilya murmurs.

Shane huffs out a quiet laugh. “You haven’t even seen mine.”

“I don’t need to,” Ilya says, softer now. “You’re there.”

Shane goes a little still at that, then smiles, small and warm. “That’s not how real estate works.”

“It is for me.”

“It’s kind of crazy,” Shane says. “We were both finding our way to the same thing—and my mom was helping both of us without either of us knowing about the other.”

Ilya blinks, a small crease forming between his brows. “Both of us ? ”, he asked

Shane huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. She helped me too.”

There’s a pause.

Ilya starts laughing too, softer at first, then a little brighter. “She is going to be very satisfied with herself.”

Ilya shakes his head, still smiling. “She set this up,” he says. “Without even trying.”

Shane’s laughter softens, something warmer settling in. “Yeah,” he says. “I think she did.”

They stayed up late, talking about why one house was better than the other.

It wasn’t the life they could fully live yet. They were still hidden in ways that felt unfair, still navigating a world that didn’t make it easy. But they were building something anyway, piece by piece, in every moment they chose each other.

A few months later the house in Montreal:

The house in Montreal is set back behind a gated drive, hidden from the street by tall trees and high hedges. You wouldn’t notice it unless you were looking for it.

From the outside, it’s quiet and modern—dark stone, clean lines, nothing that draws attention. It looks expensive, but not obvious.

Inside, it’s open and minimal, designed to feel calm more than impressive. Everything is precise, but lived-in enough to feel real.

The back of the house is completely private.

Floor-to-ceiling windows open onto a secluded terrace, shielded on all sides. There’s a built-in hot tub sunk into the deck, and just beyond it, a small glass-door sauna. No neighbors in sight. No noise.

It feels cut off from the rest of the world.

They were fresh out of the sauna, laying on a sunbed, watching the sunset together, entangled into each other.

It reminded them of the wellness retreat, where their broken souls had collided and they had healed something in each other that no one would ever understand. They themselves didn’t even understand it, but had felt it every day since.

Shane absentmindedly stroked his finger over Ilya’s singing bowl tattoo. It had a print of little vanilla flowers across the side. His teammates had asked about it, but he never responded, just smiled fondly whenever someone brought it up. He knew no one would ever understand, not even when they might come out one day. This would always be just for them.

“I still can’t believe you got this,” Shane said fondly.

Ilya got it immediately after the weekend. He had wanted a reminder of the magic they had shared, the healing the weekend had given him, a reminder of letting someone see him for the first time since a long time. A reminder that he was worthy of good things, of love—at least by the two people this tattoo represented, the two people who had seen him for who he really was.

Ilya had needed that reminder.

He hummed now.

“You know I’m scoring on you tomorrow,” Ilya says, like it’s already decided.

Shane snorts. “You say that every time.”

“And sometimes I’m right.”

“Not often enough,” Shane shoots back, but he’s smiling.

Ilya tilts his head, watching him. “You like it.”

“Like what?”

“Playing against me.”

Shane huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head, but he doesn’t deny it. “Yeah,” he admits after a second. “I do.”

Ilya’s smile softens, just a little. “Me too,” he says. “It’s different with you.”

Shane glances at him. “Because I’m better?”

Ilya grins. “Because you’re the only one who keeps up.”

Shane bumps his shoulder lightly against his. “Yeah. Same goes for you.”

There’s a brief pause, something quieter settling in between the teasing.

“Second best against best,” Ilya says a teasing smile on his face

Shane laughed ”you are such an asshole”

“You love me” Ilya said confidently.

Shane nods, softer now. “Yeah, I do”

Because they both knew they would always be on top together, even though they liked to bicker about who was the best player, they both knew this.

And neither of them would have it any other way.

They were not perfect, not healed.

When they were lying in bed at night and Ilya’s self-doubt came creeping in—caused by years of neglect, years of abuse, and being overlooked in his childhood home—he would always whisper in the dark, “You love me.” Like he needed to remind himself that even though he didn’t always love himself, Shane would love him enough for the both of them. Shane would always kiss his forehead, say “I love you,” and then proceed to list the people who also loved Ilya ,just to remind him, to make him feel loved, even though they both knew it didn’t even come close to Shane’s love for him.

Shane still got panic attacks, but, inspired by Ilya’s bravery, he had started talking to a therapist right after the retreat. He had liked what the retreat had done for him and had craved more relief from his anxious thoughts. He had started EMDR, and that had helped a lot. Instead of his anxiety being a daily, overwhelming thing, it had simmered down to something that only bothered him in occasional extremely stressful situations.

They went back to the retreat every year for a weekend, just disappearing together. No one had ever told anyone they had seen them there and it felt, safe, private.

Some wounds would never fully heal, but they healed a little inside each other every day since that first moment in the steam room. The universe had decided they needed each other to stop surviving and start living—and wasn’t that the greatest gift they could have been given.

They both had fixed each other's broken pieces with beautiful lines of gold.