Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

1998-1999

Polina Plisetskaya is not a stupid woman.

She may be 21, an alcoholic, and employed as a secretary by Polkóvnik Grigori Rozanov, but she’s not stupid. She’s not a coke addict, or a hooker like her fucking roommate has turned out to be.

She only took the stupid job because of her idiot friend nearly getting arrested in the first place. She’s lucky Rozanov found her pretty enough to keep around.

She’s lucky. She got a job instead of being arrested or shuttled off to wherever powerful men like to send pretty girls these days. At least the money is good enough to keep her in her apartment and eating. Better than whoring herself out for blow.

In any case, Polina isn’t stupid. She keeps her head down and her mouth shut so she can keep her job. If that means putting up with Rozanov’s advances every so often, then so be it. He usually doesn’t get very far. 

The only time he does is when she’s drunk off her ass and stumbling at the end of a gala. He brought her as his arm candy instead of his wife.

She doesn’t really remember what happened that night.

Guess Irina Rozanova wasn’t content to be his little doll anymore, his music box ballerina stolen from the Bolshoi and placed on his shelf.

She puts it from her mind and keeps working, organizing his paperwork and managing his calls. 

She does it for months, even as she starts to feel ill, losing and gaining weight in no particular pattern. 

It lasts until she takes a day off for Christmas to go to her father’s house for the first time in years, only to collapse on the floor in front of him.

Next thing she knows, she’s in the hospital.

They take blood from her arm and make her piss in a cup.

Once her test results come back, the nurse blanches and calls a doctor.

The doctor is old and ugly. He looks at her with beady eyes through a pair of spectacles and asks, “Miss Plisetskaya, are you aware that you are pregnant?”

Pregnant?

PREGNANT?

She looks down at her stomach. It’s flat. There is maybe a hint of softness from the fact that she has been eating consistently over the past few months.

“I cannot be pregnant. I have not—“

“Spare me the excuses, Miss Plisetskaya. I do not need all the dirty details.”

The doctor looks down his nose at her as she shrinks back on the exam table. “There are traces of alcohol and nicotine in your blood. We will need to take you back to be scanned.”

“Can’t you just take it out?” she demands. “I cannot afford a child right now.”

“Miss Plisetskaya, we cannot do anything until you are assessed. Follow me.”

He makes her lay back on a cold table as he smears gel over her stomach.

A rapid thumping echoes through the room.

“Well, it’s alive,” the doctor says, “despite your poor decisions. Measuring small. You will need to be careful for the remainder of your pregnancy.”

“I just said I can’t afford a pregnancy.”

“It is too late to terminate, Miss Plisetskaya. The law forbids it beyond 12 weeks, and you are well past that threshold.”

“What? How? I have no bump, nothing is there!”

“The developmental age of the fetus shows that you are around seven months pregnant.”

Seven months. Seven months.

The gala she doesn’t remember. The morning she woke up with bruises on her hips and thighs, sticky and disgusting.

“Can’t you take it out if there’s something wrong with the baby?” She pleads.

“We would need to do further testing to determine anything of the sort.”

“Do it.”

They stick a probe in her. It hurts like a bitch.

After hours spent waiting in the cold room alone, the doctor comes back in.

“Though he is measuring small, your son does not seem to have any abnormalities that might call for the termination of the pregnancy at this stage. Your best option would be to continue to carry to term, and determine what is to be done with the child after the birth.”

She sits in silence as the doctor hands her pamphlets and lectures her about what she can and cannot do.

She stews in the silence as she is led out, back to where her father sits in the waiting room.

“Polina,” he says, standing as she shuffles through the room. “We will go home.”

In the car, she stares out at the streets of Moscow. It’s late, but the city is lit up for Christmas.

“I’m pregnant,” she spits out.

His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Congratulations.”

“I didn’t want it.”

He waits in silence.

“They won’t let me get rid of it. I can’t work, I can’t keep my job if I leave to have a kid.”

“What will you do with him?” he asks softly.

“I don’t know.” She needs a cigarette. She needs a cigarette so badly and she can’t have it with this fucking baby in her stomach. “Give him up to adopt or something. No one’s going to want a bastard baby.”

But even just using the word him instead of it makes her think about the thing in her body a little differently.

On one hand, it’s a parasite.

On the other hand, he’s going to be a person, only a few months from now.

“Do you know who the father is?” Her father’s voice is still so irritatingly soft.

“Rozanov.”

The silence tells her all she needs to know.

“Yeah. A real bastard baby. I don’t even remember the night he put it in me.” She starts to laugh, almost hysterically.

“Linechka—”

“Don’t, Papa. What’s done is done.” She can’t stop the laughter. She can’t stop the tears that have started to roll down her cheeks.

Her father parks the car in front of his house and comes to help her out of the passenger side. He pulls her into a tight hug as she steps out of the car.

She’s still crying as he leads her inside and turns on the lights.

Their Christmas dinner is still on the table, having long since gone cold.

“Move back in,” he says as they sit on the couch. “I will be here to help you for the rest of your pregnancy.”

“And after I give birth? What am I going to do then, Papa? That’s months out of work, maybe more if it goes badly, and I’ll still have the fucking baby. I need the money. Moscow is expensive. Babies are so expensive.”

“You don’t have to be his mother,” her father says. 

She stops in her tracks.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean. He’s coming out of me. I’m his mother by definition.”

“I mean I will take care of him, Linechka. I will take care of you both. I will be his dedushka. You can go back to work when you recover, and trust that I have him.” Something about the way his voice softens when he says dedushka is almost sickening.

“You really mean it?” Her voice quavers. She’s been gone for four years now, and he’s still acting like he loves her, like she didn’t run away at 17.

“I will raise him,” Nikolai says firmly. “You are still young, Linechka. If you can’t be a mother now, I will keep him.”

Well.

It’s very noble of him, to be acting the patriarch of the Plisetsky family.

“Alright,” she says. “Alright.”

The baby is born on March 1st, 1999.

She names the baby Yuri, after Gagarin.

He’s tiny and fragile, like a little wisp. Completely bald. Looks like a potato.

He’s not a pretty baby, certainly. But she made him.

She signs over her legal rights as his parent to her father the next day while she is still in her hospital bed.

“Are you sure?” he asks her, like he’s asked her every day since she moved back in with him. 

“Yes,” she snaps. “I am sure, Papa. You wanted to be his dedushka so badly, now you are. I am going to lay here until they let me up, and I am going back to work as soon as I’m allowed. I won’t be a burden on you anymore.”

“Okay, Linechka. Okay.” He holds the baby with well-practiced care. “You and Yurachka will both be just fine.” He cradles Yuri and looks at him like he’s some kind of miracle and not the thing that’s been murdering her organs for the past few months.

At least the ordeal is over.

When she goes back to work, Rozanov barely acknowledges her.

She settles into her routine, running his office by day and leaving to party by night.

It’s her right. She’s going to enjoy her youth. 

The only artifact that remains of her pregnancy is bigger tits anyway. Yuri was so small that her stomach did not have to move much.

2003

On the night of Irina Rozanova’s funeral, Ilya watches as his father’s secretary storms into their house, practically dragging a tiny child by the hand. Everyone has cleared out for the most part. It’s late.

He’s not really paying attention until she stops in front of Father and says, “This is Yuri. He is your son.”

Ilya’s heart skips a beat, suddenly pounding in his chest. 

He has a half-brother.

A half-brother who was born while his mother was still alive.

“What do you want,” Father rasps, grip tight on his glass of vodka.

Ilya stays there, rooted to the spot as she starts laying out conditions for his father.

“You will marry me, or I will go public with the fact that you cheated with me while your darling wife was still alive and you weren’t careful. I will tell your superiors about that gala night when you left me unconscious.” She steps closer to Father, a very pointy nail extended towards his chest. 

His father’s gaze goes steely. “You would threaten me?”

“This is not a threat,” she says. “It is a promise. You will give me what I am owed for carrying your child and keeping your secrets; I will be the dutiful wife and keep your household. Satisfy your needs.”

“What of the boy?” He points down at the toddler, his hand still caught in Polina’s grip, even as he tries to escape it. “Do you expect me to raise a third child?”

She barks out a laugh. “I am not that foolish. My father had to take him in after I gave birth; after all, it wouldn’t do for someone associated so closely with the Polkóvnik to have his child out of wedlock.”

“Your father.”

“Nikolai Plisetsky. I’m sure you remember him. He’s Yuri’s beloved dedushka now—it would hurt him terribly to separated from him.”

Father stands up abruptly from the table. “We will discuss this in my office. Leave the child here; it will be a good introduction to his brothers.”

Polina follows him out of the dining room. Alexei takes one look at the kid, scoffs, and goes upstairs, lighting a cigarette as he goes.

It’s just Ilya and Yuri, standing in the empty room. 

Ilya crouches down until he’s eye level with Yuri. At first glance, he doesn’t look like much. Downy blond hair that’s a little too long, long enough to hide his green eyes. He’s small like his mother in stature, skinny but not like he’s been starved.

Ilya wants to resent him so badly. Yuri is the physical embodiment of everything bad that his father has done, everything he inflicted on his mother unknowingly.

And yet, he’s just a little kid who barely comes up to Ilya’s hip. He has a cute little annoyed expression on his face, the same one he’s had this entire time, like he doesn’t want to be here and wants nothing to do with his mother.

“Hi Yurachka,” he says. “I am Ilya.”

Yuri turns towards him with an angry expression. “You can’t call me that.”

Ilya, startled, says, “Yurachka?”

Yuri stomps his foot. “No. Only Dedushka can call me Yurachka.”

“Brátishka, then,” Ilya says as he sits cross-legged on the floor in front of Yuri. “You are my little brother.”

“Hmph.” Despite the posturing, Yuri flops down on the floor next to Ilya. He brings the toy that has been dangling from his hand into his lap, a small stuffed tiger.

“Can you tell me what his name is?” Ilya goes to touch the tiger, but Yuri yanks it out of the way.

“Her name is Potya, stupid.”

Ilya gapes a little. “You can’t call me stupid.”

“I can call you stupid, stupid.”

“You can call me Ilyusha, brátishka.” He holds out his hand as if to shake. Yuri looks at him dubiously before taking it and shaking it vigorously. He’s so small. Ilya could probably pick him up with one hand.

“Fine, Ilyusha. Are you going to play with me?”

Ilya has to stifle a laugh, and then abruptly, a sob. It hurts, but it is nice to feel something that isn’t the numbness that has sat on him like a quilt since he saw his mother’s body on the floor.

“Yes, I will play with you.”

2008

Ilya climbs into Nikolai’s apartment from the balcony.

“I’m back!” he yells into the apartment. The scent of frying dough and meat hits him like a freight train. “Dedushka, are you making pirozhki?” he asks in delight.

Nikolai pokes his head out from the kitchen. “Ilyusha, how many times do I have to tell you to come in through the door? You could hurt yourself climbing up.”

Ilya laughs. “I get hurt all the time playing hockey, Dedushka. A little fall like that would be nothing.” He gets hurt in other ways, too, but mentioning Grigori Rozanov’s belt is never a good idea around Dedushka Nikolai. He gets too angry about it.

“Still, it doesn’t hurt to be careful. You have to set a good example for Yurachka.”

Ilya puts his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay, I will be more careful.” He doesn’t promise to use the door.

Nikolai doesn’t press him on it either.

They both know what it would mean for Ilya to be coming in through the door.

“Yurachka, your brother is here!” Nikolai calls out. 

Rapid footsteps come clomping down the hallway. “Ilyusha!” Yuri yells, launching himself headfirst into Ilya’s stomach. 

He oofs a little bit as Yuri slams into a bruise, but he gets his little brother into a hug and a headlock anyway. “Brátishka!”

Yuri wriggles out, giving him a kick in the shin on the way down. “I thought you were going to be in the gulag for the rest of the summer.”

Ilya sighs. “Hockey camp is not the gulag, brátishka. I regret telling you this.”

Yuri makes a dubious noise. “Might as well be. Skating camp is much better.”

“Yes, yes. I hear that you’re doing very well.”

Yuri brightens at that. “I landed my triple salchow today! That’s why Dedushka’s making pirozhki.”

“Wow, brátishka. Quite the accomplishment. Soon you’ll be leaving poor Dedushka for international fame and fortune,” Ilya teases.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Yuri pouts. “You’re one to talk, Mr. National Team Captain.”

“The National Juniors Team, brátishka, I’m not allowed on the National team just yet. They are sending me to Canada for the IPC.”

“That’s new,” Nikolai says as he carries a tray of pirozhki and sour cream out to the table. “Congratulations, Ilyusha. We have two reasons to celebrate, now. Come, Ilyusha. Sit and eat.”

Every time Ilya sits at this table, squabbling with Yuri and laughing with Dedushka Nikolai, he remembers how much he loves being here. It’s warm and the food is delicious and unapproved by his coaches and dieticians.

He remembers how much he fucking hates being at home with his father and Polina. The house is always quiet unless Grigori Rozanov deems otherwise. Usually when they have guests over, and Ilya is expected to be silent and nod and agree with whatever his father says about him.

The only reason he’s gotten away with sneaking out to come here as much as he has is Polina, like it or not. 

She thinks he’s going to be able to convince Yuri to take the Rozanov name. Some misplaced guilt now that she’s a married woman. Ilya thinks she just doesn’t want his father to keep trying to get her pregnant.

Alexei hates them, both Ilya and Yuri, but he’s failing his university classes, so he doesn’t have any room to complain. At least Ilya and Yuri can succeed at what they do.

“Ilyusha?” Dedushka gently shakes him to get his attention at the end of dinnertime. “Would you like to stay the night?”

Would he like to stay the night? Jesus.

He would stay forever if he could. But he can’t stay with the people who remind him most of his mother.

“It’s alright, Dedushka. I’ll head home now.” He gives Yuri a pat on the head where he’s drowsing on the couch, and climbs back down from the balcony.

When he gets home, he pretends he was out with Svetlana. She won’t hesitate to cover for him. His father allows it, inasmuch as it allows him to schmooze with Sergei Vetrov. 

It’s not as though he doesn’t go out with Svetlana and Sasha. There’s safety in this kind of scandal, the simplicity of it. Russia’s top prospect likes to party, lets his aggression out on the ice and keeps his locker room entertained with his antics. Morale is good for leadership.

If the team thinks he’s spending a lot more time with a pretty girl than he actually is, it’s not a bad thing. Better than being involved in whatever they do when he’s not around. Better than being around the trainers and coaches at night. 

Ilya keeps his nose clean.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Ilya Rozanov is just a weird guy. Obviously, the Bears aren’t going to say that to his face, not when he’ll chirp them into oblivion for it, but sometimes it just gets out of hand.

Like the late night phone calls where he’s talking aggressively in Russian. The random knowledge he has offhand about how far you can throw a human being and have them come out okay. The Russian death metal he forces them to listen to, calling it family bonding. The scars he refuses to talk about.

Cliff Marleau thinks he might be in the Russian mob. The Bratva, or whatever they call it.

Roz fervently insists that he isn’t. Maybe a little too much.

Logically, he knows that can’t be it. He probably wouldn’t be able to play if he was. The whole ‘Russia’s Greatest Rage Machine’ is a persona that he’s playing up.

But off the ice? The weird shit has started to stack up.

I

It’s a little thing, the first time. They’re out at a bar after beating Columbus 4-2 and Roz gets a phone call that he actually takes, sneaking out to the alley outside.

“Alright, what do we think: booty call or not?” Cliff says to the table.

“We’re not in Montreal, Marly,” Vic takes a swig of beer. “I’m sure he could pick up, cuz he’s Roz, but fuck dude. This is Columbus. No shot it’s a booty call. Least not a regular.”

“Wasn’t there that blonde last time?” Connors asks. “She was hot, but he came back all mad for some reason.”

“Jane reasons, dude. He was scrolling. Are we betting on it or not?” 

“I’ll take you up on it,” Hammer says, sidling up to the table with his pool winnings. Sebbin follows with his hands stuffed into his pockets.

“Hey! Varkov!” Cliff yells to the other side of the bar. “Stealth mode!”

“I told you I would not do that again!” Varkov yells back. The bartender makes a shushing noise. Fucking Columbus. “He had his pants down by the time we found him. No one needs to see that.”

“Bro we see it every fucking day. It doesn’t matter at this point,” Dubek points out. He’s not wrong. Roz is very confident about walking around in the locker room.

“I am still not doing it.” 

“Well, lucky for us, we have a new Russian rookie. Isn’t that right, Zaddy?” Vic ruffles Zadonsky’s hair where he looks like he’s trying to shrink into the peeling leather of the booth. “Hop to it.” 

To his credit, Zadonsky goes. All the way out to the alley and everything.

He comes back a little bit pale.

“What was it?” Cliff asks as he slides into the booth.

“Not a booty call,” Zadonsky says. 

Vic yells, “Pay up!” to Hammer.

“Something different. He was talking very quietly.”

“Family call? I thought we were checking for his dad,” Connors says, as the table goes still.

The Bears know that Roz doesn’t have the best relationship with his family. He’s obviously trying to hide it, but some shit still makes it through the cracks.

If Grigori Rozanov ever makes it to Boston, it’s on sight.

“Didn’t sound like him. Roz was saying something about calling the Madam.”

“Who the fuck is the Madam?” Everyone is listening now.

“And then he said, ‘Don’t worry. I will take care of it. I call my guys from the gulag. They will not bother you anymore.’ He had his murder face on, like the one he gets when he takes face-offs against Kent.”

“Oh shit,” Cliff says. “Did you get anything else?”

“No, I left. I think he might be ordering a hit. I didn’t know he was in the gulag.”

“What are we chatting about, boys?” Roz says, looming up out of nowhere. Sebbin flinches and dumps his beer on Dubek, who starts shoving him out of his seat. “Talking about the gulag, yes? I tell you about it. Very cold. Forced to work early in the morning. They give you slop if you are lucky. I was lucky. My friends? Not so lucky. The hunger sustains you, makes you fear nothing. Only the deadliest make it out of the gulag.” Roz bares his teeth, the implants shining just a little too white in the dim light of the bar.

From the way Zadonsky keeps blanching, Cliff doesn’t know if Roz is completely fucking with them or not. He has enough RBF to kill God, but normally when he starts playing the gullible games he’s a little less serious about it.

“Who were you calling?” Zadonsky asks shakily.

Roz laughs. “If I told you, you would not believe me. Is a secret.”

“Your mistress?” Hammer says, still trying to get his money back by tempting fate.

Roz’ face goes stony and hard. “No. Not mistress. Do not speak of this again.” He storms off from the table, back to the bartender to order more vodka.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Hammer. Now he’s going to be on our asses all week,” Vic complains.

“Okay but seriously. Ordering a hit?” Connors asks, lowering his voice.

“I said do not speak of it!” Roz thunders from the bar.

In that moment, the Boston Bears, sans their captain, silently agree that Ilya Rozanov is probably in the mob, and they are most certainly going to be keeping tabs.

Ilya usually doesn’t pay attention to his phone when he’s out with the team, unless he’s waiting for something.

A text from Jane, perhaps. Those haven't come in a while.

But when his phone starts ringing and the Caller ID says Tigryonok, he excuses himself to the alley behind the bar.

“Brátishka? It is early morning in Russia. Why are you awake?”

Yuri’s voice is tinny over the phone. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“You need to be getting sleep. Aren’t Nationals coming up?” Ilya knows he’s being a hypocrite.

He’s proven right as Yuri says, “You’re one to talk. It’s the middle of the night in Boston. Or wherever you are.”

“Columbus. It’s only the evening here.” Ilya pauses for a moment. “Does Dedushka know you are not sleeping?”

Yuri makes a noise that Ilya knows means he doesn’t want to worry Nikolai.

“Does Yakov know? You cannot train like this, brátishka.”

“Ughhh, you are so annoying Ilyusha. I’ll tell him when I get there.” Yuri is lying, and they both know it.

“Are you going to tell me the real reason you are not sleeping, or do I need to call the Madam?” Ilya is pulling out the big guns, but only because Yuri hasn’t called in a week. Madam Baranovskaya is not to be underestimated when it comes to her students. Ilya doesn't have many favors left to pull with her.

Yuri stays silent for a minute. 

Ilya waits.

“...The Moskvich guys came to Yubileyny the other day.” He doesn’t have to elaborate.

Moskvich Skate Club were dismayed to lose their newest junior prospect to Yakov Feltsman, and they haven’t been subtle about their attempts to get him back. It’s been over three years since Yuri went to St. Petersburg, and they’re still trying to get to him.

“Don’t worry,” Ilya says. “I will take care of it. I call my guys from the gulag.” By which he means Sasha, and his old teammates who still owe him favors. They’ll be happy to do a little intimidation on his behalf. “They will not bother you anymore.”

“Fuck off, Ilyusha. I can handle it,” Yuri grouches, but he sounds less stressed. Ilya makes a mental note to send Sasha a text. Maybe one to Svetlana too. And one to Dima. And Zhenya.

“If you say so, brátishka. Go to sleep. Tell Yakov you are not feeling well, or I really will call Lilia.”

“Good night, Ilyusha.”

“Good night, brátishka.”

He walks back into the bar to see Zadonsky being interrogated, and hears something about a gulag.

These idiots. They are trying to listen in again.

Ilya slaps a smile on his face, and starts talking about his time training in Russia.

He takes some creative liberties. Zadonsky really should not be blanching so much, but then again, he is from St. Petersburg. 

“Who were you calling?” Zadonsky asks shakily. He is like a scared rabbit, trembling in the face of a predator.

Ilya laughs. “If I told you, you would not believe me. Is a secret.” That should get them off his back enough to forget about it by the morning.

“Your mistress?” Hammer says, like a fucking idiot. Or whatever the word is that Hollander said the other day. Imbecile.

Ilya feels his smile drop. “No. Not mistress. Do not speak of this again.” He storms off from the table, back to the bartender to order more vodka. 

Dealing with these suspicious fuckers is exhausting sometimes. Tonight is one of those times. He listens in as they break the silence that set in when he walked away.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Hammer. Now he’s going to be on our asses all week,” Victor complains.

“Okay but seriously. Ordering a hit?” Connors asks, lowering his voice.

Are they stupid?

“I said do not speak of it!” Ilya yells over to them.

Seriously. They need to get a grip. On what, he doesn't know. Sanity, maybe.

II

The next thing happens when they’re doing media.

For some godforsaken reason, the Boston Bears are going to the Franklin Park Zoo. Some kind of partnership with the zoo for charity. Cliff isn’t thinking about it that much. He is maybe just a little bit hungover.

Okay, maybe he’s a lot hungover, but in his defense, the email about this kind of got swallowed up in the haze of the regular season ending. They’ve been riding high on Roz’ aggression since the Olympics.

The zoo is alright though. Zoey, the new media intern, keeps bouncing around, taking pictures of each of the Bears with the animals. It’s kind of nice, honestly. Good to do something that’s not hockey.

She makes him stand in front of the gorilla exhibit and keeps giggling behind the camera. Roz and Vic are not helpful, cackling alongside her.

He gets Vic back at the Butterfly Hollow, when he starts vibrating because a moth lands on his face.

The rookies are stupidly excited about the giraffes, for some reason. Cliff thinks he starts hearing them whispering about stretching to get taller. He knows they’re going to start getting up to stupid shit the second they leave.

They leave Hammer and Sebbin staring down an emu on the Outback Trail.

By the time they make it to the other side of the zoo, the hangover has mostly passed, and Cliff is awake enough to realize that they’ve lost Roz somewhere along the way when he does a headcount. Sometimes he hates being the A to Roz’ C.

“Boys!” He yells at his crowd of hockey players, arguing over whose pictures turned out the best. “We lost Roz.” 

“Again?” Vic asks, stomping over. “Who had him last?”

Connors sheepishly raises a hand. 

“What the fuck, Connors.”

“It’s not my fault he’s a fucking escape artist, Marly! I was walking and I thought he was behind me.”

“You forgot the cardinal rule of team trips, Connors," Cliff intones, his countenance grim. “Never take your eyes off the Captain.”

The boys all start booing as Connors is pelted with a variety of the gift shop goodies they’ve gone nuts with.

“That’s enough,” Cliff bellows over the chaos. His headache from this morning has come back, blooming in a flavor that only Ilya Rozanov can induce. “Where did you last see him?”

“Around the camels, I think.”

They start the slow shuffle back to the Kalahari Kingdom, a troupe of 20 enormous hockey players catching the eyes of most of the other visitors.

Thankfully, they find him. 

Roz is in front of the lion exhibit, crouched next to a crying little kid. As Cliff walks closer, he hears him talking.

“That skinny thing? Lion is nothing. Is not scary. I know tiger back in Russia. Lived in my grandfather’s house. Vicious. Bit me one time. Dedushka had to dig the tooth out. I got tattoo to commemorate.”

Roz untucks his shirt, lifting it up on the side.

Look. They’ve all seen his tattoos. He has the bear on his left pec, and a new snarling tiger on his right side, just under his ribs.

“Look closely—you can see where the scar is.” Roz traces a finger over the open maw of the tiger, like he can feel exactly where it is. The little kid reaches out to touch it. 

If Cliff squints, he can just see the dimpled edges of a bite scar, aligned perfectly with the fangs. “Jesus fucking Christ, Rozy. You got it tattooed?”

Roz drops his shirt back down and shrugs. “It hurt more than the bite did. I wanted to remember.” He turns back to the little kid, who has stopped crying and is looking at Roz like he’s his new hero. “I know it is scary, but you are brave. Come. We will find your mama.” He moves to get up from his crouch. “Would you like me to lift you up so you are tall enough to see her?”

The little kid nods frantically. 

Roz holds his hands out expectantly, and swings the kid up onto his shoulders as he stands up from his squat. 

Cliff follows him out in a daze as he walks out towards the main road, where a frantic woman runs up, calling out for the kid. The kid is giggling as Roz lifts him down to hand him off to his mom.

Thoughts race through his head:

Bit by a fucking tiger?

Who the fuck keeps a tiger in their house?

His granddad had to dig the teeth out of Roz? What kind of shit was the Rozanov family up to that they didn't take him to a hospital?

When they meet back up with the rest of the Bears and Roz is off being chided by the intern, the first words out of Cliff’s mouth are, “He got the tiger tattoo because he got bit by a tiger.”

“Fucking what now?” Dubek says. “He has to be joking.”

“He showed the scar and everything. Got the tiger’s mouth to line up with it. Apparently his granddad had to pry the teeth out of him.” 

“And he just told you offhand? Fucking insane.” Vic spirals off into French, swearing.

“Where the fuck did he meet the tiger?” Connors asks. “Are there even tigers in Russia?”

“Yeah, dude, it’s like a whole thing. Poaching’s a big deal. Apparently it just lives in his grandfather’s house. Probably got trafficked there.”

“That has to be another tally in the mob category. They’re probably the only people rich and crazy enough to keep a fucking tiger in the house.”

“Do you think he got rabies from it?” Oregan asks. “I’ve heard that wild animals get more docile if they have rabies.”

They collectively stop in their tracks.

“He has been kind of foaming at the mouth when he's given speeches,” Sebbin says, like he’s actually considering it.

“Oh fuck,” Vic says in horror. “Roz might have rabies. This is so bad. Do we have to get him treatment? How do you fix rabies? Can you have rabies long-term?”

“He licked Hollander in the face at our last game. Does Hollander have rabies now?” Hammer gets his phone out to start Googling.

“Guys, he probably got the vaccine for it.” Cliff says, reasonably.

“Oh,” Oregan says. “That makes sense.”

“Well, we’ll know if he got the vaccine if he has a scar from it,” Connors says.

“Vaccines don’t leave scars, idiot,” Vic says.

“The big ones do. Like tuberculosis. Or smallpox.”

“Dude, you get the tuberculosis one in your hand. Rabies vaccine goes in your ass.” 

“Yeah, but we’ve all seen Roz’ ass. Not a mark to be seen.” Cliff says the words out loud before they process. “Shit, he definitely didn’t get the vaccine then. Fuck. Roz might have rabies.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Roz asks, looming out of nowhere. “We have practice. I do not have time for your lollygagging.” He turns back around, expecting them to follow.

“We’re going to have to tell the trainers,” Vic says, closing his eyes like he’s awaiting heavenly punishment. “Our captain has rabies.”

“He seems to be doing okay,” Cliff says. “Rabies vaccine hurts like a bitch though. And the side effects can fuck you up.” 

“Damn.” Hammer says, grimacing. “Bad timing. We’re about to go into the playoffs. We can’t have Roz out for the playoffs.”

“I guess we wait and hope he doesn’t get worse,” Sebbin says. 

“Maybe it’s what makes him so aggressive,” Connors says. “He fights like he’s got nothing to lose.”

“Nah, that’s just Roz,” Cliff says. 

“But how do we know that the rabies isn’t what makes him aggressive? What if the rabies is what's made him so good this season?” Zadonsky pipes up.

“Then we wait,” Vic says with finality. “We get the Cup and then we get Roz the rabies vaccine. All in favor?”

Everyone raises their hands.

“DID I NOT JUST SAY WE HAVE TO GO?” Roz yells as he stomps back toward them. He’s red in the face. Zoey doesn’t look happy either.

The Bears fall in line, but not without trading furtive glances at their captain as they follow him out of the Franklin Park Zoo.

2004

Ilya knew the moment that he met Yuri in the dining room of the Rozanov Mansion that his little brother was a menace. 

He just didn’t know how much.

Yuri shrieks as he sprints around the kitchen, a pilfered pirozhki in his hands. Dedushka Nikolai tries to stop him, but is halted by the threat of hot soup spilling on him as he bobbles with the pot while carrying it to the table.

Ilya has to thank God for the fact that he is well trained in blocking opponents. And that he is big enough to be a physical obstacle to Yuri and not just one of the many things he can climb on and jump off of. 

Not that Yuri doesn’t try.

Ilya plants himself in the doorway, waiting for Yuri to make his escape.

Sure enough, he goes for the gap between Ilya’s legs. Ilya grabs him and steps forward, tucking him under his right arm like a football while snatching the pirozhki out of Yuri’s hands. 

“Noooo, Ilyusha, my pirozhki,” Yuri whines, wriggling in Ilya’s hold. His untucked shirt bunches up as Yuri tries to reach for the pastry.

“Brátishka, you are ruining your dinner. Dedushka just said no more. You have to listen."

“But pirozhki, Ilyusha! I was so good today!”

“This is what you call being good?” Ilya asks skeptically. He goes to put the pirozhki down.

This is a critical mistake.

Yuri, arms trapped at his side, his legs swinging in the air, seizes the opportunity to make Ilya let go.

He bites at Ilya’s side, a little harder than he meant to.

“Blyat!” Ilya’s grip loosens, letting Yuri squeeze back out to the floor. “You BIT me! Dedushka! He is feral!”

“Yurachka!” Nikolai’s voice is louder than Ilya has ever heard him get. “What have I said about the biting!”

“Not to do it,” Yuri grumbles.

“And what did you do?” The disappointed tone in Nikolai’s voice is heartbreaking.

“I bit him,” Yuri says, tears starting to well up. “But I was good today and you said I could have pirozhki and he took it and I—”

“Breathe, mal’chik,” Nikolai says as Yuri starts to cry properly.

“I’m sorry, Dedushka! I didn’t mean to,” Yuri says, sobbing.

“I am not the one you need to apologize to.”

“I’m sorry, Ilyusha. I’m sorry.” The words are breaking in Yuri’s mouth like waves on the ocean.

This is the point at which Grigori would get the belt out for Ilya. He can’t be blamed for panicking, just a little bit.

“It’s alright, brátishka. You didn’t hurt me,” Ilya says, crouching down. His side smarts a little bit. He takes a second to look at it.

There is blood on his side. There is also blood on Yuri’s mouth.

Ilya pulls his shirt up to find that the bite has only broken skin in one spot, where a tiny tooth is stuck in it.

“Oh dear,” Nikolai says, holding the sobbing Yuri in his arms.

Later, once the wound is thoroughly cleaned and bandaged and Yuri’s tooth is placed under his pillow for the tooth mouse, Ilya works up the courage to ask Nikolai a question.

“Why did you not discipline Yuri?”

Nikolai looks up from where he is washing the dishes. “I did. He is not allowed pirozhki for the next month, and he is grounded from skating for the next week. Exactly as I warned him would happen the last time he bit a classmate.”

“My father would have hit him with the belt.” Beneath that, the admission that Ilya would have been hit at Yuri’s age for far less hangs in the air soundlessly.

“Pain for pain’s sake does nothing, Ilyusha. He was already in pain and upset from the tooth and from hurting you. He is an angry little tiger, yes, but inflicting punishment on my grandson for no reason will not make him less likely to act out.”

“But–”

“But nothing. I would not beat him for something like this, and neither would I beat you.”

Ilya stews in silence.

Nikolai finishes up with the dishes and wipes his hands dry. He wraps Ilya up in a hug that nearly cracks his back. He doesn’t remark on the tears and snot that land on his shoulder.

A few years down the line, when Ilya gets his first tattoo, he asks the artist to sketch out a bear over his heart, for his mama. Sitting right next to her cross.

When he comes back a second time, after Sochi, he asks him to line up a snarling tiger’s mouth with the fading bite scar. Most of it is gone by this point; only one point broke skin.

It hurts, but it’s worth it to engrave home on his body.

Chapter Text

III

The third time comes as an annoying shock.

It comes during preseason training, when Roz is chipper as can be about the coaching staff assigning the Bears to ballet class.

He’s not smiley. He never is. 

But he doesn’t complain a whit, and lines up first at the barre they’ve brought in.

He does all of the stretches, and the footwork exercises with a completely straight face. Even when the instructor, Jamie, has them opening up their hips and his leg cracks like a gunshot. The rest of the team are grunting and groaning like nobody’s business.

When Jamie steps out for a minute, he turns around to them and goes, “I have had enough of bitching and moaning. You will commit to dancing or leave.” 

He gets a chorus of groans back.

“Come on, Roz, this sucks. It’s not fun.” Sebbin decides to be the sacrificial lamb.

He gives Sebbin a death glare. “Is not meant to be fun. This is training. So you all stop falling on your asses on the ice, yes? I never do this, because I take training seriously.” He turns back around as the instructor comes back in.

She starts upping the intensity of their exercises after a little while, having them hold their legs in various positions while she adjusts their balance. Or do big jumps across the floor.

“Have you danced before?” She asks Roz while he’s holding a développé or whatever they’re called. “You have very good form.”

“Not in a long time,” he says to her with a faint smile. “In Russia it is very, what is the word, storied tradition. I grew up in Moscow, near the Bolshoi.”

She gives a little shocked gasp, then a laugh as she playfully taps him on the leg. “You should come by my studio! We have adult ballet classes and open studio time. I would love to see you there.”

“I am very busy man, but if you are there, Jamie, I would love to come by.” He winks. She blushes as she comes back to the front of the room.

“Okay, boys, we’re going to do some cool down stretches, and then I’ll be on my way.”

Everyone manages to keep their mouths shut until Jamie waves goodbye and steps out of the room.

“Holy shit. You used to dance, Roz?” Cliff asks. It breaks the silence as all of the Bears start to clamor.

“What is this ‘used to’. You have gone to the club with me. You know I can dance,” Roz deadpans.

“Not fucking ballet, bro.”

Roz shrugs. “Dancing is dancing. And is good training. Why do you think my ankles never break?”

Everyone has to pause to think about that for a second.

It is kind of true. Roz doesn’t fall unless he’s been tripped or checked, and he has a way of staying stable that’s a little scary. He’s had a fair few upper body injuries, but mostly from fights.

“Still dude. There’s a difference between dancing at the club and ballet. At the club you’re getting down with girls.” 

Roz sighs heavily. “I tell you this once and once only.” 

Everyone gets quiet.

“You will never be surrounded by more pretty girls than in a ballet studio. Everyone is beautiful. Everyone is athlete. You all are not dancers, so we did not do today, but being a man in ballet is mostly about one thing: being strong. You are carrying girls around all the time. There are lifts where she sits on your hand. It is great workout.”

“Aren’t the dudes usually gay though?” Vic chimes in.

Roz snorts. “Ballerinas would have lot less problems if all the men in ballet were gay. No, there are lots of straight men. What, you think because it is art form that all of them are gay? No. Many are straighter than you all. It is not hard to be straight around ballerinas.”

That inspires protest.

“And,” Roz continues over the complaints, “if you have seen them in dance belts, you know they have bigger dicks than all of you too. They do not have space in their jocks like you all do in your cups.” He leers for a second. “I danced, so I do not have this problem.”

“Oh, fuck off, Rozy,” Cliff says, in a chorus with the rest of the Bears. “You said not in a long time. Why’d you stop?” Cliff is genuinely curious about this. Roz tells them horrific stories about Russia all the time that he insists are normal childhood stories and not traumatic as hell. He’s hoping this isn’t another one of those.

He’s silent for a long moment. The room goes quiet with the weight of it.

Eventually, he makes a face. Cliff doesn’t know exactly what to call it, but Roz starts talking before he can think harder about it. 

“My mother trained at the Bolshoi. After she married my father, she came to the stage less and less. By the time I was born, she no longer performed outside of the house. I learned from her, as a child. Before I learned to skate, even. When she was gone–” His voice wavers for a second. “After her accident, I stopped. No more.”

No one knows what to say to that. Cliff casts some looks around and sees that a couple of the rookies have tears in their eyes.

Roz clears his throat. “Enough. You all see that it has made me better skater than you. We will train until I see improvement. Is that clear?”

The room still stays quiet.

“Is that clear?” 

“Yes, Cap!” A chorus goes up through the room. Roz turns and heads out the door after Jamie. The quiet breaks as soon as the door closes behind him.

“Jesus fucking Christ that was so sad,” Connors says. 

“All of his childhood stories are sad,” Vic hisses. “He’s Russian. He stopped doing ballet because his ballerina mom died? That’s terrible.”

“He said she had an accident,” Sebbin cuts in. “You're his best friend, Marly. Have you heard about it before?”

Cliff has to take a second to process that. “Seb, are you seriously asking me if he’s ever told me about how his fucking mom died? No, I haven’t heard about it, and I’m not asking either. Jesus.”

The Bears all start pelting Sebbin with the ballet shoes that they had to wear for cross training.

“I didn’t mean it like that!” He yelps as one gets him right in the face. “I just thought, his dad clearly hated his mom if he stopped her from dancing after they got married. Could there be something up with the ‘accident’? Like you know, mob tally.”

Cliff pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales. “Seb, you have no fucking tact. We are not digging into Roz’ mom’s death for the sake of the bet, and that’s final. I don’t want to hear any of you asking about it. If Roz finds out we talked about this, we’ll be doing bag skates until the end of time.”

“He’s the one who brought it up!”

“I hate to defend Sebbin here but Roz was the one to bring it up,” Hammer says. “I didn’t even know his mom died until today.”

“It’s known in Russia,” Zadonsky says quietly. “His father married a much younger woman only weeks after his wife died. People used to talk about it when the name Rozanov came up.”

Vic gapes. “And you didn’t think to tell us that, Zaddy?”

“It was not my story to tell!” He protests. “I did not grow up in Moscow. That is the extent of what I know. I only heard about it coming up because the Olympic selections were happening between the draft and when I came here.”

“Alright, that’s enough. You all are going to shut the fuck up about it, right now,” Cliff says. “We all know what happened with the rabies rumors last season. If I hear one word out of you chucklefucks about Roz’ mom, you get to tell him yourself. I’m not taking the fall for it.”

Everyone shuts the fuck up about it. But any time an opponent tries to make a motherfucker joke around Roz, he gets checked hard into the boards once they get their hands on him. Legally, of course. They can’t give up penalties.

But if Roz notices the slow death of your mom jokes, he doesn’t say anything.

The Bears keep on, regardless.

2003

It’s down to sheer luck that Ilya gets the letter at all.

He’s the only one at home that evening when the courier comes, his father at work while Polina shops, and Alexei is off doing who knows what. 

He takes it with a fumbling hand, closing the door behind him as he looks at the wax-sealed envelope. He pries it open carefully, taking care not to break the wax that is emblazoned with a monogram: LSB.

Grigori,

I wished to give my condolences for Irina’s passing; her remarkable vitality and immeasurable talent were taken from us far too soon. I regret that I was unable to attend the funeral, on account of the limited invitations to Irina’s former company. 

In light of this, I would hope, out of respect for her, that you would refrain from gracing my academy with your presence. It does no good to disturb the peaceful goings-on of the esteemed Bolshoi with such militaristic efficiency.

I wish you all that you are due.

Sincerely,

Madam Lilia Baranovskaya

International Ballet Mistress

Choreographer of the State Academic Bolshoi Theatre of Russia

Madam Lilia Baranovskaya.

Former Principal Danseur of the Bolshoi, now the choreographer for the historic theatre. 

The woman who taught his mother to dance.

He’s never met her in person.

In a fit of pique, Ilya steals paper and an envelope out of his father’s home office.

Madam Baranovskaya,

Thank you for your kind words. I am sorry you were unable to attend the funeral. It was an awful day. I wish my mother’s peers and mentors had been able to say their farewells to her; I can only hope that my own grief can attempt to fill that gap.

At your wish, the Rozanov family will refrain from attending the Bolshoi. I will treasure my memories of attending the ballet with my mother for the rest of my life.

Deepest regards and sincerest apologies,

Ilya Rozanov

The letter is written and sealed in the envelope before he thinks about how he’s going to get it to Madam Baranovskaya.

If he sends it in the regular mail, it will be flagged and probably sent to his father. He doesn’t have the money to hire a courier. Or a taxi.

He can’t leave the door unlocked.

Ilya climbs out of the window of his bedroom with the letter carefully stowed in the pocket of his coat. He finds handholds in the old brick before jumping down as lightly as he can. It’s not too hard; he may be tall for 12, but he’s still 12.

He puts his hood up, keeps up a constant scan, and starts walking towards the Academy of Choreography. Thankfully, his house isn’t too far, only a few blocks away from the place his mother practically grew up in.

He keeps moving, trying to look like he knows where he’s going. That’s almost always the trick to these: move with purpose and not haste, and you won’t get caught. 

The return address on the letter is marked for one of the faculty apartments associated with the Academy. Ilya comes up as discreetly as he can, to see if he can find a place to drop the letter off.

He waits for long, painstaking minutes, as no one enters or exits the building.

He only has so much time before someone realizes he’s not at home, and he left without asking anyone to cover for him.

The clock strikes seven.

He moves to the door to see if he can slide a letter through the gap between it and the door frame.

“What do you think you are doing, young man?” A voice comes from behind him.

He turns, and slowly looks up to meet the eyes of a severe woman, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. The arch of her eyebrow is terrifying.

“I–I have a letter for Madam Lilia Baranovskaya,” he says, unable to think of a lie fast enough in the face of this woman’s judgement.

“You look very young to be a courier,” she says suspiciously. “Who sent you?”

Blyat. 

“I’m here to deliver the letter on behalf of Grigori Rozanov–”

“Polkóvnik Rozanov? Give me that.” She snatches the letter out of his hands faster than he can protest. She opens it with a sharp nail and scans the words rapidly, her face softening for a moment as she gets to the end of the letter. “I presume you must be Ilya?”

“What?” His bewilderment must show on his face, because she snaps her fingers at him.

“Ilya Rozanov, the young man who wrote this letter, yes? Ira’s little hockey player.”

“Yes?”

She gives him another once over before stepping past him to unlock and open the door. She steps inside, taking off her elegant boots while he stands in the doorway. “Well? Are you coming in or not?”

He steps inside in a daze, taking off his shoes and coat mechanically. She leads him down the hall as she turns on the lights, guiding him to sit down at a small table in her kitchen.

“I assume you must have received my letter, yes?” She says as she unearths a gorgeous porcelain samovar from a cabinet and sets it to heat while she carefully sifts out tea to infuse.

“Yes, Madam. I am sorry for reading it when it was not intended for me.”

She makes a noise in her throat. He can’t tell if it’s from amusement or disdain. “If I had known you would be the one to receive it, I might have changed my choice of stationary.” The original letter was certainly something, written on heavy paper and sealed with wax like a conviction. “Do not apologize. It is a far better response than I would have received from your father.”

“Yes, Madam.” He watches as she delicately lifts the teapot off the top of the samovar and pours two cups of tea.

“I hope cherry jam is to your liking.” She spoons a bit into her own cup, stirring leisurely as she gestures for him to take his own.

They sit in a silence that grows more uncomfortable for Ilya as he sips the tea. It’s good, but he can barely taste it. His hands shake a little bit as he places the teacup down, rattling on the saucer.

The Madam lets out a deep exhale. “Young man, I did not invite you into my home to be a skittish little mouse. Calm down, and we will have a conversation.”

This falls into direct opposition with everything he has ever done around authority figures. He feels his shoulders tense, but tries to stop his shaking hands and compose himself.

“Thank you for the tea, Madam. I came to give you the letter, but I do want to apologize that you were unable to attend the funeral. It was kept very small.”

“You do not need to apologize for that,” She says pointedly. Everything about the Madam is pointy. “I was airing my grievances. I do not need apologies from a child to assuage my own guilt.”

“Still–”

“No,” she cuts him off. “I told you we will have a conversation. We will not discuss your father in my home. If you would like, I will tell you about your mother.”

“Please,” he blurts out. “I would like that.”

She hums for a moment, before beginning to weave a story.

He does not go back to her little apartment often. But every year around the anniversary, he receives a letter with an invitation to tea. The second time, he brings Svetlana, and the Madam insists that he bring her every subsequent time.

It’s the Madam he goes to, in the months before he leaves for Boston, to tell her about his little brother who skates at Moskvich, and how he does not want Yuri to become their prize pig, not in this city where his father will try to claim the glory.

She barks a laugh in his face. “Plisetsky, yes? My dear ex-husband has been champing at the bit to steal him for Yubileyny. I will give Yakov a call.”

IV

The fourth time is more sinister. Mostly because they don’t know what happened.

They’re playing Detroit for the first time in preseason when their new rookie, Smirnov decides to test his luck with Roz.

"Мне жаль слышать, что полковник умер! Но ты бы всё равно этого не заметил. Слишком занят в Бостоне." [I’m sorry to hear that the Colonel is dead! But you wouldn’t have noticed that anyway. Too busy in Boston.]

Roz ignores him, thankfully. He has his eyes on the ice, getting ready to face off.

Smirnov comes back five minutes later. "Подумать только: перед смертью ему пришлось увидеть, как ты подвёл нас на Олимпиаде. Полагаю, Кубок ты всё-таки выиграл — но для России это значит немного."  [To think he had to see you fail us at the Olympics before he died. I suppose you got a Cup, but that means little to Russia.]

Roz rolls his eyes. "Продолжай пытаться. Однажды это может сработать."  [Keep trying. It might work one day.] He ignores him for the rest of the first period.

At intermission Cliff asks, “What was that about?”

“Nothing,” Roz says, squirting water into his mouth. “Rookies getting, what was the thing you said? Too big for underpants.”

Cliff has to laugh at that. “Too big for his britches, dude.”

“Is the same,” Roz argues, but his mouth quirks in the way that it does when he fucks up his English on purpose to make Cliff laugh. He’s deflecting.

In the second period, Cliff spreads the word. Smirnov is a little too busy getting slammed into the boards to fuck with Roz. They’re up two points and the crowd is booing them.

In the third, they’re mostly holding out the lead and baiting penalties. Roz is quieter than normal, not chirping as much as he typically does.

In the last two minutes, Smirnov skates right over to Roz and says, "Надеюсь, у твоего брата в Санкт-Петербурге всё хорошо. Его перевели. Я слышал, он отправился туда кого-то искать.” [I hope your brother is doing well in St. Petersburg. He was transferred. I hear he went there looking for someone.]

Roz’ gloves and stick are on the ice in a second. His left hand goes in Smirnov’s jersey, lifting him off the ground, and his right hook knocks Smirnov down to the ground. Roz picks up his gloves and stick from a pile of teeth, before leaning down to say to Smirnov, "Совет тебе: не говори о моих братьях.” [Advice for you: do not speak of my brothers.] He stands back up with his hands held up, calmly taking the five-minute major that the ref calls.

Smirnov has to be helped to his feet, wobbly on his skates. He takes one look at Roz in the penalty box, inspecting his knuckles for chunks of teeth, and goes pale.

Detroit doesn’t manage to score on the power play. Penalty kill for the win.

After the game, Roz is eerily silent in the locker room, packing up efficiently with his bandaged hand.

“You good?” Cliff asks.

Roz bites out a clipped “Yes.” as he starts tapping at his phone frantically. It starts to buzz in his hand, and he swings his bag over his shoulder, already dressed in his game day suit. “Take care of media. You scored, Marly.”

They watch him walk out the door at a fast clip, phone already held to his ear.

“Okay, what the fuck did Smirnov say?” Cliff asks Varkov and Zadonsky. “Did either of you hear anything?”

“He said something about the Olympics in the first period, but Roz wasn’t taking the bait,” Varkov says. “I didn’t hear what he said in the third.”

“Something about his brother, I think,” Zadonsky says, biting his lip. “I couldn’t hear him very well, but I could swear Roz said not to talk about his brothers.”

“I thought he only had one brother,” Vic says slowly. “We had to put him on the do not answer list.”

“Alexei, or whatever his name is,” Cliff says. “I thought Roz cut him off though. He made a big thing of it when he came back from Russia this summer.” 

“Maybe it’s not about his actual brothers. Doesn’t bratva mean brothers or some shit?” Sebbin asks.

“Technically, yes–” Varkov starts.

“MOB TALLY!” Sebbin shouts, throwing his hands up in victory. “Shit, who was taking notes.”

“That’s the A’s responsibility,” Hammer says, clapping Cliff on the back.

“No? I abdicated responsibility for that after ballet class. Who got assigned?”

He looks around at shaking heads.

“Fuck. Fine. We’ll just have to remember until we get back to the whiteboard.”

Ilya’s phone rings in his hand as he waits on his little brother, whispering, “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” into the microphone.

After seven rings, the call finally connects. “Allo?”

“Brátishka, I know it is early, but I need you to check that your doors are locked and your valuables are safe. Right now.”

“What? Ilyusha–”

“Please,” Ilya begs. “I need you to do this.”

“Okay, but I’m at the rink with the geezer right now.”

“Why are you at the rink? It is 4 in the morning in St. Petersburg. Are you overtraining again?”

“I’m not in St. Petersburg.”

Ilya pauses for a second. “...What?”

“I’m in Japan, Ilyusha.”

“Why are you in Japan? Your season has started. You are supposed to be in school and training for qualifiers right now.”

Yuri is silent for a long moment.

“Brátishka, tell me right now or I am calling Dedushka. And Yakov.”

“Fine! The old man ran away after he said he would do my short program choreography. I left to go track him down so I can train for qualifiers for my senior debut, like you said.”

“You just left? Without telling anyone? And who got Vitya to leave St. Petersburg?” Ilya knows exactly why Viktor left, but Yuri is being unnaturally flippant.

“I told Dedushka I was going on a trip with the geezer,” Yuri grumbles. “And it’s the other Yuuri. Katsuki. He’s my rival now that we’re both in Seniors.”

Ah. Yuri's old favorite skater. Ilya knew he was being a little too nonchalant about watching his practice videos this summer.

“Oh,” Ilya says. “Okay. That’s alright. He is safe. But Brátishka, you did not go on a trip with Viktor. You tracked him down and traveled alone. What if he was going somewhere dangerous?”

“I knew where he was going!” Yuri protests. “I’m not stupid. He’s been pining about the other Yuuri for months. He stalked his parents’ resort on social media and flew private. I just hitched a ride. Got my visa from the embassy and everything.”

Ilya has to take some calming breaths. “Okay. Fine. This conversation is not over, alright? I will be calling Viktor later. And Yakov. And Dedushka. But I am glad you are not in St. Petersburg.”

“Wait, why? What happened?”

“You know Mikhail Smirnov, yes?”

Yuri makes a disgusted noise. “Ugh, that asshole. Why?”

“According to him, Alexei got transferred to St. Petersburg. He was looking for someone. Probably you.”

“Huh,” Yuri says, entirely too calm for a teenager whose life might be in danger. “How do you know he was telling the truth though?”

“Because Alexei used to hang around with Vladimir Smirnov, and hired him as an underling in the useless office that he runs. Misha is an asshole, but you know he is not creative. He is not smart enough to invent this.”

“I guess,” Yuri says skeptically. 

“Listen to me, brátishka. This is not a laughing matter. I cut Alexei off this summer, remember? Everything is either in Katya’s trust, with you and Dedushka, or in my accounts. He wants drug money, and he is willing to try and find you to get it.”

“Well he can’t get to me in Japan, probably,” Yuri says. “I’m here for the next twelve days. Is that enough time for him to look and leave me alone?”

“If I know him, he will not just leave it,” Ilya says darkly. “If he does not leave it, will you let me hire you a proper bodyguard?”

“Sergei is fine!”

“Sergei is not fine. Sergei is a big guy you bribed with merchandise to scare Georgi. He is your fan club vice president. He does not know how to prevent our brother, who is a police officer and willing to abuse the system, from getting to you.”

Yuri curses. “Fuck! He told me he was just base level! Vice president! He’s exploiting me for content!”

“Yes, yes, I know this. Why do you think I said he is not fine? Anyway. Will you let me hire you a proper bodyguard?”

Yuri goes silent again. 

“Brátishka?”

“Can you let Dedushka handle it?” Yuri says in a whisper. “A bodyguard, I don’t want to feel trapped. It sucked when you had to escort me in Moscow.”

“Dedushka…” Ilya says, “Are you sure?”

“I know it will worry him. But you need this to stop, Ilyusha. It’s not really about me anymore. You are the golden goose. He is always going to be trying to get to you.”

“I didn’t want you to be involved in this,” Ilya says, dropping his face into his palm. “I know you didn’t want the Rozanov name.”

“I don’t,” Yuri says. “But you have it, like it or not. You have been sustaining the career of the best hockey player and figure skater in the world, and organizing the estate, and managing the leeches. I am involved because we are brothers, and I do not want to leave you to do this alone.”

“Brátishka, you are a child. It is not your responsibility.” Ilya feels exhausted suddenly.

“Ilyusha, I’m 15. I’m old enough to be competing with adults. I’m old enough to know that we have to deal with the problem and not leave it to fester.”

Ilya has to have his own moment of silence. “Sometimes I forget that you are not the little 5-year-old who bit me anymore.”

“Shut up about the bite! I stopped after that, didn’t I? You’re the one who got the stupid thing tattooed!”

“And you are the Ice Tiger of Russia, by your own admission, Brátishka.” Ilya teases.

“Ugh. Call Dedushka, Ilyusha. Let him handle it. And worry about yourself! If Smirnov is coming around with family business, it’s probably not just him.”

“Smirnov is nothing,” Ilya dismisses. “I got him down with one punch. Was like stealing from a baby.”

“Not the point and you know it.”

“I know. I will call him when he is awake. And I will be calling Viktor and Yakov to check in.”

“Fine. Can I go back to practice now? The geezer is on the ice with the other Yuuri and he’s being weird.”

“Vitya is always weird. So is Yuuri. But yes, I’ll let you go. Love you, brátishka.”

“Love you, Ilyusha.”

Chapter Text

V

The fifth time is what really sets them off-kilter.

Roz hasn’t been going out as much this season. He’s been texting Jane a lot more. That’s not the weird thing. Personally, Cliff is happy he’s found someone, even if that someone is in Montreal and he refuses to let anyone meet her.

It’s the times that he does go out that are weird. Take, for example, a night in early March after they win against Toronto, 3-1. 

“Get off your asses, people! We clinched playoff spot and have no games for three days! We are going out tonight! You will sleep on the plane!” Roz’ voice comes down the hall of the hotel as some of the vets peek their heads out.

“You got it, Cap!” Connors yells back. A few thumbs up show through doorframes.

“We’re going to Ultraviolet! Be in the lobby by ten or we leave without you!” Roz yells as he ducks into his hotel room.

At ten, they’re all in the lobby, mostly presentable. Oregan has on a winter coat, and a hat, scarf, and gloves.

“The fuck are you wearing, dude,” Dubek says. “It’s 5 degrees outside.”

“Let him be,” Roz chides. “If he wants to look like tire man he can look like that. We will roll him out the door.”

They leave the hotel laughing and head for the club.

Cliff has to admit, he loses track of Roz a little bit. Sue him. He’s enjoying the night, and Roz is a grown man. 

He gets back to the little table where the Bears have collected their drinks and does a mental headcount after scanning the dance floor. “Where did Roz go?”

“Huh?” Vic yells over the music. “I could have sworn he was here. He was texting someone.”

“Jane?”

“Not in Montreal, dude.”

“Yeah, but he texts her all the time. He’s super sappy about it. I caught him texting her good morning with heart emojis.”

“Jesus, he really is whipped.”

“Well was he texting Jane or not? If it’s Jane he’s probably just outside calling her. If it’s not Jane we have to go find him.”

“Wasn’t Jane,” Hammer says as he sips his beer. “He was acting all secretive, but not coy. Like he was hiding something.”

“I’m telling you it’s mob shit,” Sebbin says. “You’ve all been ragging on me, but think about it. He told us we were going out tonight and set the location and time. I bet he’s making a deal.” 

“Sebbin, you are delusional.”

“Marly, I don’t think you know what that word means. And anyway, if he’s not making a deal, then what is he doing?” Sebbin points towards a table in the corner of the nightclub, where Roz is sitting, surrounded by a group of girls, his mouth in a flat line as they talk to him instead of the flirty smile he usually has on when he pulls. “That is not normal behavior.”

“Dude, if you really think this is mob shit, you can go stealth mode. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Fuck off with that,” Sebbin says. “You all took the bet too. You’re coming with me.”

Stealth mode with a gaggle of drunk hockey players isn’t really stealth mode. It’s ‘try and keep everyone upright and moving in the same direction’ mode. 

They do manage to get closer to Roz’ table, close enough that they can sort of hear what’s happening over the thudding bass.

“...I have given my time and effort to this,” Roz is saying. “Will that be wasted?”

“Of course not,” one of the girls says. Her voice has an ever so slight Russian accent. “We are gathering here and prepared to travel as soon as the day comes.”

“Make good use of my little gifts. He will kill me when he realizes.”

One of the other girls gasps. “Архангел, [Archangel] we will not let that happen. I promise it will remain discreet. Subtle. Our best work yet. It will dazzle on the day.”

“Good. Show me when you are done. The ‘King’,” Roz makes extremely sarcastic air quotes, “will be embarrassed to show his face after this. Have you made contact with the other branches?”

“Yes, Архангел [Archangel] . Our contacts lie in wait.” She has a slightly unsettling grin on her face as she shows him her phone.

“I told you no sabotage. None,” Roz says with a growl in his voice. “This will remain fair from beginning to end. Do not test me on this. It is a disgrace to him if you do this. It is a disgrace to all of us.”

“We will honor it,” a third girl says, pushing her glasses up her nose. “We will remain in the shadows. What about the arena?”

“I know the arena well,” Roz says. “You should already have entry, but if there are any issues, call me. I will take care of it.”

“Will your guest be in attendance?” She asks. “We can prepare for him as well.”

“Ah, no need,” Roz says with a little chuckle. “He has…other loyalties. No need to worry. But our business for tonight has concluded.”

The girls titter, tapping away at their phones. They go to take a selfie, and Roz says, “You know the rules, ladies,” as he slides underneath the table, emerging from the other side. “I will see you all at the end of the month.”

”До свидания, Архангел!” [Goodbye, Archangel!] They shout in sing-song voices to him as he moves out towards the dance floor.

The Bears stand in stunned silence.

“You were right, Seb,” Connors says. “I can’t fucking believe it.”

“He’s organizing a fucking fight club. Holy shit.” Sebbin says.

“Are the girls, like, operatives or some shit? Traveling to wherever this thing is?” Hammer asks. “Why’s he meeting them in Toronto of all places?”

“Never mind that, who’s the King he was talking about? Is this an assassination attempt?” Vic asks faintly. “Are we witnesses to conspiracy?”

“You all need to calm the hell down. Maybe it’s not a fight club. Maybe it’s just been taken out of context,” Cliff says.

“Marly, we were here for the context. I think this is confirmation. They were calling him Ar-kan-hell. I don’t know what that means, but it sounds bad.”

They settle back into stunned silence.

“Then we keep an eye on him. If he’s going somewhere at least one of us follows him. He has an iPhone, right? We keep Find My Friends open to look for him.” Cliff takes a deep breath. “And for the love of God, do not talk about this on the ice.”

Ilya ditches the Bears in under five minutes, searching for the table in the back of the nightclub.

When he gets there, Nastya, Sofi, and Lena are already sitting and sipping cocktails. 

“Sorry I am late,” he says. “Had to convince Marly to wear pants.”

“You are fine,” Nastya says. “Next time tell him to keep the pants off.” She starts ogling Marly, who’s standing at the bar right now.

“Nastya!” Lena shrieks, swatting Nastya’s arm. “Control yourself!”

“What? Tall, dark, and handsome? What’s wrong with that?”

“He is tall, yes,” Ilya says. “The hair is dark but he is pale all over. Very thick eyebrows. And handsome? Yes. But he will have to work to be worthy of you, Nastya.”

She smirks. “I can work with that.”

“Nastyaaa,” Lena whines. “You’re forgetting the meaning of this. We’re here for a reason.”

“Yeah, and that reason is not fucking hockey players. If I see him in the morning, Nastya, I swear to God…” Sofi starts ranting, and the girls squabble like their lives depend on it. Ilya just watches for a few minutes, sipping vodka. 

He coughs lightly to get their attention. “...I have given my time and effort to this. Will that be wasted?” This is a joke, mostly. It’s never a burden to hang out with them.

“Of course not,” Sofi says, snapping to attention. “We are gathering here and prepared to travel as soon as the day comes.” She’s been in charge of travel plans for the Angels ever since she worked out how to get Ilya from a game in Dallas to Skate Canada in under 12 hours.

“Make good use of my little gifts.” He spreads out a handful of photocards of Yuri, from his most recent professional shoot, along with a thumb drive. “He will kill me when he realizes.”

Nastya gasps in exaggerated shock. “Архангел, [Archangel] we will not let that happen. I promise it will remain discreet. Subtle. Our best work yet.” She gathers the cards up and slides them into her purse, intent on making posters for Worlds. And a few enormous cutouts of Yuri’s head.

“Good. Show me when you are done. The ‘King’,” Ilya makes air quotes, “will be embarrassed to show his face after this.” Honestly, half of the reason Ilya is meeting the Angels today is just to hand them photos, specifically so J.J. Leroy will not have the best fan group at Worlds. The J.J. Girls are menaces. The Angels have learned not to mention him by name in Canada. “Have you made contact with the other branches?”

“Yes, ”Архангел” [Archangel] . Our contacts lie in wait.” She has a slightly unsettling grin on her face as she shows him her phone. An Instagram post shows selfies of Yuri’s Angels across the US and Canada. He swipes through, stopping when he sees a group stationed outside of the Detroit Skate Club.

Fuck. It may seem innocent, but Ilya knows his brother’s fans.

Sometimes they get a little too zealous. They nicknamed him Archangel when he found out about them, for Christ’s sake.

“I told you no sabotage. None,” Ilya says with a growl in his voice. “This will remain fair from beginning to end. Do not test me on this. It is a disgrace to him if you do this. It is a disgrace to all of us.”

“We will honor it,” Lena says, pushing her glasses up her nose as she texts in the larger Angels Discord group. “We will remain in the shadows.” God, he loves Lena’s dramatics. They have the same taste in theatre. “What about the arena?”

“I know the arena well,” Ilya says. “You should already have entry, but if there are any issues, call me. I will take care of it.” He really doesn’t want them getting stopped for bringing hundreds of tiger plushies. Thankfully, he knows the security guards at the Garden pretty well.

“Will your guest be in attendance?” Lena asks pointedly. “We can prepare for him as well.”

“Ah, no need,” Ilya says. Shane has his own figure skater to root for. “He has…other loyalties. No need to worry. But our business for tonight has concluded.” He gives them a smile.

The girls laugh before they finish texting the updates to the Discord. They go to take a selfie, and Ilya says, “You know the rules, ladies.” If Yuri finds out that Ilya has been managing his fan club, he’s going to set Dedushka Nikolai on him. He slides underneath the table, emerging from the other side. “I will see you all at the end of the month.”

”До свидания, Архангел!” [Goodbye, Archangel!] They shout in sing-song voices to him as he moves back out towards the dance floor.

+1

The end of March takes forever to arrive. Cliff almost forgets about the whole mob situation until they get back from a two-week roadie and Roz starts acting suspicious.

They get in a little too easily.

By the time they get there, most people are already inside. Whatever event this is has long since started.

Cliff stops by the ticket window just to ask what’s going on, and the attendant, Margaret, hands him a handful of tickets.

“Margie, what are these?” He asks, bewildered.

“Your tickets, hon. Management thought it would be a good idea for you all to show some support for other winter sports, so we have these reserved for you.”

“Huh,” he says. “Winter sports?”

She looks at him like he’s an idiot. He feels like one. “Skating, sweetie. Jesus, you boys don’t pay a lick of attention to anything, do you? Your captain’s been here since we opened. Oh!” she exclaims, leaning down from the window. “He left this with me, told me to give it to you when you all got here.” She hefts an enormous cloth bag over her shoulder and shoves it through the ticket window at him. He barely manages to catch it.

“Margie, the hell is this?”

“It’s gifts, Marly. The bag is marked for security so you can bring it on in.”

“If you say so,” he says dubiously. “Thanks, Margie. I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Have fun, hon!” She shouts at his back as he walks off to meet the boys.

“It’s some kind of skating event,” he says once he gets back to the group. “We had tickets reserved.”

“Oh I think I saw an email about that,” Vic says absentmindedly. “Are we good to go in?”

“Yep.” He hands the bag off to Zadonsky and claps him on the back. “Lead the way, rook. Stealth mode.”

Zadonsky takes the bag and walks in with the stride of a soldier going to war.

They pile in through security, getting waves from the security guards on their way. Muffled music and cheering come from the open doors as the Bears make their way inside.

The seats are nice, at least. They’re pretty close to the ice, where a few guys are doing warm-ups in figure skating costumes.

“A figure skating competition is not what I was expecting,” Sebbin says. “Are they going to fight?”

A little girl in the row in front of them turns around and looks at him with a very strange expression. Two identical faces pop up next to hers, with the exact same look on their faces.

“Have you ever watched skating before?” the first little girl says in accented English.

“They’re performing, not fighting,” the second little girl says. “It’s warm-ups for group 6 right now.”

“It would be funny if they fought, though,” the third little girl says thoughtfully. “Very good publicity for the channel.” She points at the phone in her mom’s pocket.

The other two look at her for a second before maniacal grins spread across their faces.

The second girl, sitting on the left, tugs on her mother’s sleeve. “Okaa-san, can you call Yuuri-san? We need to ask him something.”

The mom sighs. “He doesn’t have his phone, Axel-chan. He’s warming up right now. We can’t distract him.”

“But Okaa-san,” Axel wheedles, tugging on her mom’s hand while her sisters creep closer. “We promise to be quick. It’s just a little thing. Pleeeease…” She extends the e in please just long enough for one of her sisters to successfully snatch the phone.

“No, girls. You promised me that you would be good today, and not try to distract him.” The mom smooths a hand over her daughter’s hair. “Lutz-chan, Loop-chan, don’t think I didn’t notice. Give the phone back and sit down. We’re here to see the skaters perform. Video later.”

The girls grumble as Lutz hands the phone back and the mom guides them back to their seats. 

On the ice, the skaters are leaving, and the Zamboni is coming out to resurface the rink.

“What is this about distractions?” A voice comes from the end of the row, as Roz steps down the stairs, going to the very front of the section.

“Rozanov-san!” The girls shout, popping out of their seats and mobbing Roz. He very admirably stays upright. “We didn’t know you were coming!”

Roz laughs and puts a finger to his lips. “Is a secret, girls. Surprise for Brátishka. I will go sit in the front with my friend, alright, and when he comes out he will be shocked.”

“Did you bring stuffies?” Loop asks suspiciously.

Roz gasps in mock horror. “Is like you don’t know me at all, Loop. Mine are with Shun. I left some for my team,” he points at Zadonsky, holding the bag, “So if you are stealing, you steal from them.”

Cliff feels a shiver go down his spine as the maniacal glint is turned back on the Bears.

“We will flood the ice, girls,” Roz continues, in a conspiratorial tone. “I tell the Angels to bring only the best. If you want poster, go ask Nastya. She is sitting over there.” He points out into the crowd, at a girl holding a poster that is nearly bigger than her.

“But we’re cheering for Yuuri-san today,” Lutz pouts. “She only has Yurio-san.”

Roz crouches down next to her and winks. “A friend told me you were coming all the way here. Tell her it is special request from Archangel, yes? She will know what that means.”

The mom laughs a little as the girls cheer. “You spoil them, Rozanov-san.”

Roz smiles back, a little cheeky. “You know it is not me doing the spoiling, Madonna.”

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Yuuko!” She huffs. “Tell Shun-kun to meet us for dinner after Yuuri-kun is done. I have a lot to ask him about.” She has a scheming look in her eye, just like her daughters.

“Only the Madonna could possibly raise those three,” Roz says. “The Madam would kill me if I said otherwise.” She swats at him lightly, and he sidesteps, just as light. “I will go tell him, but he may be little late. Wants to say hello to Yuuri first. Catch up.”

“Of course he does,” she says dryly. “Don’t get too excited, either of you. It’s not your competition.”

“But you know how it works, Madonna,” he wheedles. “This is the first time they are competing head to head when both of us are here to watch. Is not so fun over video call. I have the advantage, after the GPF,” he says gleefully.

She mutters something under her breath that Cliff can’t make out. “Relax, okay? Just enjoy the performances. Wait until the free skates.”

“Fine, fine,” he says grumpily. “I will go sit down and be boring.” He starts clomping down the stairs once again. 

“Bye-bye, Rozanov-san!” She calls to him while her daughters start to clamber over the seats.

“Sorry, ma’am, I have to ask—how do you know Roz?” Cliff blurts out.

She quirks an eyebrow at him. “He’s a friend of a friend, I suppose you could say. A big figure skating fan. Why, are you friends of his?”

“We’re his team,” Vic cuts in. “He didn’t tell us he liked figure skating.”

“He doesn’t tell many people,” she says. “I only found out this past year, when Shun-kun told us they were friends. He’s been sending gifts for competitions all year because he couldn't make it. The girls were so excited when they found out.”

“And you’re 100% sure it’s not a fight club,” Sebbin says, deadly serious.

“Why would it be a fight club?” She furrows her brow. “I suppose if Yurio-kun got too angry, but this is an international stage…” She descends into muttering. “It is not a fight club.”

“It’s not the mob, guys” Sebbin says breathlessly. “It’s this. We've cracked it.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t explain the tiger, or the phone calls, or the ballet…” Hammer trails off as he looks at Yuuko, laughing hysterically.

“The tiger!” She practically shrieks. “I cannot believe…the tiger. That is so sweet.” She turns to face all of them, including Zadonsky, who has relinquished the bag of tiger plushies to her grinning daughters. “If you watch, it will make sense. I will not ruin the surprise.”

Ilya sits next to Shane as they watch Yuuri finish his short program in first place.

“I see where you get it from,” he says, nudging Shane slightly. 

“Shut up,” Shane says automatically.

“Boring on the outside, the secret seducer on the inside.”

“No.”

“But I think you are the most beautiful man in town, yes? And I am the rogue coming to lift you off your socks.”

Shane wrinkles his nose. “It’s whisk me off my feet, Rozanov. Are you getting it confused with knock your socks off again?”

“Knock your socks off?” Ilya says. “Why would I do that when you like them so much? You do not knock your socks off for anyone. First time I knock your socks off was Vegas.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

Shane turns red as Ilya ever so subtly brings a hand around his back. “We are not doing this right here. I’m winning. My Yuuri is in first.”

“But my Yuri has yet to go,” Ilya goads. “We will see how well your Yuuri can hold on to his spot.”

“He’s got the highest technical difficulty in history on that program. He’s going into the free in first by a huge margin. Your Yuri is going to have to set another world record to come in first,” Shane says, a little smug. “I have nothing to worry about.”

Ilya does have to concede to facts sometimes. That doesn’t mean he has to like it. “We will see.”

The loudspeaker crackles overhead.

“Our last skater in Group 6 is Yuri Plisetsky, performing On Love: Agape.”

 

“After taking gold at the Grand Prix Finals during his senior debut, all eyes are on this young Russian phenom to see if he can repeat the incredible feat here at the World Championships. He has dedicated this short program to his grandfather and his older brother, saying recently that he would never have understood what it meant without them.

 

“It’s been wonderful to see him grow over this season. This short program is a masterpiece of emotional storytelling and technical ability, a testament to this young man’s skill at only 16 years old, our youngest competitor here today.”

A single violin rings through the air as Yuri takes his starting pose.

Ilya watches as his little brother skates one of the best short programs of his life, not a movement out of place.

He’s all grown up now.

And yet, some part of Ilya is still sitting on the kitchen floor while his brother holds a stuffed tiger in his lap, asking him to play.

Yuri finishes with his hands held up to the sky in supplication.

Ilya doesn’t think he’s cheered louder in his entire life.

A wave of tiger plushies goes cascading onto the ice, just as planned, while Yuri takes a well-deserved bow.

“Hey,” Shane pokes him in the side. “Go down.”

“What?” Ilya asks, startled. 

“Kiss-and-cry. Go down.”

“Solnyshko, that is for his coach. They are taking his results.”

Shane smiles. “I know. I texted Yakov to get them to let you down. Go, before he spots you.”

Ilya really wants to kiss his boyfriend. So badly. 

But they can’t right now. The time hasn’t come yet.

He compromises by giving Shane’s hand a squeeze and sprinting down, as the security guard nods at him. 

He skids over to the kiss-and-cry just as the sweepers get out on the ice to pick up Yuri’s plushies. The arena is still cheering.

“Brátishka!” he hollers, and Yakov claps his hands over his ears.

Yuri stands up from where he’s gotten his skate guards on.

“Ilyusha!” He cries out, running over and slamming into him. Ilya lifts him off his feet. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

“A fantastic performance from Yuri Plisetsky, his best so far for the year. The question is, will it be enough to beat Yuuri Katsuki’s On Love: Eros?”

 

“That’ll be up to the judges, Greg. All I can say is that both routines, choreographed by the Living Legend Viktor Nikiforov, were truly polished to the nth degree here at the ISU Figure Skating World Championships.”

 

“Plisetsky is coming off the ice, now, standing with his coach, Yakov Feltsman. What’s that? I’m being told that Plisetsky’s older brother, whom he dedicated this routine to, is in TD Garden with us tonight. Can we get a camera on him?”

 

“Brátishka!”

“Ilyusha! I can’t believe you’re here!”

 

“We might not need to. I think he’s down there with Plisetsky as we speak. Hold on…”

 

“Is that…”

 

“(cheering so deafening that it can be heard from the microphones in the commentator’s box.)”

 

“...That’s the Captain of the Boston Bears, Ilya Rozanov.”

 

“...Rozanov is Plisetsky’s older brother?”

 

“Dear lord.”

 

“That’s a reveal I don’t think anyone saw coming.”

 

“I don’t know, Viktor Nikiforov and Katsuki Yuuri getting engaged was pretty big.”

 

“That wasn’t in the arena, Greg. That was an Instagram post. The local fans are going crazy. Two of the best Russian athletes in the world are brothers, and no one knew before today. Wow. When you put them next to each other, you can really see the resemblance.” 

 

“Looking out now, we can see the rest of the Boston Bears in the crowd, on their feet and cheering. This team loves their captain, and it looks like they came out in force to support him and his little brother.” 

 

“Back to Rozanov and Plisetsky, they’re taking their seats at the kiss-and-cry, alongside Plisetsky’s coach. I don’t think anyone has ever seen Plisetsky this happy after a performance.”

“No matter what, I am proud of you, Brátishka,” Ilya says to Yuri as they wait for his score to come in.

“I know,” Yuri says. “But I’m going to be the best anyway.”

“I don’t know, some of these skaters are doing pretty well…” Ilya teases. He gets an elbow to the ribs for it, and dramatically pretends to fall over before he gets back in his seat. “Kidding, kidding. You will win, Российский «Ледяной тигр» [Russia’s Ice Tiger].” He dumps a plushie in Yuri's lap, one styled after a blue-eyed, seal-point cat. "I brought you a Potya to hold while you are here."

Yuri takes one look and squeezes him in a hug again, before lightly beating him with Potya. Ilya laughs, utterly giddy.

It’s out in the world now. They can’t hide it anymore.

But Ilya will take this over hiding Yuri and Dedushka Nikolai for the rest of his life. He will take it over being the last true scion of the Rozanov family.

It feels like freedom.

He can’t imagine what it will be like when he and Shane come out.

But he hopes it feels something like this.

Chapter Text

2009

Shane Hollander meets Ilya Rozanov for the first time outside a rink in Regina, Saskatchewan, before the 2008 International Prospect Cup.

He comes away with the words, See you at the draft, and thinks, wow, that guy is an asshole.

(Handsome, though. Those piercing eyes and strong square jaw make him look masculine and older than 17, unlike Shane, who feels like he has a perpetual baby face.)

(And he’s very, very good at hockey.)

He tries to focus on his OHL season, his training, his last year of high school, anything but a cocky smirk, cigarette held between full lips as he shakes his hand.

It works, so long as he can avoid watching Rozanov’s tape.

(He can’t. He watches it at night, scribbling notes on a notepad at the family computer, rewinding as Rozanov scores on a backhand, his other hand clenched in his lap.)

In March, he gets a very short break from thinking about it, because the World Junior Figure Skating Championships are being held in Kitchener.

His cousin, Katsuki Yuuri, is the current favorite to win gold. Their family in Hasetsu can’t afford to make the trip across the world, not when Yu-topia Katsuki is the only onsen left in the little town. Yuuri is an independent skater, training on his home rink instead of going to Tokyo or Osaka to join a skate club.

This is his trial run, his audition to see if he’ll be picked up by Celestino Cialdini. The Italian-born coach is one of very few who will coach skaters from all nations, not just his own.

So Shane and his parents pack up for a road trip just as the regular season ends. It’s kind of nice not to be anticipating the playoffs. It’s also kind of terrifying, because his performance is going to determine where he places in the draft. If he’s going to go first.

(If he’s going to beat Rozanov.)

He forces himself to stop thinking about it as they pick Yuuri up from the airport in Toronto, a day before the competition starts.

He looks…terrified, if Shane is being completely honest. They go out to dinner that night, and Yuuri barely says a word.

Later, when they’ve come back to the hotel and Shane’s parents have gone to their own room, Shane asks him, “Are you okay?”

Yuuri squeaks out a nervous laugh. “I am alright, I just…” He wraps his arms around himself. “I wish Vicchan were here.”

Shane will never fully understand why Yuuri named his dog after his idol, but he understands missing him. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He’s a good boy, but traveling alone with him would be hard. If he were here…” Yuuri makes a little noise. “If he were here, then that would mean everyone was here, and I wouldn’t have to miss them at all. Minako-sensei and Nishigori-sensei couldn’t even make it. Airfare costs were too high.” He’s omitting the fact that his original coach, Nobu, dropped him to go work in Osaka two weeks ago. He’s relying on JSF sponsorship to be able to compete at all.

“Well,” Shane says. “I’m here. And Mom and Dad are here. We’ll cheer enough for all of them. It’ll be very annoying. And we’ll be in the kiss-and–cry, right? You won’t be alone.”

“Okay,” Yuuri warbles. He wipes his face with his sleeve. “Thank you, Shun-kun. I know it was a big hassle for you to come.”

“The regular season has ended anyway,” Shane says. “It’s not a hassle for us to come out to support you. And it’s nice to watch figure skating.”

Yuuri hums a little bit, like he doesn’t completely believe it, but he lets it slide. 

Over the next few days, it’s a lot of back and forth from the rink. Shane frantically catches up on his classwork and watches tape when he isn’t hanging out with Yuuri, who’s skating his damn heart out. His mom is on the phone constantly, wrangling Yuuri’s sponsorship deals into workable shape. His dad, on the other hand, is working his way through a vaguely connected network of McGill grads that he’s met in the short time they’ve been here.

Yuuri takes a solid third place after the short programs are done. Shane thinks that he’s going to medal, but Yuuri has been ripping his hair out in their shared hotel room. Shane is doing his best not to be anxious.

So on the last day of the WJFSC, Shane isn’t paying the most attention as he moves down the halls in the belly of the Aud. He’s more focused on getting to the warm-up area to meet his cousin. 

A kid, running down the hall like his life depends on it, slams right into Shane as he turns the corner. Unfortunately for him, Shane is a relatively tall, well-built hockey player. The kid bounces off of him and goes sprawling to the floor, before immediately starting to cuss him out in a language he thinks sounds Slavic. It sounds like the Russian he heard at the IPC.

(It sounds like Rozanov.)

And then, like a crack of thunder on a cloudless day, he hears, “You figure skate now, Hollander? Give up on hockey before draft?”

Shane looks up from the kid on the ground to meet the eyes that have haunted him since the day they first met. 

“Rozanov. What are you doing here.”

Rozanov bends down to the floor in front of the kid, speaking in hushed Russian before helping the kid back to his feet. As he ruffles the kid’s hair, he says, “I am here to watch him. Too young to travel alone.”

The kid makes a disgruntled noise and shoves Rozanov’s hand off his head before complaining in Russian. Rozanov grins down at him and answers in Russian, before saying, “English is needed, brátishka. You cannot always speak Russian.”

The kid scowls. “Fine.”

Rozanov looks back up at Shane. “So, Hollander? You are giving up on hockey?”

“What? No! Of course not!” Shane practically yelps in protest before calming down. “I’m here for my cousin. He’s competing.”

“Ah, so it is like me then,” Rozanov says. “My brother is too young to compete, but he comes with his coach. Dedushka says he needs family to go with him. I have break before playoffs so I come with him.”

Shane has to process that for a second before he says anything. “That is…nice of you.”

“What, you think I am asshole all the time? No, Hollander. I am very nice.” 

“I guess,” Shane says, a little bit at a loss. The kid rescues him from having to respond by tugging on Rozanov’s sleeve and saying something in Russian in an impatient tone.

“Da, brátishka, we will go,” Rozanov says, distractedly. “Hollander. Give me email.”

“What?”

“You are stupid? Give me email. I send you mine. We talk after this. My brother does not want to miss his favorite skater.”

Without really giving permission, he rattles off his email to Rozanov. He watches Rozanov mouth the letters, before grabbing a pen from a nearby table and scrawling it on his own hand.

“Who’s his favorite skater?” Shane blurts out as Rozanov and the kid turn to leave. Rozanov says something to the kid, like he’s repeating the question in Russian.

The kid turns to him and says, “Yuuri Katsuki. We have same name.”

“Oh. That’s my cousin,” he says, and the kid, Yuri apparently, lights up like a Christmas tree. He tugs on Rozanov’s sleeve and starts chattering rapidly. Rozanov responds back as Yuri starts yanking harder, before he looks up at Shane.

“Hollander. My brother wants to meet your cousin. I will find you at banquet. Email after, yes?”

Shane barely gets out a confused, “Okay?” before Rozanov hoists Yuri under his arm and starts tearing off down the hall, back towards the spectator’s entrance. The boy’s legs are swinging, but he looks like he’s used to this happening.

Shane shakes his head a little and goes to meet Yuuri before he goes out for his free skate.

He’s ignoring the impulse to check his email.

In the end, they don’t get to meet after the competition. Yuuri sweeps gold off of a brilliant free skate to Lohengrin and smiles shyly from the podium as the national anthem of Japan is played. Shane tears his eyes away for a second, only to see Rozanov, up in a corner of the arena, ushering his little brother up the stairs. 

There is a man following them in a red and white jacket, and Rozanov is practically shielding Yuri with his whole body. They disappear from view as the man stays in the threshold, yelling expletives down the hall that Shane can hear once the anthem stops playing.

He looks for them at the banquet later, but can’t find them in the crowd.

It’s only after he gets back home that he checks his email.

Well. Not quite what he expected.

At least from what he’s seen of Rozanov. But the guy he met rushing through the halls of the Aud isn’t the loud, asshole Russian hockey player. Or at least not just that.

He seems to be a good brother. And…nice. Like he called himself.

Shane can’t stop himself from sending an email back.

He doesn’t respond back after that, too infuriated. But a month later, he sends a photo of himself with the Centennial Cup.

Rozanov sends back a photo of himself with the Kharlamov Cup.

Shane laughs under his breath when he gets it, and has to stop himself from replying back with a fuck you.

Second pick in the draft.

Second to Rozanov.

The thought presses behind Shane’s eyes as he forces a smile for the camera, fingers curling as he holds them up. Rozanov has that infuriating fucking grin on his face, like he hasn’t been taunting Shane for months over email.

He stands at the reception later, next to his mom as she chats with Montreal’s GM.

“Personally, I’m glad Boston took Rozanov out of the way. Probably more about keeping him in the league anyway. It means we got to steal the real treasure out from under them, eh? We’re very excited to work with you, Mr. Hollander. Can I call you Shane? You’re a real trailblazer, kid. We’re thrilled that Shane is Asian, or Asian-Canadian, really. Breaking barriers all over the ice, you know?”

He tunes the GM out as he talks to his mom about media opportunities, gaze drifting over the room.

There on the balcony, Rozanov stands awkwardly next to a man in a crisp military uniform, alongside Boston’s GM. He looks stiff, more buttoned-up that Shane has ever seen him

All of a sudden, he’s looking down at Shane.

Shane averts his gaze and tries to pay attention to the conversation happening in front of him.

The hotel room is too hot to sleep. Or maybe Shane is just tossing and turning with the thought of second, second, second.

He throws the blankets back and gets up. Stewing on it isn’t going to help.

He throws on exercise gear and goes down to the hotel gym, hopping on one of the stationary bikes. The cardio helps, at least a little bit.

The door creaks open, and Rozanov walks in, cocky as you please, stopping at the bike right next to Shane’s.

He starts riding, just a tick faster than Shane. 

Shane bumps his resistance up a touch and keeps pushing.

Rozanov goes even higher. Soon they’re both riding at full effort, unwilling to be the first to stop.

Eventually, Shane has to stop. He sits up, pacing himself down to something a little bit more moderate, and gets down to the floor, legs shaking. Rozanov follows after him, sprawling his legs out as he drinks from his water bottle, panting.

“What a fucking day,” Rozanov says.

“Yeah,” Shane says, “totally.”

“I told you you would not beat me in draft.” That smug grin is back on Rozanov’s face.

“Oh fuck you dude,” Shane retorts, but he’s too tired for it to have real venom behind it.

“Sorry,” Rozanov says, like he really doesn’t mean it.

“You’re not, but it’s fine.” It is fine, and Shane will keep telling himself that until the day that it feels like it.

“Montreal is nice, yes? You like it there.”

“It’s good, yeah. My mom is a big Voyageurs fan.”

“Boston is nice too?” Something about the way he says it has Shane listening closer, like it’s not just Rozanov chirping him.

“It’s good there. People like it. If I were going to college instead of the draft, I might have gone there." It is kind of true. Shane’s teachers mentioned schools that have good hockey programs. Some of them might have been in Boston. But Shane has always had the MLH as the greater goal. The only goal, really.

“Oh, smart boy,” Rozanov teases, before sobering a little bit. “I thought about college, little bit. But hockey was…better. More opportunity.”

There’s things he’s not saying there, but Shane doesn’t know if he can press it. “I get that.”

“We will be seeing each other often, yes?”

“I mean, we’re both Atlantic Division, so yeah. And Boston and Montreal have that old-school rivalry. 4 games a season, plus playoffs.” Shane can feel his mouth running dry as he keeps talking. Almost as if in response, Rozanov holds his water bottle out.

Shane lets it hang there until Rozanov starts shaking it, like he's saying come get it.

Their fingers brush as he takes the bottle before squirting water into his mouth. That slight contact of their sweaty hands feels like a shock, an abrupt realignment of the things Shane knows are true about the world.

As Rozanov mouths, “More,” at him, Shane can’t help the thought that flits through his brain, wondering what those lips would feel like on his own. What it would feel like to crawl over and straddle Rozanov, feel those powerful legs under his own and run his hands over his shoulders and chest and neck and…

Fuck. Focus. Rozanov is saying something.

“...send me emails this year, yes?” Rozanov is looking expectantly.

“Uh, yeah. Sure. I guess.”

“You guess? Is simple question, Hollander.”

“Alright, I’ll email you, Rozanov,” He says, annoyed. He leans forward, passing the water bottle back.

Rozanov grabs it, his hand brushing over Shane’s for longer than it has to. “Good. I will send you photos of all my wins with Dynamo.”

“Fuck. Off,” Shane says, but he can’t help the chuckle that bursts forth.

Rozanov laughs along with him. He looks happy, happier than he did when they got their picture taken with their jersey, much happier than he was on the balcony with his father and Boston’s GM.

As Shane stands up to start heading back to his hotel room, he can’t help but feel a little bit lighter.

He didn’t get the first pick. He didn’t beat Rozanov.

But he talked to him, and for the first time in a long while, didn’t feel like he was too awkward to keep the conversation going. Like he was being evaluated as Shane Hollander, the hockey player, instead a normal guy.

He flops down on his bed after showering with a solid thump.

The thoughts start creeping back in. Not the persistence of second, second, second, but what he was thinking about in the gym.

Look. Shane has a girlfriend. He’s done things. He’s not, like, a total virgin or anything.

But sitting in that gym today with Rozanov felt like something else. Something more vivid, for lack of a better term.

It’s not like Shane has any problems with gay people. Yuuri is gay. And Yuuri has simultaneously the sweetest and most insane crush on his idol. Shane has seen the posters that grow in number every time they make a trip to Hasetsu. 

But Shane? Hasn’t felt anything like this before, for a boy or a girl. Not even for Jessica, who broke up with him because she didn’t want a boyfriend who ‘wasn’t even around’. He thought he might be broken, a little bit, for not wanting to do what the other guys did, for not going out, for not meeting with girls in hotel rooms and at parties. 

Even though it’s the wrong person, the wrong time, the wrong everything, it’s still a little bit of comfort that he can feel it, actually. That he isn’t the robot they call him all the time.

He pushes down on the thought harshly, and goes to sleep thinking of the Stanley Cup Champions from 1893 to now.

Shane looks Rozanov in the eye after winning the International Prospect Cup and says, “Told you you’d enjoy conceding.”

Rozanov huffs a little laugh, but it’s broken in a way that makes Shane feel a pit of guilt start to rise. He isn’t making eye contact with the man in the uniform, staring down from the stands.

Shane cannot be feeling bad for the guy who beat him in the draft. He simply cannot.

But the guy he’s been chirping over email for the past 9 months? Yeah. He feels a little bad, especially as he watches Rozanov’s posture get better, not worse, as he skates off the ice.

It's not enough to put a damper on his mood as he celebrates his team, but he makes a note to send an email to the guy.

2010

In June, Shane gets a message from Rozanov that he isn't expecting. They've chatted occasionally, but it's mostly little things, like their repeated Cups.

At the end of the night, after the shoot, and the showers, and Rozanov coming to his hotel room, Shane just breathes out, “This is such a bad idea.”

Rozanov, laying next to him, just laughs. “Very bad idea.”

“You aren’t going to tell anyone, are you?”

“Who am I going to tell, Hollander? Is bad idea here, worse idea in Russia.”

Shane puts his head in his hands. “Oh god, I didn’t even think about that. Fuck. This is fucked.” 

Rozanov turns on his side to face Shane. “Relax, Hollander. We will not tell anyone, okay? It will be fine. No one will know.” He starts getting up to gather his clothes. “I have early flight in the morning.”

Numbly, Shane says, “So do I.” He watches as Rozanov gets dressed again, the leather jacket shrugging over his tank top. Rozanov hesitates for a second, looking at Shane on the bed, before he walks back towards the door.

“See you in October, Hollander.”

“See you in October.”

Chapter Text

In the third period, Shane faces off with Rozanov for the first time since the 2009 IPC.

“Shane Hollander,” Rozanov says with a grin. “Funny to see you here.”

“Shut up. I’m not doing this right now.” Their sticks tap aggressively as the ref holds the puck out.

“Will you disappoint them?”

“Nope.” The puck hits the ice and Shane smacks it over to Hayden instantly before tearing off from the face-off dot.

When the goal horn blares, he glances over to Rozanov. There’s a shock there, a little bit of dumbfounded outrage, but also an amusement lingering underneath.

Later, at the media scrum, the reporters are aggressive.

“Mr. Hollander, during tonight’s game you both won a face-off and made a goal against Ilya Rozanov. That had to feel pretty good, I imagine?”

“Uh…I’m happy with any goal I can get.”

“But one off of Rozanov?” The reporter presses.

“I’m happy with any goal. Whatever makes the score go up.”

“What about the face-offs?”

“I’m just here for the Voyageurs. I’m here to help my team win. Details like that don’t matter to me.”

“What do you think about the ongoing comparisons to Tiger Woods and Serena Williams? Do you think you share similar challenges?” 

God. Shane hates when they do this.

“Obviously, Mr. Woods and Ms. Williams are both phenomenal athletes. For me, I would say that my top priority is hockey. This is my first year with Montreal, and I’m excited to bring my best with them.”

The reporter makes a disappointed face, but lets him go.

It’s not like Shane doesn’t get the comparison. But god, sometimes it’s exhausting to constantly have to defend his place as the only non-white guy in the room.

Shane knocks lightly on the door of room 1315, looking over his shoulder. The rooms around them seem vacant for the most part.

Rozanov opens the door quickly and ushers him inside while saying, “Hollander, why are you so boring in interviews? All ‘it doesn’t matter, I am just happy to win’.”

Shane pauses for a second as he parses that sentence. “Were you watching that? I just did that interview before I came here.”

“No.”

Shane sits on the bed and just looks at Rozanov for a second.

Rozanov throws his hands up. “Fine, yes, I saw it. Was on the news. I flipped past because it was boring.”

“It’s not boring. I’m giving the answers I need to give.”

“Ughhh,” Rozanov drags a hand down his face. “They ask me all these stupid questions and I just say no. Or yes. You don’t have to do all this…” he flicks his hand irritably. “...what is word for sucking up?”

“...Pandering?”

“Yes! Pandering.”

“It is not pandering! And speak for yourself! You’re all one word answers until suddenly it’s ‘I’m going to score 50 goals’.”

“боже мой [My god], Hollander, is joke. I know I will pass forty goals, so I say fifty. Everyone laugh and go home.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to be an asshole about it. I’m doing my best here, and every other day I hear you have some new comment on me.”

Rozanov flops back and drags a pillow over his face before saying something into it.

“I can’t tell what you’re saying like that.”

He takes the pillow off of his face. “They talk too fast, Hollander. I am trying to translate and answer at same time. Sometimes I just say something, and then they publish and make about you. Same story every time.”

“Oh,” Shane says, deflating a little bit. “...But you talk to me just fine. And you can write well, from what I’ve seen in our emails.”

Rozanov huffs a laugh. “Yes, because you are good Canadian boy who speaks clearly and slow for me. Is easy for me to think when you speak. The emails too, I have time to think. And I have dictionary. Is easier to write than to talk.”

“I don’t get how you chirp so well then. I mean, not to me, but people give up penalties so easily for you.” Shane is kind of jealous of this. All he really has to rely on are his hockey skills and the fact that he ignores what people say to him on the ice unless it’s his team.

Rozanov plays a whole other game.

“I cannot give up my secrets so easily, Hollander,” Rozanov teases, sitting up and poking at Shane’s side. “You are little baby bird, trying to learn to chirp.”

“No I am not!” Shane yelps as Rozanov goes to poke him again. Stupidly, he goes to tackle Rozanov, which sets them rolling and wrestling on the bed. 

Rozanov lands with his legs over Shane's hips and traps his hands over his head. They just breathe there for a second, Rozanov staring into Shane’s eyes, their noses almost touching.

Shane’s gaze flicks to Rozanov’s lips, slightly open and panting.

This is such a terrible idea.

Shane presses up and kisses Rozanov, and the hold goes lax as Rozanov meets him, licking into his mouth, his hand dropping to crawl up underneath Shane’s shirt.

An hour later, Shane stares up at the ceiling in silence.

“Fuck.”

“Yes, is what we did, Hollander.”

“We can’t do this again.”

“You say that last time and yet here we are.”

“Oh god,” Shane says, sitting up. “When is Marleau coming back?”

Rozanov checks his phone. “Not for a while. They went to second bar after I came back to hotel.”

“Wait, did you tell them I was coming?” Shane’s heart rate starts to pick up.

“No, Hollander, I tell them I have girl coming to hotel. They slap me on the back and call me dog before they let me go.”

“Oh,” Shane says, going quiet. A weird feeling coalesces in his gut at the thought. “Okay.”

Logically, he knows that he’s the one who said they had to hide this. A girl coming up is good cover for their…activities.

It still feels like there’s something sharp sitting in his rib cage.

Rozanov turns to face him. “Relax. I tell them I have to call my family. They let me go.”

Shane breaths out a sigh of relief and doesn’t know why he’s doing it. “Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Call your family?”

Rozanov rolls his eyes a little bit. “Ugh, my stupid brother called me. We talk. I hang up because he is asshole.”

“Kinda rude to call a little kid an asshole,” Shane says. “He didn’t seem like one when we met.”

Rozanov sits in silence for a second before he starts laughing uproariously. “боже мой [My god] , you think I call тигрёнок [tiger cub] an asshole? You must think I am horrible person. No, Hollander, my older brother. He wants money.”

“Oh!” Shane says. “Shit, that sucks actually. He didn’t even ask you how you’re doing?”

“Of course not, Hollander, that is not what we do.” Rozanov flops onto his back. “Is my job, to send money back home. I have account for Dedushka and Brátishka so my father and asshole brother cannot touch it. I buy my car and my condo. I keep little bit for here, for what I need. Rest goes back to Moscow. Father has bought new house with it, but Alexei still wants more money.”

Shane thinks about his mom, organizing countless brand deals and not taking a cent beyond the 5% stipulated in their contract. He thinks about his dad, and the significant amount of his Treasury Board salary that went into paying for Shane's hockey equipment and fees and travel as a kid.

He thinks about paying off their mortgage, and them refusing when he said he would buy them a new car with his ELC bonus.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly.

“Is not your fault,” Rozanov says back, equally soft. “Would be the same if I was in Russia, too.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” Shane says, almost surprised by the vehemence in his own voice. 

“Me too.”

They lay in silence together for a few more moments before Shane starts to get up and get dressed again.

“Hollander,” Rozanov says as Shane starts walking towards the door. “You say we cannot do this again, but I do not know if we will stop meeting.”

He is right. The second Shane sees Rozanov these days, he can’t stop thinking about it. He wants to keep seeing him, even though he shouldn’t.

Rozanov continues, “We can just do emails. Just be friends, if you want. But if you ever want this,” he gestures between them, “again, give me your phone.” He holds out his hand.

Shane, feeling reckless, hands it to him. Rozanov starts tapping away at the keys. “I give you my phone number. If you want this, send room number or address there. More secure.”

Shane takes his phone back as Rozanov holds it out, the plastic whispering against the fabric of his jeans as he pockets it. “Okay.”

“You do not have to do anything,” Rozanov says. “It is just there.”

“Who says I won’t do anything?” Shane gives him a smile, as cocky as he can make it, and Rozanov laughs as Shane checks the hallway before sneaking out.

2011

“Here we are for the MLH All-Stars Weekend in Nashville, Tennessee, and the theme this year is Team Hollander versus Team Rozanov. Oops! Sorry, I read that wrong. It's Team North America versus Team Europe.”

“It's not subtle. Anytime the league can figure out a way to get these two kids in each other's faces, they're gonna do it.”

Shane has to hold his eyes open as the cameras flash, trying not to blink and have his face look awful in the photos.

“Ilya, you are having a legendary rookie season so far. Both of you are, really. You mentioned earlier this season that you intend to score 50 goals this year. As of today, you’ve scored 28, and we’re in the middle of February. Still planning on a 50-goal campaign?”

Rozanov leans up to the mic. “Yes.”

“Shane, similar question for you: You’ve scored 31 goals so far this season. Any thoughts on how the season will end up for you guys?”

Keep it neutral. “No, it’s still February and I’m taking it one day at a time.”

“Question for Ilya first, but it'll be the same for Shane. Boston is an Original Six franchise, but one that's struggled to get to the playoffs for the past 3 seasons. How much pressure do you feel from the fans and from the hockey world in general, to restore Boston to its former glory? And how much of that do you take on personally?”

Shane looks over at Rozanov staring blankly at the reporter.

They’re asking him if he’s taking on the responsibility to rebuild his team, when they’ve been in the MLH for less than six months at this point.

They talk too fast, Hollander. I am trying to translate and answer at same time. Sometimes I just say something, and then they publish and make about you. Same story every time.

Fuck it. 

Shane leans up to the mic. “Sorry, not to jump the gun here,” he glances over at Rozanov and gets a faint nod, “but with Rozanov's permission, I know it's only been two seasons since Montreal's made the playoffs, but I think I get the idea. Look, my mom is the world's biggest Voyageurs fan. She's obsessed. And like all Voyageurs fans, she wants us to be back in the playoffs regularly, and she wants us to win some cups.” He paces his words out, tries to be as clear as he can. “And I want the same thing. I want to be in the playoffs, and I want to win some cups. I feel pretty aligned with the fans, 'cause we want the same thing. And at this point, it's my job to take that personally.”

“Ilya?”

“What he said.” As the room laughs, Shane feels a foot tap against his own, and the distinct feeling of being in on the joke for once.

“Our final question, and this is for both of you. You two are the newest members of the age-old Boston-Montreal rivalry. Are you feeling a new intensity in your games against one another?”

Before Shane can speak, Rozanov leans into the mic. “Is same as always. Hollander and I, we have been playing each other since juniors. We are just playing with different teams now. Same game.”

Shane jumps in. “Uh, yeah. We’ve been playing at the same level for a long time, and I think I can speak for the both of us when I say we’re both committed to playing hockey as it’s meant to be played. Just two teams on the ice, doing their best to score.”

“Yes. We agree on this, Hollander.”

The cameras flash with a new intensity as the journalists scribble their words down and the PR officials signal that the conference is coming to an end.

“And here's the shot accuracy competition, featuring, you guessed it, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov. The record for this event, currently held by the New York Admiral's Scott Hunter, is 4 takedowns in 8 seconds.” 

“давай! [Yeah!]” Rozanov shouts as soon as he sees the time on the scoreboard. Shane can see the glint of his grin as he skates past.

“And Rozanov breaks the record. There you go! 

“He's a big kid with a big shot.”

Shane hops the boards. Skates out to the line.

Breath.

Aim.

Shoot.

Reset.

“That was something else, I'll tell you that!”

“Let's go!” Shane cheers as he skates back to the bench. The grin on Rozanov’s face is gone, mouth set in a contemplative moue.

“Shane Hollander just shaved over a second off the record that Ilya Rozanov just set. If that isn't a good night and good luck, I don't know what is.”

“Good job.” Rozanov calls over from the other bench.

“Thanks.”

“You have fun last night?”

“Last night?”

“With your team. Get dinner, get drunk?” Shane gives him a look. Rozanov just quirks an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I had fun, but you know I don’t drink.” Rozanov rolls his eyes at that. “You?”

“Oh yeah, it was great. No stupid Americans, no boring Canadians to harass me about drinking to get out of bets…” he wiggles his eyebrows.

“So, what, just a bunch of Finnish guys talking about the cousins they're in love with?” Shane shoots back, feeling vindicated when Rozanov snorts.

“You are finally learning, Hollander. Only took two years of my humble guidance.”

The “Fuck you, dude,” comes out reflexively, but Rozanov chuckles anyway, blowing a raspberry in response.

“Think I am going to bed early tonight. Really prepare for the game.” Rozanov winks as he hops the boards and skates off.

The fizzy feeling in Shane’s chest disperses slightly when he hears Scott Hunter say, “Nice shooting, rook.” 

“Thanks.”

“Glad to see Rozanov didn't hold my record for more than a minute. What did he want, by the way?” Hunter looks at him like he can see straight through Shane’s brain.

Shane blushes a little bit. “Nothing–-uh, we had a stupid bet going over the shot accuracy contest. Loser buys the winner a drink, but we’re not old enough in the US, so it kind of ended up not happening.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Hunter says. “You could have made him buy some real top-shelf shit.”

“It’s fine. I don’t drink anyway.”

“Still, it's good to see that asshole taken down a peg,” Hunter says, still with that annoyingly perceptive gaze. “Lucky me, I'm in the room next door to him at the hotel.”

Holy shit.

They’re fucked.

Shane hops the boards as his name is called, and tries to forget as he sets up for the Fastest Skater race.

Shane knocks on the door of room 1221 as quietly as he can manage. As soon as Rozanov opens the door he rushes in and gets the door locked behind him.

“Is someone chasing you?” Rozanov says, like this is funny.

“We’re fucked. We’re so fucked.” Shane puts his face into his hands.

“Slow down. Are you alright?” Rozanov comes up, hands ghosting over Shane’s arms. The contact is grounding and also tingly at the same time.

“Scott Hunter knows,” Shane says into his hands.

Rozanov laughs, derisive. “Sorry. You say that Old Man Hunter knows? The dinosaur?”

“It’s not funny, Rozanov! He’s staying in the next room. I mean, he’s not there now because I saw him downstairs, but…” He muffles a groan into his hands. “He was saying some things to me on the ice earlier and looking at me and I was just…”

“Okay! Breathe, Hollander. What did he say?”

“I said something about the bet and he was like, ‘It’s good to see that asshole taken down a peg. Lucky me, I'm next to him at the hotel.’”

Rozanov starts laughing again. Really hard. Shane takes his hands off his face.

“Stop! It’s not funny! He could put us in actual, real life danger!”

“Hollander, you are freaking out over nothing,” Rozanov says, his laughter finally slowing down. “He is always mad at me after I tell him he needs more friends at our last game. He knows nothing.”

“But–”

“He is loneliest gay man in the world, Hollander, because he cannot see when other people are gay.”

“Wait, you think Scott Hunter is gay?” The confusion startles Shane out of spiraling further.

“I know Scott Hunter is gay. Have you seen how he looks at men? Very quick, like he is trying to hide something. You and I are better about this.” Rozanov gestures. 

“But he’s Scott Hunter,” Shane protests. “Captain America, you know? He dated a girl back in the day, I thought…”

“He may be dinosaur, but he is gay dinosaur,” Rozanov says firmly. “Trust me, I know these things. Is how I knew about you.”

“How exactly did you know about me?” Shane asks, morbidly curious. If it’s something he can stop doing…

“You shook my hand twice in two minutes, the day we met. Otherwise, it is hard to tell. You do not look at men like that very much. Only me, I think, in the showers. That is when I knew for sure.”

“Oh,” Shane says. “Okay. I thought it would be worse than that.” Everything he said is stuff Shane has only ever done around Rozanov, which is a little embarrassing. 

Rozanov's mouth quirks up on the left. “Is subtle, Hollander. I know you now, so is easier to tell, but most people are not me. You are fine.” His hands pause where they’ve been running over Shane’s arms. “Are you good now?”

Shane takes a second to think about it.

“Yes.” He steps forward to get chest-to-chest with Rozanov and kisses him right on the mouth.

"And the nominees for Rookie of the Year are:

Shane Hollander, Montreal Voyageurs

Vincent Lemaire, Minnesota Nomads

Ilya Rozanov, Boston Bears.”

“The 2011 Rookie of the Year is: Shane Hollander, Montreal Voyageurs!”

Shane feels the joy of winning course through his veins as he lifts the trophy over his head.

“That better just be ginger ale, rook,” Scott Hunter says, leaning against the bar.

Rozanov thinks Scott Hunter is gay. And that he doesn’t know anything.

“It is, Mr. Hunter. I wouldn't indulge in front of you,” Shane says, still clutching his trophy.

Hunter huffs a laugh. “Congrats, man.”

“Thanks.” 

“Uh, what would you say if me and some of the other old fucks wanted to do some shots with the three rooks?” Hunter asks “Would you be into that?”

Be normal. Don’t be weird. “Fuck yes, I would.”

“OK. I think that’s Lemaire over there. Where's your boy Rozanov?”

FUCK. 

Your boy Rozanov?

YOUR boy Rozanov?

Be normal. Be normal. Ignore it.

“Who?” Fuck. You are a certifiable idiot, Shane Hollander.

“What?!?” Scott Hunter says a little too loudly.

“Sorry, that was a joke. I don’t know where he is.”

Scott Hunter breathes a sigh of relief. “Jesus Christ, rook, don’t do that. I thought you concussed yourself or something.” He looks over to where Eric Bennett is bringing Lemaire over. “No worries, then. I’m sure someone else grabbed him.”

The bartender lines up shots on the bar.

Shane thinks he sees Scott Hunter give him a onceover, but that might be a trick of the light.

The shots go down. Not easily, but they do go down.

Eventually, he stumbles his way up to the roof.

Rozanov is standing by the edge, smoking a cigarette.

“I don’t know if it’s worth jumping over,” Shane says, slurring just a tiny bit.

Rozanov turns to him, holding the cigarette out over the railing. “The party is over then, yes?”

“No,” Shane gestures. “Just needed some air.” He comes up next to Rozanov and slumps on the railing, the cool metal radiating through the sleeves of his suit.

“You are drunk,” Rozanov says in an amused tone.

“I am not,” Shane says. “I don’t drink.”

“Oh, you are drunk, Hollander. It was big night for you. Whatever could make Shane Hollander drink, I wonder.” He brings the cigarette up to his lips and takes another drag.

“Coulda gone to either of us,” Shane says. “Why are you hiding up here?”

“It went to you, Hollander, leave it at that,” Rozanov says, a little harsher than he normally is. “I am not hiding.”

“Fuck you, you are hiding. What, are you sulking ‘cause I won one thing? You’ve won everything else. First draft pick. International Prospect Cup.”

“Not true,” Rozanov objects. “I lost second Prospect Cup and my father tried to beat me with belt. Now I go home in three days, and have nothing to show for it.”

His father seems fucking awful, in Shane's opinion. “You went to the playoffs in your first year, Rozanov. That’s pretty big.”

“Did not win the playoffs, did I?” He’s right, and Shane doesn’t have anything to say to that.

They stand in silence for a few moments.

“You’ll see Yuri when you go home, right? And your dedushka? It’s good to see family, isn’t it?”

Rozanov laughs, but it’s a cracked, broken thing. “Not all family. I have to sneak out to see them, anyway.”

“Wait, why?”

“I told you brátishka means little brother, yes?”

“Yeah…”

“This is true, but only half-true. He is my father’s son, but not my mother’s son. My stepmother had him, but gave him to Dedushka as baby. Before she married Father. Now, they live apart, and I see them only when my father wants to convince him to be a Rozanov. He does not want that, so,” Rozanov gestures with his free hand and takes a drag. “I sneak out, when I am not training.”

“Couldn’t you buy a place and move out?” Shane suggests.

“Oh yes, Hollander, tell me how I will do this when they have already spent all my money. I cannot just have place ready like dropped hat. Takes time.”

“Fuck you, I’m trying to help,” Shane cries out.

“I know,” Rozanov nearly shouts, before quieting down. “I know.”

“I thought we…” Shane trails off. “Look. I’m sorry. That sucks.” He takes another look at Rozanov, still staring out over the city. “I guess…Never mind. I’ll see you next season.” He turns to walk away.

Rozanov catches his wrist and crowds him towards a wall, hiding them from view as he kisses Shane, deep and slow. It tastes like cigarettes, and the tequila Shane had earlier, and something he's only vaguely beginning to identify as Rozanov.

“Promise you will email me over the summer?” He asks as he pulls away, lips swollen and wet.

“I promise,” Shane says, a little dazed. “See you next season, Rozanov.”

“See you next season, Hollander.”

Chapter Text

2011-2013

PHONE CALL TRANSCRIPT: S. Hollander -> Y. Katsuki
Date: 11 December 2013
Duration: 06:42.46

CALL INITIATED

Y. Katsuki: Moshi-moshi?

S. Hollander: Hey. It’s Shun. Are you okay?

(pause)

Y. Katsuki:...No. Not really.

S. Hollander: What happened? You were doing really well.

(pause)

Y. Katsuki: (quiet, voice cracking) Vicchan is dead.

S. Hollander: Fuck. I’m so sorry.

Y. Katsuki: Mari-nee called me right before I went on for my free.

S. Hollander: ...Holy shit.

Y. Katsuki: And then I went to the banquet and blacked out. I don't remember what happened that night.

S. Hollander: Holy shit. Were you, like, medically okay afterwards? Did anyone check in on you? What if you had gotten alcohol poisoning? Yuuri, I’m so sorry this happened.

Y. Katsuki: It’s not your fault. I'm alright now. It was just…bad timing. And then I couldn’t hold it together on the biggest stage of my life.

S. Hollander: I don’t think anyone could expect you to be at your best after hearing that. And you’ve come back from bad things before. I’ve seen you do it.

(pause)

Y. Katsuki: ...I don’t think I can do it anymore. I’ve already spent so much time away from home.

(pause)

Y. Katsuki: And I feel like I’ve let you all down. Yuna-oba worked so hard to get me the chance to work with Ciao Ciao and I have nothing to show for it.

S. Hollander: You are one of the top six male figure skaters in the world, Yuuri. That’s not nothing.

Y. Katsuki: It doesn’t change the fact that I fucked up so badly at the GPF there was a hundred point difference between me and first place. I needed to prove that I could bring home gold, and I haven't.

S. Hollander: Yuuri…

Y. Katsuki: I think I’m going to step away from the rest of this season. Focus on finishing my thesis. Graduate.

S. Hollander: What about next year? What about the Olympics?

Y. Katsuki: JSF won’t let me go to the Olympics. Not after this. For next year, I don’t know yet.

(pause)

Y. Katsuki: This might be it. We’ll see. But I don’t think I can compete without remembering the fact that he died, and I wasn’t there and I disgraced him by failing. He probably didn’t remember me anymore, by the end of it. I was just a face on video call.

(pause, sniffling)

Y. Katsuki: What if it had been Kaa-san or Tou-san? or Mari-nee? Minako-sensei? Yuna-oba, David-oji, or you, Shun-kun? Or Yuuko-chan, or Nishigori-san, or the girls?

S. Hollander:...fuck. Fuck.

(pause, sniffling)

S. Hollander: Okay. Promise me we’ll still skate together, alright? I really don’t want you to lose this. You love it so much.

Y. Katsuki: Of course. I need to figure out what I’m going to do with this degree anyway. 

S. Hollander: Sports Physiology, right?

Y. Katsuki: Yeah. (wet laugh) Maybe I'll go home. Or maybe I’ll come up to Montreal and be your cross-training coach, how about that?

S. Hollander: You’re welcome anytime. It beats working with some of the Voyageurs trainers by a long shot.

Y. Katsuki: Thanks, Shun-kun.

(pause)

S. Hollander: Of course, Yuuri-nii. Take care of yourself, alright? I’m going to miss you at the Olympics.

Y. Katsuki: I will. I’m sorry to miss them.

S. Hollander: Okay. I have to run. Love you and miss you.

Y. Katsuki: Love you and miss you.

S. Hollander: Bye.

Y. Katsuki: ...Bye.

CALL TERMINATED.

"Wow, this Montreal girl works you up, brother." Ilya is broken out of the haze of frantic texting by Marly’s drawl.

"Shut your idiot face, Marly," Ilya says, not looking up from his phone.

"You're straight up blushin', Roz," Marly retorts, as the rest of the Bears start paying attention.

Ilya, blushing, says, “No. Never in my life have I blushed. Russians do not do this.”

Vic, on his other side, says, “Her name’s Jane!” 

The locker room whoops and cheers as Ilya frantically covers his phone before stuffing it into his bag.

“Montreal Jane!” Marly crows. “We’ve got a name, boys. When are you bringing her around, Roz?”

“There will be no bringing around. You all do not deserve to meet Jane. She is too beautiful and smart to be hanging around idiot hockey players.” Little do they know.

That gets a lot of protest. But then Marly looks at Ilya and says, “Why’s she hanging around you, then?”

“I do not know,” Ilya says, because really, he doesn’t know how it happened, how it came to be like this, where Hollander will talk to him for mere moments and Ilya feels a want so deep and painful that it resides in his bones. “I am very lucky. You all will never be so lucky.”

“Nah, fuck off, Roz,” Vic says. “I bet she’s married.” That sets off the hullabaloo again.

Hullabaloo is a good word. Ilya found it in the dictionary. He ignores the Bears practically rioting as he gets the rest of his gear on and starts retaping his stick.

After the game, there’s an address blinking up at him on the screen of his phone.

It's a little bit of a blessing that the Bears lost this game, much as Ilya hates to admit it. No one is in a mood to go out, so it's easier for him to slip away.

The driver drops him off in the alley outside.

The back door opens, and there Hollander stands, enshrouded in a soft-looking blue hoodie.

“You will murder me?” Ilya asks, a little bit teasing and a little bit lingering nervousness. 

This is the first time they aren’t meeting in a hotel room, after all.

“What–no! Get in!” Ilya walks forward into the stairwell.

“You are so mean to me, Hollander,” Ilya laments. “Leaving me to wait so long on my own.”

“Shouldn’t have sexted me before the game then,” Hollander quips back.

“Were you hard?” Ilya wiggles his eyebrows. Hollander doesn’t say anything, but the blush that rises in his face is indicator enough. “You were hard, weren’t you, in the middle of the locker room. For the whole game?”

“Shut up.”

“You missed me~” Ilya sing-songs as Hollander bolts up the stairs and he sprints after him. “Do not worry, Hollander, I will test what you said. We will see if you were right.”

He has so many plans that get ruined once they reach the top floor, and he gets distracted by the full apartment in front of him. 

“Nice place, Hollander.”

Hollander scuffs his shoe a little bit on the floor as he steps out of them, placing them on a neat rack by the door. “It’s my investment property. I’m still living closer to the rink, and a couple of the other guys are my neighbors, so I thought this might be better than us trying to meet in a hotel room all the time.” He clears his throat. “The bottom floor’s a kitchen supply store, and I’ve gotten some bids on opening a bakery in the building too. There’s other condos, but they’re, uh, unfinished.”

Unlike this one, clearly, which is so precisely staged. Ilya doesn’t think anyone has taken a step into this place before the two of them.

“Ooh, Mr. Businessman,” Ilya teases.

“Shut up,” Hollander laughs a little.

“Mr. Landlord. Hollander, you have joined the bourgeoisie.” Ilya thinks he’s pronounced the French correctly, but from the way that Hollander is pressing his lips together to stifle his laughter, he hasn’t. 

He doesn’t resist the urge to step forward and kiss Hollander, feeling the warmth and solidness of him beneath his hands. He breaks the kiss, still breathing into Hollander’s mouth as he says, “Very pretty goal you scored, in the game today.”

“Thanks,” Hollander says dryly. He presses back into Ilya’s mouth, letting his tongue explore, while his hands trail over Ilya’s neck and smooth down his back.

They come apart to breathe, and Ilya says, “You want me here in the kitchen, on your nice table?”

Hollander laughs a little bit, stepping back. “Come on, I’ll show you the bedroom.” He leads Ilya by the hand, past the kitchen and living room with the big windows, all the way to the master bedroom, where there is a bed, with a tasteful blue and brown bedspread and a truly astronomical quantity of pillows.

“Wow, you are pillow czar,” Ilya jokes. “Did your mom buy all these for you?”

“No, uh, the designer took care of it, actually.”

“You think there is enough?” He kind of wants to know, so he’ll have enough pillows when he brings Hollander to his place.

Hollander rolls his eyes, all the way around the way only he does. “You’re an asshole.”

“Mm, no, Hollander. You are. Is fine though. I like it.” He turns all the way to face Hollander, who has his hands in his pockets.

“You like it, huh,” Hollander says flatly. “I can smell the cigarettes on you.”

“One, Hollander, I had one.” Ilya groans. “I am not chainsmoker, like some people seem to think.” That cute little smile is back on Hollander’s face. “Come here,” Ilya beckons.

“No, you come here,” Hollander retorts, even though he’s already walking forward.

“No, you come here.” Ilya steps up to meet Hollander.

“No, you come here.” Hollander’s hands land on Ilya’s chest and neck before they’re kissing, and kissing, and kissing.

“Worth the wait?” Ilya says, laying on Hollander’s shoulder, still dazed that all it took was Ilya for Hollander to come undone.

The best sex that he’s had in his life, so far. And it’s not like he’s been sparing any effort. Boston clubs practically have a Rozanov alert at this point.

In lieu of an answer, Hollander kisses him, once on the mouth, and then gently, so gently, on his forehead.

They lay there for a few moments in the peaceful silence.

There is part of Ilya that just wants to lay here forever.

The rest of him remembers that he has a flight tomorrow, and a curfew at the hotel.

So he drags himself upright and starts collecting his clothes.

Hollander, still soft and sleepy, comes with him down the stairs, and holds Ilya’s jacket while he ties his shoes.

“You, uh, looking forward to Sochi?” Hollander asks while Ilya is bent over the stair.

“The Olympics?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s a big deal. I’ve been dreaming about going for years.” 

“Dreaming of what, bronze medal?”

“Fuck you. You wish.” Hollander swats at his arm lightly. "My parents are pissed that they can't make it. Mom's threatening to wake up at 4:00 AM to watch every game."

Ilya takes a moment to breathe this in, the tangible reminder that they live such different lives. “Hollander.”

“Mmyeah?”

“I do not think—we cannot text, in Sochi. The new laws—it is not safe.”

Hollander opens his eyes. “Okay. I didn’t think we’d be doing that anyway.”

Ilya scoffs a little bit. “You think athletes do not fuck at the Olympics? Most people are not you, Hollander.” Most people are not an ounce as disciplined as Hollander. Ilya is lucky enough to see that control break.

“Well, yeah, I get that, but—”

“We should probably not plan to meet either,” Ilya interrupts. The gnawing want in his ribcage has subsided for the moment, replaced by the dread of everything that has happened in Russia since he left at the end of August. Since June.

“Not even as friends?” Hollander asks.

Everyone would know, Ilya thinks, they would see it on my face and drag me to prison, kicking and screaming. I look at you, and I cannot help it.

“No, I think not, Hollander. Is safer not to.”

“What if I run into you in passing?” The sweetness in Hollander’s eyes has been replaced with the pragmatic machinery Ilya sees on the ice. 

“That is fine, I guess. Just—we cannot be close, in Russia. Is not just the new laws, Hollander.” Ilya closes his eyes and inhales deeply through his nose. 

“What, we can’t even be friends on your home turf?” Hollander says in disbelief, the hardened edge creeping in.

Ilya barks out a laugh. “Sochi is far from my home turf, Hollander. Far as you can get, in one country. But yes. I must represent Russia. No consorting with captains of other teams.” The Colonel will be there. Alexei will be there. Every member of his godforsaken family except the ones he actually likes to spend time around. 

He has to be the best, in front of them. 

“Fine! Fine. We won’t talk. I’ll leave you alone.” There’s no mistaking the clipped anger in his tone. “Your cab is probably here.”

Ilya has to leave. 

Ilya has to leave, and yet he can’t stop himself from leaning in and placing a gentle peck on Hollander’s lips as he picks up his jacket.

“Bye,” he says softly, as he steps out into the threshold, looking for passersby before he strides with purpose towards the cab.

I hope he is angry, Ilya thinks to himself. I hope he is angry enough to care for himself while he is there, and not try to find me.

I could not live with myself if I doomed him.

2014

Shane comes to Sochi pissed off.

It’s not because of Rozanov, he thinks, Yuuri was supposed to be here. We might not ever get the chance to compete on the same world stage again. 

The selfish joy that built in his chest the day that he got the call from the officials is gone. It was a stupid thought, anyway. 

The two people Shane is closest to, besides his parents and his team, in one place.

That can’t happen anymore.

On the bright side, it’s made him sharper and more precise than ever, on the ice. He leads practices with a single-minded focus, taking every suggestion the coaches give and honing Team Canada into a well-sharpened blade. 

“What has gotten into you, Capitaine?” J.J. says delightedly, after they beat Slovenia in the quarterfinals 7-2.

“Just want us to get gold,” he says. 

Shane needs it at this point, because he has to prove that he deserves to be here.

He’s sitting in a cafe the next day when the news alert comes up.

The Russian Men’s Hockey team falls to Latvia in disappointing quarterfinal match-up.

Oh god. Rozanov.

Shane bundles away his own disappointment that he won’t even see Rozanov on the ice. He packs away the thought of him standing with his awful fucking father, silent and stoic.

Shane Hollander cannot be worrying about Ilya Rozanov right now. He has to be focused on beating Latvia in the semis.

“Hollander!” he hears, as the bell chimes at the door of the cafe. “What’s up, motherfucker! Hell of a game last night!” Carter Vaughn gives him a slap on the shoulder as he stands up.

“Thanks, man.” Shane makes eye contact with Scott Hunter and has to stifle the embarrassment at the fact that he tried to punch this guy two months ago.

“Can you believe Russia though?” Vaughny continues. 

“Be nice, Vaughny,” Hunter chides.

“They lost to fucking Latvia. Crazy. Did you see that game?”

“No,” Shane says truthfully. He was playing while it happened. “Heard it was a shit show though.”

“Real debacle.” Hunter sips at his coffee.

“What did Roz say about it?” Vaughny asks.

“He, uh, I don’t know. Hasn’t said anything to me.” Shane tries to tamp down on the disappointment, even though they agreed not to talk while they’re here.

“Damn. You were my last shot, Hollander. I figured you’d know, cuz Hollander and Rozanov, but Christ, it just came outta nowhere.” 

“Maybe he knows Canada’s got it in the bag.” They do, and everyone knows it, not just Shane.

Vaughny makes a disgruntled noise. “No way. It’s USA’s year, baby.”

“We’re coming for you,” Hunter says, with that perceptive gaze that Shane now knows means he has nothing going on behind his eyes.

“Don’t worry, man, you look great in silver,” he says.

“Damn, good one, Holls! Why don’t you say stuff like that in the group chat?” Vaughny laughs as he bumps Shane’s shoulder.

A very tactile guy, Carter Vaughn.

“Not much of a texter,” Shane says. 

And the fact that the group chat is half memes and half reports on who the most racist guys in the league are.

“Yeah, it would probably ruin the whole cool and collected vibe you have going on if everyone knew you were this funny.” Vaughny turns to Hunter. “What did he say to you last game?”

“Hope you decide to show up next time, and go home, you’re 45 years old, I think it was,” Hunter says, and Shane’s face starts to go hot. “I’m 29, dude.”

“Sorry. Didn’t think it would get you that bad,” Shane says as Vaughny cackles. 

“And y’all threw hands over that? Jesus. You really are too nice.”

“We didn’t even make it to throwing hands,” Shane says, a little mulishly. Vaughny just laughs harder.

Hunter just shakes his head. “Sometimes I forget how young you are, rook, and then you say shit like this.”

Shane has to pause for a second. “You saying that isn’t going to make the old man jokes any better, dude.”

“You really are starting to sound like him,” Hunter mutters. For some reason, it feels more knowing.

Last time, it was less calculated.

“Well, when you have to play him as much as I do, you start picking up on a few things.” There. He’s played it off.

Vaughny finally tamps down on his laughter. “Should we get ice cream? Apparently this place is pretty good.”

“I don’t know, I might try the медови́к [honey cake] .”

“The fuck is that?”

“Oh,” Shane says, “It’s, uh, honey cake. With condensed milk, I think? There’s this Russian bakery in one of my buildings in Montreal that does a really good one, but I don't get it very often.”

“One of your buildings in Montreal? Jesus, Holls. Trying to be a real estate mogul now?” Vaughny says. “I guess you have to do something with all that Rolex money.”

Shane feels his face start to go hot again. “It’s interesting, that’s all. It’s how I know there’s definitely black mold in the athlete housing.”

“Shit, is that what the smell is?” Hunter asks as they get in line.

“Eh, we won’t be here that long,” Vaughny says.

Once they’re sitting back down with their desserts, Vaughny asks, “You cool with going to the men’s short form figure skating?”

“You mean the short programs? Those happened two days ago. I thought it was free skates tonight.” Shane says. “Sure, though. I'm free.”

“Shit, really,” Vaughny checks the schedule. “You’re right. Wait, how do you know all that?”

Yuuri. 

“My cousin skates.”

“Shit, that’s cool. Is he here?”

“No,” Shane says. “He’s not competing in the Olympics.”

“Well that sucks,” Vaughny says. “I get it though. Not really safe.”

“What do you mean?”

Vaughny lowers his voice. “I mean, I’m assuming he might be gay. With the new anti-gay laws here, he could be putting himself at risk. I respect him for taking it seriously.”

You don’t know a damn thing about why he’s not here, Shane thinks irritably. He would be here if he could have. He’s braver than anyone gives him credit for. We both knew about the risk, and we were both still planning on coming. It’s a matter of being careful.

He very carefully doesn’t look over at Hunter. 

“I get that.”

The last notes of Stammi Vicino, non te ne andare fade out as the arena cheers.

“Dude. That was fucking crazy,” Vaughny says.

“Yeah,” Shane says. “Nikiforov is pretty amazing. He won in 2010, too.” And all of the GPFs in between, but Shane doesn’t think Hunter or Vaughny would know about that. Hell, Shane only knows because of Yuuri.

Shane looks up from the ice, only to catch a glimpse of golden curls out of the corner of his eye.

Rozanov.

He shouldn't do this. He shouldn't. He promised.

“I’m going to head to the bathroom—Nikiforov’s probably going to take first.”

Shane hears the tail end of a phone call as Rozanov says something harshly in Russian, before slamming the end call button.

“Hey,” Shane says softly.

“Hollander.” Rozanov’s voice is sharp and curt. “Not here.”

“I’m not trying to do anything, you asshole. I just wanted to see if you were okay. You didn’t answer my email.” Email, because he promised not to text.

Loophole.

“I am fine. Go sit back down, Hollander.” Rozanov turns back towards the ice, pointedly.

“Did your brother come?” Shane asks. “Yuri, I mean. His coach is here, right?”

“No, he did not come, Hollander,” Rozanov bursts out. 

“Oh.”

“I did not want him to, anyway. My father is here.” Rozanov closes his eyes. “Better for the Junior GPF silver medalist not to see me fail our country so badly.”

“Okay, you didn’t fail anything. You scored three goals by yourself in that game. It’s not your fault Norway beat up on your goalie.” It really is not his fault. Everyone can tell he dragged Russia out of the qualifiers by the skin of his teeth. Latvia had an unfair advantage, in Shane's estimation.

“Yes, it is my fault, Hollander!” Rozanov says, bringing his voice down to a near whisper. “I am the captain. Is my responsibility when the team loses.”

“Hockey is a fucking team sport, Rozanov. I know you know that. It’s in the name.”

“Not in Russia,” Rozanov says bitterly.

“That’s bullshit.”

“That is how it is. Are you satisfied, Hollander? Will you go now?”

“What, I can’t have friendly fucking concern for you now, Ilya?” Shane says angrily, before he thinks about what’s coming out of his mouth.

Ilya.

Fuck. Ilya. Not Rozanov.

Ilya is looking at him, terror in his eyes. There is a glimmer of tears that Shane desperately wishes weren’t there.

“Not here. We are not friends here. We cannot be anything here. Do not text me. Please.”

“Fine,” Shane chokes out. “I’ll go, I guess.” He turns around and starts to walk away. “I’ll go and beat the shit out of Latvia in the semis.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything as Shane leaves.

“You need a haircut.”

“Yes, sir,” Ilya says.

“The Minister still wants to meet you tonight, despite everything.” The Colonel’s lip curls on his last word.

“It would be my honor, sir.”

“You should be honored.” Ilya meets his gaze, the Colonel’s pale eyes flinty with anger. “After yesterday, you should be honored to even be in this room. Losing to...”

“Latvia.” Ilya’s hand doesn’t shake as Grigori hands him his glass.

“How could you let that happen? Are you not ashamed of yourself?”

“I am ashamed, Father.”

Grigori snorts, derisive. “Not enough, for how disgraceful that was. Lazy, as always.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There is no discipline in that American league. You are sloppy. Squandering all the promise, all the hard work we put into making you the best.”

“I am better now than I have ever been, sir,” Ilya says quietly. “Bobrovsky was injured. The team did not click—I did not have time…”

“What is this clicking, hm?” Grigori interrupts. “America has made you soft and nonsensical. You are the captain. You make it work.” He sighs, utterly frustrated and disappointed. “Always running away from responsibility, Ilya, ever since you were a boy. Running off to meet Dobrynya. Do you think I didn’t know?”

Ilya doesn’t correct him about Yuri’s name. It’s not worth it at this point.

Grigori trails off for a second, looking at Ilya’s bowtie. “Who tied this for you—your mother? She has never known how to do this properly.”

“Mother is dead,” Ilya says.

“I meant your stepmother, stupid boy,” Grigori blusters as he fiddles with the bowtie, making it even more crooked.

“Where is Polina?” Ilya asks. He knows she’s never really given a shit, but this is the exact type of scenario where she should be present, as the Colonel’s wife. “Is she in Moscow?”

“Of course,” Grigori says hesitantly, like he’s trying to remember. His face softens a little bit, less hard lines as he tries to think.

“We should go,” Ilya says abruptly. “To the gala. So I can meet the minister.”

“Hm? Yes.”

The conversation flows past Ilya as he stands next to his father and Sergei Vetrov, the minister, whom he’s known since he was six years old and making friends with Svetlana for the first time.

He doesn’t even try to correct his father as he rants about Tretiak being injured.

He's too busy thinking about Ilya, coming from Shane Hollander's lips.

Ilya is pulled out of the haze as a voice cuts through: “Excuse me, minister, I wanted to pull Mr. Rozanov here aside for a moment to meet with some of the other athletes.” A hand lands on his shoulder. 

Ilya looks up to see the silvery blond hair of the Living Legend as Minister Vetrov says, “Mr. Nikiforov! Of course. Congratulations on your performance earlier tonight.”

“Thank you very much,” Nikiforov says smoothly, pulling Ilya by the elbow towards one of the side rooms.

The man who is so confidently leading Ilya away from his father does not seem like the drama queen that Yuri makes him out to be on their phone calls. Though he is much narrower than Ilya, he seems as big as a mountain in this moment.

“Thank you, Nikiforov,” Ilya says as they cross the threshold and the door falls shut behind them.

“Call me Viktor,” he says over his shoulder as he makes his way to the bar. “And no need to thank me. Svetochka thought you might need a friend.” He nods to Svetlana, who comes up behind Ilya, a hand on his shoulder.

“You really need to stop listening to your father, Ilyusha,” she says. “These games do not matter when you have a real shot at the Cup, this year.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” she says. “Hunter and the Admirals will fall to New Jersey, and New Jersey will fall to Hollander, in Montreal. But you have a real chance to beat Montreal, this year.”

“This year?”

“Yes. Mittka is playing like he is injured, and you would know about how far you get playing with an injured goalie. The West will be a cakewalk, for Boston. It will probably end up being San Francisco, because Chicago is Swiss cheese.”

Viktor chuckles a little bit as he brings their glasses over from the bar. “If only I had a friend so dedicated to figure skating. Instead, I only have a teenager who harasses me about my hairline.” He sighs despondently.

Ilya makes eye contact with Svetlana as if to say, Does he not know?

She shakes her head, ever so slightly.

Ilya feels a smile curl up his face as he rejoins the conversation, determined not to let Viktor Nikiforov know that the brother of the aforementioned teenager is sitting in front of him.

Chapter Text

Three days after Shane gets back into Montreal with a gold medal around his neck, he gets an email.

Sochi was a rude awakening. Ilya Rozanov can’t afford the risk that Shane poses to him, not when he has to be able to go home to see his family. His real family, not his awful father and brother. 

Shane can't be the reason that his little brother and grandfather are taken away from him.

It’s fine. It's fine.

It’s technically less risk for Shane, too, when the Voyageurs locker room echoes with cocksucker and faggot about every player they don’t like. When Theriault calls them fairies or sissies the moment one of them fucks up.

Sometimes, Shane just sits with J.J. in solemn silence while the rest of the room talks around them. Blatantly. 

He doesn't know what the team would do if they knew. If they would continue to trust him, to pass to him, to defend him. To take his word as their captain and play through the schemes he lays out in his mind.

He can't lose this. He can't lose hockey.

For today, he rereads the emails and smiles to himself a little bit.

He has to room with Hayden the next day as they start a roadie and he can’t make eye contact without laughing.

Anyway. It’s fine. Shane can do friendship. Just friendship.

He’ll be the best friend that Ilya Rozanov will ever have.

He won’t be needy desperate aching imposing any more.

But to do it, he has to make a clean cut.

He's made the right choice. It has to be the right choice.

Better for everyone involved.

Ilya Rozanov can fuck whoever he wants, whenever he wants.

Shane doesn't feel the need (when he isn't thinking of Ilya Rozanov).

It's fine. It's fine.

Clean break.

Ilya has fucked up, so so badly.

Monumentally.

Catastrophically.

(боже [God], the dictionary has infested his brain now.)

Two weeks after the Olympics, and the Bears are feeding off of his need for vengeance. His need for victory.

Two weeks after the Olympics, and Alexei has called him four times, asking for money, saying he needs it for Father’s home care. He sends it to keep him there, even though he knows it’s going up Alexei’s nose the instant he gets his hands on it. Polina, at the least, just sends him the contact for hiring the nurses.

Two weeks after the Olympics, and Shane Hollander is emailing him like normal, after he finally responded to the one sent during the games.

Two weeks after the Olympics, and he has not received a single text from Jane, no matter how many times he tries to reach out.

It’s clear that Shane Hollander took his words to heart. Ilya set the bounds. Shane Hollander is just following through, with the exact discipline and precision and boring consistency that has fascinated Ilya since the moment they met.

He can only blame himself.

It is not as though you have lost everything, he thinks to himself. He is your friend. You can go out any time you like.

And yet, every time he tries, he can’t stop thinking about Shane Hollander.

He has broken me, Ilya thinks, bewildered. There are pretty girls everywhere, and I cannot spare a thought for them.

When they meet on the ice, Hollander is the same as he’s always been, annoyingly hard to break from his stoic mask, only really cracking when Ilya says something funny enough. Or mean, depending on the day.

He is a bitch sometimes, and you like that.

So Ilya is funny and clever and witty and scathing, even when his brain feels like a sponge full of thick soup. Ilya monitors his inbox like a fucking hawk. Ilya calls his little brother and deputizes his old Dynamo teammates to go deal with pests. Ilya gets a tiger tattooed under his ribs as a reminder of the people he actually wants to return to Russia for.

Most of all, Ilya is getting his team a goddamn Cup.

He doesn’t have much else to look forward to.

At the end of March, the Boston Bears go to the Franklin Park Zoo.

Ilya walks along the paths and has to marvel at the number of animals he actually recognizes by name because of Shane Hollander and their little game.

He laughs when Zoey poses Marly in front of the gorillas, and Vic has a moth land on his face. He laughs at the rookies saying they will put things on higher shelves to stretch themselves out like giraffes. He laughs at Hammer and Sebbin, running from an emu.

He stands in front of the lions, and stubbornly does not think about what it feels like to be a predator living in a cage. One of the lions roars, and it sounds much less intimidating that Ilya thought it would be. Or maybe ineffectual is the word. 

Just making noise to make noise.

He breaks out of his thoughts when something bumps into his leg suddenly.

There is a wailing kid on the ground.

Ilya crouches. “Hey. Hey. Are you alright?” 

The kid keeps crying, though his eyes open to actually see Ilya.

“малыш, [Baby] what has happened? You bumped into me, yes?”

The kid nods. “I–I’m so–sorry,” he says. “I lost my mom and I got scared.”

“By the lion?” Ilya asks, and the kid nods, his tears slowing as he actually starts to talk to Ilya.

Distraction and embellishment it is.

“That skinny thing? Lion is nothing. Is not scary. I know tiger back in Russia. Lived in my grandfather’s house. Vicious. Bit me one time. Dedushka had to dig the tooth out. I got tattoo to commemorate.”

Okay, so he’s embellishing a lot. It’s a lot less cool to say your kid brother bit you as a five-year-old and lost his first tooth while doing it.

Ilya pulls his shirt up to let the kid see. The kids has stopped crying, staring at him in confusion and wonder.

“Look closely—you can see where the scar is.” Ilya runs his finger over the scar and the little kid reaches out to touch it. His eyes light up as he feels the ridges of it.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Rozy. You got it tattooed?” Marly’s voice comes from behind him. Ilya does his best not to flinch at the shock of it.

How long has he been standing there?

Whatever. Marly is gullible. More distraction and embellishment.

Ilya shrugs. “It hurt more than the bite did. I wanted to remember.” 

He turns back to the little kid. “I know it is scary, but you are brave. Come. We will find your mama.” He moves to get up from his crouch. “Would you like me to lift you up so you are tall enough to see her?”

The little kid nods frantically. Ilya can’t help but be reminded of his brother as a child, even if this boy looks nothing like Yuri.

Ilya just holds his hands out and lets the kid come to him. The kid laughs as he swings him up on his shoulders, kicking his legs freely.

“What is your name, малыш, [Baby]?”

“Ben,” the kid says as Ilya starts to walk out of the lion exhibit. “What is moll-ish?” he asks, butchering the pronunciation slightly.

“Means baby in Russian,” Ilya says.

“‘M not a baby!” Ben shrieks, yanking on Ilya’s hair a little bit. Ilya just keeps walking, intent on finding the visitors center.

“Ben!” A woman shouts from near them. “Baby, where did you go?”

“Is that your mama?” Ilya asks, and Ben nods.

“Oh my god, Ben, what happened? Did you get lost?” The woman says breathlessly as she comes face to face with Ilya.

Ilya just starts lifting Ben down from his shoulders to hand him over to her. “He got scared of the lion. Got a little lost.”

“Oh god. Baby, come here. I’m so sorry I lost you. Are you okay?” She asks while hugging him to her chest, and Ben nods his head yes.

“He came and helped me and he said the lions weren’t scary and he got bit by a tiger, mommy! He showed me and everything!” Ben chatters excitedly.

The woman finally takes an actual look at Ilya. “Ilya Rozanov?!” She yelps, a little startled.

“Yes,” Ilya says. “That is me. Ben needed help finding you, so I helped.”

“Thank you! Oh my god, I’m so sorry, we didn’t mean to disturb your day—”

“Is fine,” Ilya says. “Ben is a good boy. Would play good hockey one day, maybe.” He winks down at Ben, and the boy laughs. “Do not be scared of the lions, alright? You are brave.”

“I can’t thank you enough,” The woman says. “He’s so little and—”

“No need to thank me,” Ilya interrupts her, getting a little uncomfortable with her effusive praise. He spots Marly behind him. “I am sorry, I have to go. Come to a Bears game sometime, okay?”

“Okay,” she says faintly as he strides off towards where the team awaits him.

He hoists the Stanley Cup over his head after the most exhausting playoffs of his life, and screams:

Для тебя, мама! [For you, Mama!]

He can’t speak of everyone else he did this for.

Three days after their Cup win, Ilya wakes up to the Boston Bears invading his house. There is a crowd of them standing over his bed.

“What–” barely leaves his mouth before they’re lifting him out of bed and ferrying him through the house. “The fuck is this? What are you idiots doing?”

“Mandatory doctor’s visit,” Vic says gravely. “We’ve put this off long enough.” 

“What is this for?” he demands, trying to wiggle his way out. “I am not sick or hurt.”

Nervous laughter goes around. He bares his teeth a little bit at Oregan and the laughter fades. The rookies slam slides on his feet as the Bears drag him out of the house.

He gets thrown into the middle seat of Hammersmith’s SUV and buckled in as Marly and Sebbin squish him on either side.

He spares a thought to be grateful for the fact that he slept in a tank top and sweatpants last night as they tear off down the street.

By the time he lands in front of Dr. Tremblay, the team doctor, Ilya is thoroughly irritated and confused.

Dr. Tremblay is all business, not looking up from her chart as she says, “Mr. Rozanov. Thank you for coming in.”

“It was not my choice,” Ilya says. “Team dragged me here.”

She adjusts her glasses for a moment. “They brought some concerns to me that need to be addressed immediately. I need you to be honest with me. Have you experienced any fever, headaches, nausea, vomiting, or other flu-like symptoms within the last ten days?”

“No, I had little hangover after we won but that has passed. No fever.”

“Your teammates reported that you showed them a bite mark. Have you experienced any tingling or burning at the site of the injury?”

Bite mark?

“I have not been bitten recently,” he says slowly. “I have bruising from playing and tweaked knee but no bites.”

She puts her clipboard down and looks at him head on. “Mr. Rozanov. I am your physician. Please do not lie or prevaricate. Your health could be at risk. Have you had any exposure to wildlife that may have resulted in an encounter with a rabid animal?”

Ilya sits there, flabbergasted.

(Another good word from the dictionary.)

“No? I have been playing in the Stanley Cup Finals for the last two weeks. When would I have time?”

“Rabies can be contracted from domestic animals that have been exposed as well. We both know you like to pet dogs, Mr. Rozanov.”

He scoffs. “I have not seen a dog since before we went to San Francisco.”

She pulls the clipboard back up, looking genuinely perplexed for a moment. “Your teammates reported that you mentioned being bit by a tiger.”

A tiger.

Holy shit.

The zoo.

Marly heard his bullshit story and believed him.

The entire team believed him.

Ilya starts taking his shirt off as Dr. Tremblay says, “Mr. Rozanov–”

“This is misunderstanding,” he says once he gets the tank over his head. “I was bitten lightly, long time ago. Almost ten years. By my little brother. His nickname is тигрёнок. [tiger cub] Means little tiger.” He turns to show her his tattoo. “You cannot see it so well now because I got the tattoo, but it is there.”

“May I?” Dr. Tremblay holds a gloved hand out as if to touch it.

“Yes.”

She runs her fingers over his tiger tattoo, palpating where she feels scar tissue. “Well, it certainly seems to have healed fine, even for a human bite.” She draws her hand away. “If you showed them this, and have not been exhibiting symptoms, how on earth did they get the idea that you had rabies?”

Ilya tips his head back. “We went to the zoo in March. Kid was lost and crying in front of the lions. I made a joke and told him lions were not scary because I had been bitten by a tiger and was still alive. Marly saw me show him. I did not say anything about rabies.”

Dr. Tremblay takes off her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose. “I need a vacation,” she mutters. “Well, I won’t have to do any biopsies, at least. You seem to be in relatively good condition otherwise. Be careful with the bruising and watch the swelling in your knee for the next few days. Brace it if you start feeling pain.”

“Will do, Doc.” He slides off the exam chair and walks out into the hallway.

His teammates rush back from where they had been listening at the door of the exam room.

He scans over them, seeing fear and anticipation in their eyes.

“Which one of you motherfuckers said I had rabies?” He asks flatly.

No one moves. You could hear a pin drop in the hallway.

“If you thought I had rabies when we went to the zoo, why did you not report it immediately? Rabies is very bad. Fatal disease.”

“...We thought it might have been why you were playing so aggressively,” Zadonsky squeaks.

“Didn’t want to risk our chance at the playoffs,” Hammer chimes in.

Ilya pauses and puts his head in his hands. “...You thought wanting to win the Cup meant I had RABIES?!?!”

There’s a general murmur before Marly says, “We weren’t sure, Roz. You were kind of foaming at the mouth a few times during the playoffs.”

“All of you need to go back to school. You thought fucking rabies made me better at hockey than all of you? боже мой, [My god] I don’t know how we made it this far.”

Ilya nearly throws up in the bathroom before he has to report backstage. 

The first time he’s going to be close enough off the ice to touch Shane Hollander in months, and he’s already almost fucked it up. 

He cleans himself up in the dingy bathroom, willing his hands to be still.

As he walks through the stage door, Shane Hollander is standing there, looking radiant in that suit of his that never seems to fit quite right.

“Where were you?” Shane Hollander hisses while the host talks onstage. “We’re on in 5 seconds.”

“Eh…25 seconds,” Ilya retorts. “Is fine, Hollander, we will not be late.”

“What were you doing?”

“Bathroom,” Ilya says, not wanting to confess his anxiety about this. “You look nice.”

“And now, presenting the Lord Talon Award for Most Sportsmanlike Player, Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander!”

Ilya strides out and waves to the crowd, hoping Shane Hollander will follow after.

Shane Hollander has the first cue. “Good sportsmanship isn’t always a simple concept. It’s not always being a humble winner or a gracious loser.”

Ilya takes the next: “It’s about defending your friends, and treating your opponents with kindness.”

“Playing the game clean and fair.”

“Doing your best with the circumstances you have.”

Shane Hollander gives him a quick glance. “Everyone here has known Rozanov and me for a while now.”

Ilya returns the glance before looking back out into the audience. “The legendary rivalry, or so they say.”

“In the spirit of good sportsmanship, we’d like to show you all a bit of reconciliation tonight. Put the rivalry aside, and remind us all that it’s the friends you make along the way that make all the difference.”

They step out from behind the podium with a handheld mic as the audience rumbles with laughter.

Ilya takes a deep breath, looking Shane Hollander in the eyes. “Hollander. I am sorry for licking you in the middle of the playoffs and asking if you are a goalie now. This is not true. You are, and always will be, the second best center playing in the MLH. Unless I retire before you, of course.”

He gets a good laugh with that one.

Shane Hollander glares at him a little bit before smiling with a glint in his eye. “Rozanov. I’m sorry for fighting Scott Hunter specifically so you wouldn’t be the first to make me drop gloves,” There’s a huge startled laugh and a “Really?” from the crowd as he says it, “and for saying you don’t have the most punchable face in the league. That wasn’t true. You are, and always will be, the second best center playing in the MLH while I’m active.” He holds his hand out for a handshake.

Ilya grasps it firmly and shakes Shane Hollander’s hand, hoping his hand isn’t too sweaty. They hold it long enough for the photographer to get a good photo before they step back behind the podium.

Shane Hollander takes a breath as he places the mic back on the stand. “In all seriousness, we are proud to present this award to a player who has exemplified good sportsmanship throughout this year, and through his entire career.

He picks the envelope back up and cracks the seal as Ilya says, “The Lord Talon Memorial Award for Most Sportsmanlike Player goes to…”

“Matthew Baldwin, Vancouver Canucks!”

This is the first time Ilya is meeting Baldwin off the ice. Mentally, he goes, maybe, leaning yes, before he has an actual coherent thought.

He gets distracted from the thought as he follows Hollander offstage.

As they walk through the stage door and down the corridor, Ilya can’t stop himself from saying, “I have the penthouse suite in the hotel.”

Shane Hollander gives him such a hard side eye. “Thought we weren’t doing any of that anymore. We cannot be anything, like you said.”

Ilya swallows back the hurt and the want that has plagued him since February.

I said we could not be anything there.

Not here. Here, I want…anything you are willing to give.

“One last time,” Ilya practically begs. “I will not bother you or text you again. You can come, and we can talk, and you can just sleep, if you want. The bed is very nice.”

He can see the hesitance in Shane Hollander’s stance as he stops there in the middle of the hallway.

Did you miss me?

Did I leave you wanting?

Did I leave you broken, like you left me?

“Tell you what, we make a deal,” Ilya says desperately. “If you win MVP, you do not have to do anything. You can do whatever you want.”

“And if you win?” Shane Hollander says in a whisper. 

“You come up.” Ilya digs in his pocket for a second to get out his second room key, sliding it from the small envelope. “We decide what we do later. I do whatever I want.” He holds the little card out as they stand in silence, faintly hearing Baldwin speaking and the audience laughing.

Shane Hollander takes the card in two fingers, holding it delicately before he places it in his pocket, looking around for any passersby.

Ilya goes to ask him what he’s looking around for when he feels Shane Hollander’s lips on his, and just the slightest slip of tongue. 

It feels like taking the first breath of fresh air that he’s had in months. It feels like opening his eyes to sunlight after years in a cavern.

It feels like drowning, like he can’t help but fall into it.

Hollander Shane steps back gently and says, “Good luck.”

Those are the only words radiating through Ilya’s mind as he accepts the Hart Memorial Trophy. He thinks he says something about thanking his family and his team and how he could not have done it without their support.

But when he steps off the stage, it echoes in his mind.

Good luck.

The first mistake Ilya makes is pouring his glass of vodka and drinking while he waits for Shane. He stares out the window at the view, and rotates the glass in his hand.

The liquid courage is making everything a little sharp at the edges, and vivid in the center, sharper than normal.

The second mistake he makes is not falling to his knees the moment he hears the door click open. He turns, shirt hanging open, vodka still in hand, as Shane walks into the room.

“Congratulations,” Shane says, the smile on his face just a little bit twisted.

“Thank you,” Ilya responds, not knowing how to force the rest of the words out.

“Well. You have me here,” Shane says as he places his jacket down on the couch. “We agreed on you doing what you wanted.”

“We did.”

“So where do you want me, then?”

Ilya has to inhale deeply through his nose. “Take off your clothes.”

Shane gives him a derisive snort but does it anyway, unwinding his loose tie, peeling back his dress shirt, folding up his trousers into a neat pile with the rest of his clothes. His socks go last, sitting delicately on top of the pile.

He stands there in his underwear, a gift just for Ilya’s eyes.

For the last time.

Two things become very clear in this moment.

First, that Shane might want this enough to go along with what Ilya is saying for now, that months of emailing and saying hello at games and never, ever meeting outside of them did not change him.

And second, the moment Ilya touches him, he is not going to be able to stop.

“Get on the bed, please.” Shane follows Ilya’s words like a command and not a request.

“You’re right, it is nice,” he jokes as he settles by the headboard, legs extended in front of him. “You going to get up here with me?”

He looks beautiful, thick and strong and carved from marble like a statue come to life.

“Mm, no, I still have vodka to drink. Very nice, you know. Hard to get in America.” Ilya hears the words come out of his mouth without really registering them. “I will sit here and finish it.” He drags a chair over in front of the bed and plops down in it, barely managing to not spill all over himself.

“So what, I’m just going to sit here?” Shane asks impatiently.

“You can touch yourself while you wait,” Ilya offers. “Dinner and a show.” He waves his glass around in the air a little bit.

“Can I have some vodka then?” So earnest. So pliant. So…giving.

“It would knock you out if you drank it now, дорогой, [dear/darling/treasure] ” Ilya says, a little too fondly. “You will have to wait until after if you want it. It’s like a reward.”

Shane makes a face at that, but starts running his hand up his neck and down his chest, back arching as his fingers trail towards his waistband.

Ilya watches his face as he begins to relax.

“Do you want to know how it feels?”

“How what feels?” Shane asks, breathy but still following Ilya’s directive.

He can be a little mean. Shane likes it.

“Holding the Cup.” Ilya pops the ‘p’ and takes a sip as outrage comes over Shane’s face.

“You fucking asshole.” 

“Oh, I can barely describe it. Was like heaven, Hollander.” Ilya tips his head back for a moment to give himself a reprieve from the sight laid out before him, a feast for his eyes only.

While he’s looking away, Shane’s boxer briefs, his sponsored Calvin Kleins, come rocketing through the air to land in Ilya’s lap.

Do not hold them over your face, Ilya Rozanov. Put them on the floor and be reasonable.

As if any of this is reasonable.

Shane scoots back, the smug expression on his face making way for focused intensity as his hands trail back down.

Ilya can’t help but let out a low, “Fuck,” at the sight of him.

“Are you going to get up here or what?”

“Mm, maybe.” Ilya swirls the vodka around in his glass like he’s contemplating drinking it and not vibrating in his skin.

“I need–” Shane cuts off.

Ilya’s focus narrows. “You need what, малыш, [Baby] ?

“I need you.”

Ilya’s resolve to be patient breaks. He finishes the remainder of his glass in one long pull and stands, stripping his shirt off as he walks towards the bed.

You are perfect, darling. Why? Why did it have to be you, and not someone I could bear to lose?

After, reality comes into sharp focus. Ilya sits beside Shane on the bed, craving a cigarette but not reaching for it, not yet. 

He still wants to be able to kiss Shane before he goes, and Shane won’t do it if he’s just smoked.

He sits there with a glass of vodka, utterly still.

After a few minutes or maybe an hour, Ilya doesn’t know at this point, Shane stands up and starts moving towards his clothes, still neatly folded on the couch.

“Don’t go, Shane,” spills from Ilya’s lips, gasping and numb. He can feel wetness at his lashline. “Please.”

Shane freezes.

He turns back to face Ilya.

“You said one last time,” he says sharply, artificially flat.

Ilya bows his head. “I know.”

“You said I couldn’t be your friend. That we couldn’t be anything.” Every passing word cuts like glass.

“You think I do not know I have ruined this?” Ilya nearly shouts, looking up at Shane, the tears falling. “You gave me everything and I was ungrateful. I know you did not want this anymore and I took it anyway. Greedy. Selfish. Lazy.” He staggers upright and falls to his knees on the ground. He can’t see beyond the blurs of moonlight coming through the window.

Shane is utterly silent and still. It is as if the air has gone still.

Ilya keeps talking, desperate to keep Shane’s attention for as long as he can have it. “I am sorry, Hollander. Please forgive me this. I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt you. I wanted you to be safe. Please believe this of me. I promise, I will leave you alone.”

Ilya tucks his head into his chest, guttural sobs cracking through his chest in the utterly silent penthouse.

He can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe.

There are hands in his hair and around his back as he is pulled forward into Shane’s chest, kneeling on the floor. Ilya’s arms come around him unconsciously, gripping tighter than he deserves.

Shane’s chest vibrates under Ilya’s damp cheek as he begins to speak. “I’m sorry, Ilya.”

“Is not your fault–”

“It is,” Shane interrupts. “I heard you in Sochi and I knew how risky it was. I took it to mean you couldn’t afford the risk anymore.” His chest rises and falls underneath Ilya’s face as he takes a deep breath. “But I—I couldn’t give up our friendship. I couldn’t let go of it. So I kept emailing you.”

Ilya shudders. “I was just glad you still talked to me.” Above him, he can feel tears falling into his hair, dripping down the side of his face.

Shane doesn’t speak again for a little while. “...I thought it would still be okay if we stopped texting. Because you don’t need me for sex. I know you don’t. You could have anyone. Anyone else would be less dangerous to be with than me. And…” he hesitates here for a long moment. “I don’t feel the need, when it’s not with you.”

Ilya’s heart stutters for a moment.

I don’t feel the need, when it’s not with you.

Ilya pulls his head away from Shane’s chest and just looks at him for a moment, tear tracks and all. He leans in, capturing Shane’s mouth in a kiss, pressing close as he practically crawls into Shane’s lap from where he had been leaning.

“I do not want just anyone,” he rasps as he pulls away. “I have not…with anyone else since December. Since you bought a building just for the two of us. Since you made sure there was a Russian bakery on the bottom floor.” Shane goes red as he says this.

“I didn’t know you knew about that,” Shane says faintly.

“What, you think I heard about new Russian bakery in Montreal and didn’t want to go? I found the address and realized.”

Shane huffs a little laugh, and they fall into a comfortable silence, gently rocking back and forth.

“I know we can’t do more than this,” Shane begins, “But I don’t want this to be the last time.”

“Me too,” Ilya says in a rush. “I leave for Moscow tomorrow. My family, if they see anything, they are police, my father and brother.”

Shane goes still underneath him.

“So we cannot do much. But I would like it very much if we could start texting again. After.”

“Yeah,” Shane says. “We can text again, Ilya. And…” He hesitates again. “I know you don’t get much time there, with your brother and your dedushka. But if you wanted, you could come stay with me for a little bit at the end of the summer. I had a place built close to my parents’ old summer cottage near Ottawa. We could spend some time, just the two of us, no one around.”

Ilya has to resist the urge to just say yes to the offer outright. It sounds like paradise.

He also has to resist the urge to say no, that his fucking family would never let him leave a moment before they can finish squeezing every drop of life and money out of him.

“Maybe,” he croaks out. “Maybe.”

Chapter Text

Nikolai hears the creaking of the metal before he sees his grandson summit the balcony.

In the moonlight, Ilya is pale and wan.

“Ilyusha,” he says, standing up from the table.

“Dedushka,” Ilya practically gasps, walking towards Nikolai and folding into his embrace.

Ilya is not a small man, and neither is Nikolai, but it reminds him of when his grandson was young, lanky and coltish.

“It is getting worse,” Ilya says, apropos of nothing. “He keeps forgetting that Mama is dead. It does not help that Polina will not stay.”

Every day since 2003, Nikolai has wished his daughter did not marry the man who hurt her so deeply.

But he cannot say she would have been happier, toiling endlessly instead of living her life in leisure.

And without it, he never would have met Ilya.

“You are doing all that you can, Ilyusha.”

“I should have done more. I should have been here. I should not have left him…”

Nikolai can’t think of anything that would have been worse. “Ilyusha, you know this is not true. You did everything you could. You cannot stop time from taking its toll.”

Ilya’s face, tucked into Nikolai’s shoulder, shudders. “...Oksana left Katya with Alexei.”

Now that is new information. His step-grandson has always been…abrasive, but not to the point that his wife would leave outright and leave their child behind.

“Do you know what happened?”

“She yelled something about debts at him and he hit her when she tried to leave. I don’t think she had time to find Katya.”

Hm.

Every day, the Rozanov family manages to surprise him with the depths they can reach. Except, of course, for Ilya.

“He will come asking again,” Nikolai says sharply.

“Once every three days, now,” Ilya confirms.

“This is why we made plans, Ilyusha,” Nikolai reminds him. “He cannot even try to touch what you do not give him.”

“What can I do? I need him here to take care of Father. I cannot just let him fall into the care of nurses day after day. His family needs to be here. To not let him forget. He keeps getting sick, Dedushka. The nurse thinks his heart is failing.”

“Ilyusha,” Nikolai says again, a little bit sharper. “You are one man. Medical care will only do so much. You cannot wring yourself dry trying to appease him.”

Ilya has always been so generous. He insists on paying for Yuri’s equipment and fees, year after year. He puts money into an account that Nikolai will not touch, if he does not have to.

He sends money to Grigori, Polina, and Alexei in measured amounts, if only because he knows they will not stop demanding more.

His generosity of spirit, however, is far greater.

“But–”

“No, Ilyusha. You must rest. Sleep here tonight. Yuri will see you in the morning.”

Ilya, exhausted as he is, surrenders without another word. Nikolai tucks him into the guest room bed and retreats back out into the kitchen.

Sitting in the low light, he writes a letter.

Madam Baranovskaya,

It was wonderful to see you the other day for tea—your newest blends are delightful. I find myself having a small question and favor to ask of you: Where did you happen to acquire that lovely porcelain samovar and teapot? I found myself very intrigued by them. It is fascinating to be able to choose which tea to sample from the singular teapot.

I have had some unexpected guests as of late, and I fear that I have come across as inhospitable. Would I be able to impose on you briefly and borrow your tea set? I am sure you know how important these guests can be.

Regards,

Nikolai Plisetsky

He gets a response back within a day of sending it.

Nikolai,

I have told you countless times to call me Lilia. We are friends, are we not?

To answer your question: of course you may borrow it. I will bring it over myself, though I may not be available for tea with your guests.

Regards,

Lilia

True to her word, Lilia brings the samovar to Nikolai’s house, and shows him precisely how to use the unique two-chambered teapot. 

Over the next few days, Nikolai bides his time. He waits until Ilya is ensconced in offseason training and Yuri has to go back to St. Petersburg to meet with Yakov.

He tends his garden, gathering up the fallen leaves of his ornamental rose laurel with gloves on. He certainly does not want Potya getting into them.

On schedule, he gets a knock on his door, and opens it to find his daughter and Grigori Rozanov.

“Linechka,” he says, sweeping his daughter into a hug.

“Papa,” she says, colder than she used to say it. “It is good to see you.”

“Polkóvnik,” he greets Grigori.

“Plisetsky,” the odious man returns.

“Come in. I have a new blend of tea from the market and medovik.”

They sit at his small dining table as he bustles in the kitchen, bringing a tray with utensils to the table.

“So, then, what brings you to my humble abode?”

“Yuri–” Polina begins.

“Where is Dobrynya?” Grigori demands, putting aside the polite pretense of tea time.

“I’m afraid he is away at the moment. Discussing his plans for next season with Coach Feltsman.”

Grigori leans back, dissatisfied. “He should be training here in Moscow.”

“He wants to learn from the best, and the Living Legend is currently in St. Petersburg,” Nikolai says simply.

“Hmph.”

“We wanted to come by and say hello,” Polina interjects. “See if he would be interested in visiting the Rozanov Mansion.”

“I cannot make that decision for him,” Nikolai says. “You will have to come by when he is back in Moscow.”

They fall into silence as the ostensible business is put on pause.

“Would you like some medovik? I collected the honey myself.” Nikolai starts cutting slices of cake.

“None for me, papa. I’m on a diet now. But Grisha will have some.”

Grigori Rozanov takes the offered plate with a look of disdain, but he still eats it. And drinks the tea that Nikolai pours.

They leave his house as evening turns to night.

Ilya looks down at his father in his casket, eyes dry and face numb.

The past few days have been a whirlwind of funeral arrangements—the nurse found his father unresponsive and limp three mornings ago. She ruled it a heart attack in his sleep. Somewhat expected, given his history and more recent illness.

There is some part of Ilya that wonders why it was peaceful. Why it was not loud, the way Grigori Rozanov was throughout his life.

The other part of him thinks: I am an orphan now.

The funeral has the best of everything money can buy. His father is clothed in pure white linen, a black belt around his waist. His casket heaps with flowers.

The food for the поминки [wake/funeral] is already being prepared, back at the Mansion.

The priest chants hymns that fade into a drone as Ilya sits in his pew, staring at the portraits of Jesus on the wall.

He walks in step with Alexei, bearing the front of their father’s coffin as they make for the cemetery.

As they lower the casket into the dirt, the numbness persists.

The day of Irina Rozanova’s funeral, Ilya wept endlessly.

It is almost as though he wept out all his grief for his mother’s passing, and has none left for his father’s.

Ilya and Alexei are the last two left standing over the grave. Alexei lights a cigarette and takes a long drag.

“Don’t do that over his grave,” Ilya says. “It’s disrespectful.”

Alexei scoffs. “What would you know about disrespectful, Ilyusha. So far away, all the time. Never around to be respectful in person.”

“Like you were around, Alyosha, and not snorting cocaine off of prostitutes’ tits.”

“And what of it?” Alexei snarls. “You did not have to be there day after day, having him berate you. You did not have to watch him feebly reach for his belt to try to hit you.”

“You only stayed at all because I paid you to be there! You could have stopped at any time, Alyosha. But you wanted the money more than you actually cared. It’s not like you do your actual job.”

“If you cared, you would not have fucking left for America,” Alexei hisses. “After you left, he would not stop trying to adopt Polina’s son. Wanted a newer model.”

“Keep Yuri’s name out of your mouth,” Ilya says harshly. “He does not want to be associated with Rozanov, and I respect that. He did not want to be associated with you.”

Alexei starts to laugh. “And you’re so much better? The national disgrace, everyone, Ilya Rozanov.”

“Fuck you,” Ilya spits. “I do not have to take this from you. Father is dead, Alexei. I am not paying you to take care of him anymore. Go live your stupid fucking life.”

Alexei’s eyes go a little bit wide. He coughs, trying to reorient himself. “You do not care about little Katya?”

“Of course I care about Katya!” Ilya yells. “Money for her education is in her trust. It will only go to her. She can do as she likes. I am not paying for you to snort her future away.”

“I have not done that.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, “You have. I told Oksana not to marry you when she was 18. She didn’t listen to me then. Now she is gone, finding better for herself, and Katya is left with a bum for a father who begs for handouts.”

“I am not a bum!” Alexei shouts. “I am your older brother, Ilyusha. You ought to show me more respect.”

“Any respect I had for you was gone the moment you said good riddance about Mama.” The words tumble out, truer than anything else Ilya has said today. “I no longer have the patience to deal with you, when I have to be the executor of the fucking estate because Father knew not to trust you with it.”

Alexei guffaws. “Always the prodigal son, Ilyusha. What, will you leave me nothing?”

“I am not petty and jealous like you,” Ilya says, feeling about as petty and jealous as he has ever felt in his life. “Half the money has been left to Polina as negotiated in the pre-nup. The mansion is in my name. I will leave my apartment to you, in Katya’s name, so she will have a stable place to live.” The last part is a little bit impulsive, but he’s cleared out everything he cares about from there anyway. It’s all sitting at Dedushka’s house, waiting to be taken back to Boston at the end of the summer. “You will execute in her place while she is a child, but when she turns 18, it is hers in full. You cannot sell it. The rest of the money is portioned between all other inheritors and you, distributed in a mediated capacity.”

“Oh, you ungrateful fucking faggot–” Alexei shoves Ilya and he stumbles back before regaining his footing.

“I did not have to do this, Alyosha,” Ilya says. “I could have left you nothing. You could live a full life on what I have given you if you are willing to work. I am giving you this much.” He takes a deep breath. “After the поминки [wake/funeral] has passed, you will not speak to me again. You cannot call. You cannot try to threaten me. I am done funding your drug habit. I am done letting you try to inflict your pain on me. Get the fuck out of my sight.”

Alexei gapes in shock, recognizing Ilya’s clenched fists and squared stance. He flicks the cigarette out into the freshly dug grave and walks away, stumbling.

Ilya waits for a few moments, waiting for tears to fall, for anything to happen. Nothing persists, except the numbness.

Late that night, he presses Call on Jane’s contact.

The phone rings once. Twice. Thrice.

“Ilya?” Shane’s voice comes over the line. “Are you okay?”

Ilya takes a breath in, and starts feeling tears at his lash line for the first time today.

“Ilya?”

“Shane.” His name comes out low and a little bit cracked.

“We said we were going to be careful,” Shane says slowly.

“Yes. I know.” Ilya has to take another breath to push down on the rise of feelings in his chest. “Um. My father—my father is dead.”

“Oh.” Ilya thinks he can hear a little muttering as Shane drops his phone. “I’m so sorry Ilya.”

“It was peaceful,” Ilya continues. “Sudden heart attack in his sleep. We did not find him until morning.”

“Still. That’s not an easy thing for anyone.”

“It is not.” Ilya swallows. “We held the funeral today.”

“How was it?”

“It was–” Ilya breaks off. “It was a funeral. We prayed for him, carried his casket to the grave, held a meal for the mourners.”

Shane hums like he’s listening.

“I told Alexei he could not contact me after the funeral.”

“Oh,” Shane says, a little shocked. “That’s…sudden.”

“I think it has been coming for a long time,” Ilya confesses. “We have not really been like brothers since Mama died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He does not like me very much, I think. Resents me for making him stay. Now he is loose in the wind.”

“If he chose to stay, that’s on him,” Shane says sharply. “You were doing what you can to support your family. You should not have had to pay him to stay. If he wanted to leave, he could have left.”

“Is more complicated than that, Shane. Our father…it would not have been easy for Alexei. I cannot help but think…”

“But nothing, Ilya.” Shane shuts the thought down. “You did your best. You are not responsible for him. Trust me, I get wanting to be there for your family.”

“But in cutting him loose, I will lose Katya. She is very young—only five years old now. Her mother left. I made a trust for her, but I cannot help but think I am leaving her to be hurt. She will know nothing except that her dyadya is no longer around.”

Shane is silent for a long moment.

“Would she be better off with her mom?”

Ilya thinks about Oksana, rushing out the door with little but the clothes on her back and not returning. “Not right now.”

“Would she be better off with you?”

“Maybe, but–” Ilya cuts himself off as he starts to think about immigration and visa paperwork, and moving Katya to Boston, where she knows no one but him and speaks no English. “It would be hard on her.”

“Is there anyone who could help her if she needed it while you aren’t there?”

“Dedushka, maybe,” Ilya says, his mouth dry. “I am sure he would help her.”

“You could ask him,” Shane points out. “He’s there for the funeral. See if he will talk to Katya for a little bit.”

“He already has, I think.” Ilya spotted Dedushka at the поминки [wake/funeral] sitting by Polina and Katya, because Oksana is gone and Alexei and Ilya had to participate in the service. 

“Do you trust him?” 

“Of course,” Ilya says quickly, without a doubt in his mind.

“Then talk to him. See if he will help. If he raised you, then he’s a good grandfather.” Shane says it so matter-of-factly. Ilya can feel the first tear run down his face.

“Okay,” he says, though it sounds like okei.

“Promise me you’re going to sleep, Ilya,” Shane says. “It’s past midnight in Moscow. You can talk to Dedushka in the morning.”

Another tear rolls down Ilya’s face, but he doesn’t sob, doesn’t feel gutted and broken like he did eleven years ago.

“I promise, любимый [beloved] .”

“If there’s anything I can do to help, just call me, alright?”

“You are already helping.”

“Okay, but—”

“Thank you, моя любовь. [my love] ”

“No problem, Ilya. Go to sleep, please.”

“I will.”

Ilya hands up the phone, and whispers, “я люблю тебя [I love you] ” into the empty room.

The next morning, Ilya knocks on the front door of Dedushka Nikolai’s house for the first time in years.

“Dedushka?” He calls out after a moment.

The door unlocks, letting Ilya see Nikolai in the threshold. “Ilyusha? You’re here very early.”

“Yes, Dedushka. I wanted to talk to you.”

Nikolai wordlessly moves out of the way, letting Ilya into the corridor. “Next time, just use the key. I know you have it.”

Nikolai gave Ilya the spare key years ago. He hasn’t used it once, always coming in through the balcony.

There is something bittersweet about walking through the door. Like the ending of a chapter.

“How are you feeling, Ilyusha?” Dedushka asks as he shepherds Ilya into the kitchen towards the table. “Sit down. I have fresh pryaniki.”

Ilya sits down at the table, obedient.

“You didn’t answer the question earlier; how are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Ilya answers honestly. “It has been…hectic.”

“I can imagine.” He doesn’t say anything like sorry for your loss, or condolences. Ilya has gotten tired of those. “Is everything organized now?” 

“Mostly. The will has been read. The поминки [wake/funeral] is done. I have the days of mourning marked on the calendar.”

“If you need to rest, you can always come here,” Dedushka says firmly. “For any reason.”

“It will be easier now,” Ilya says, before huffing a laugh. 

“Indeed.” They settle into a comfortable silence, sipping tea and eating the pryaniki.

Ilya clears his throat. “I told Alyosha not to speak to me anymore.”

Nikolai’s gaze sharpens as Ilya says this. “After the funeral?”

Ilya nods.

“Hm.” He pauses for a moment. “At the least we can be glad that you can worry less.”

Ilya gives him a tight smile. “I worry about Katya. Oksana left because of Alexei’s debts—I do not know their scope.”

“Yekaterina?” Nikolai raises an eyebrow. “She is..five now, yes? I spoke with her at the поминки [wake/funeral] . A very bright child.” He sips at his tea. “You think Alexei will put her at risk?”

“I think he cares for little beyond the next fix. He wanted to send her to boarding school. I gave him my apartment in her name so she would have a safe place to live. He cannot touch the property.”

“That is good, at least. Have you heard from Oksana at all?”

Ilya shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“She has limited options, then. Oksana’s parents never liked Alexei.”

“No, they did not.”

Nikolai gazes at Ilya, the lines cutting deep into his face. “You did not come just to tell me this.”

Ilya’s head drops a little bit. “No, Dedushka.”

“Do not worry about Katyenka. If anything happens, we will take care of her.”

Ilya breathes a little sigh of relief. “Thank you, Dedushka.”

“Now, tell me the real reason, Ilyusha. You already knew I would help Katyenka if she needed it.”

Ilya stews in the silence for a few moments, trying to put the words together. “I—There is someone.”

Nikolai raises his eyebrows, looking a little bit surprised. “You have fallen in love, Ilyusha?”

Yes.

“Maybe,” he says, the uncertainty false. “But I do not think it will be safe for me in Russia if I fall further. For either of us.”

Nikolai’s face falls into understanding. “You could not come back.”

“No.” Ilya looks up at the ceiling. “And I cannot give you or brátishka up. You are too important to me. You are the only family I have left.”

Nikolai stands up from his chair and comes around to hug Ilya. “Thank you for telling me, Родной." [dear (as in family/loved one)]

Ilya shudders rapidly, but no tears come. The well is empty.

“Have you told him?” Nikolai asks. 

Told him, like it won’t send Ilya to prison if anyone hears outside of this house.

Ilya swallows. “He knows, I think, what the risks are. We talked before I came home. We are friends, of a sort. He is very kind.”

“That is good. You deserve someone kind, внук. [grandson] Nikolai takes a step back and searches Ilya’s face for a moment. “But not like you and Svetlana are friends, or you and Sasha are friends.”

“No. It is more than that. He is…boring. Honest. He follows the rules. He is funny when he does not mean to be. He is the best at what he does, because to him it is the natural consequence of his hard work. He hides things very badly sometimes, and very well other times, because some things just do not occur to him to share.”

“And you love him.”

“I like him very much,” Ilya chokes out. “I want--But he does not want me to lose you either. Because he is kind. I called him, and he answered even when we promised not to, while I was here. He held me when I wept, and did not let me cry alone. I have fallen apart in front of him this year more times than I think I have for anyone else in the last decade.”

“And to have him, you would have to stay there. To be safe.” Nikolai’s words fall like the blows of a hammer on an anvil.

Ilya just nods.

Nikolai takes a moment before heaving a big sigh. “Ilyusha, I am an old man.”

“You are not that old,” Ilya protests. 

“I am old enough that I could retire, Ilyusha, and not be so tied to Moscow.”

The thought is a shock to the system for Ilya.

“And Yurachka will be turning 16 this year. He is mostly self-sufficient in St. Petersburg now. I could go to him and travel with him, or I could come to you.”

“But Dedushka, what about the house? What about Polina?”

“The house is the house, but home can be made.” He hesitates for a moment. “...Polina, I don’t know what she thinks at this point. I will always love her as my daughter, but she only ever comes to me now to ask about legitimizing Yuri. She ran away when she was younger, and has chafed against me since her mother left. I do not know that she needs me here.” He pauses for another moment. “I can promise that I will stay to help Katya, at least for some time, but I am not so bound to this city that I could not move elsewhere.”

“I cannot ask you to uproot your life, Dedushka.”

“What life is there? It is mostly Yurachka and you. I take tea with Madam Baranovskaya, but she is in St. Petersburg enough that I could meet her there. The rest of those I work with are clients, and they can be found anywhere.” He looks into Ilya’s eyes, deadly serious. “Did you not uproot your life to search for better opportunities and provide for your family here?”

“I suppose,” Ilya says.

“My home is the place where my grandsons are home. If either of you cannot be safe here, then my home is not here.”

Ilya stands up to hug Dedushka Nikolai again. If a tear slips down his face to land on Dedushka’s shoulder, neither of them mention it.

Yuuri graduates with his Bachelor’s of Science in Sports Physiology in May of 2014. It isn’t a big thing—Phichit and Ciao Ciao sit next to Yuna-oba and David-oji in the stands of the arena they’re hosting graduation in. Shun-kun is in the middle of a third round playoff series in Boston, so he isn’t able to make it.

He gets back to his apartment that night and just looks at his diploma, along with a lackluster collection of medals from skating events over the years.

This is the end of an era.

He spends a few days packing up his room and his half of the decor of the apartment.

“I’ll send my Arthur standee with you, young man.” Phichit wags a finger at him while he packs up. “Don’t test me.”

“He’s yours, not mine,” Yuuri says. “And what is that going to do? It’s just going to be creepily staring at me in my sleep. At least here he’s staring at you.”

Phichit gasps theatrically. “Yuuri! You take that back right now! He’ll watch over you and protect you from threats!”

“What threats?” Yuuri asks, a little curious.

“Interlopers trying to steal your virtue, of course, inadvertently drawn in by your heartbreaking looks.” Phichit waggles his eyebrows.

“I’m not a virgin,” Yuuri says dryly. “No virtue to steal. And my looks aren’t heartbreaking. I’m quite average, actually.”

Phichit jumps out of his chair and strides over to grab Yuuri’s face in his hands. “Don’t be rude to my best friend. I’m legally required to defend him with force.” He squishes Yuuri’s cheeks.

“Hrmm hngh.” 

“What was that? I think it was you saying that Katsuki Yuuri is a phenomenal skater and a real looker. I won’t let you go unless you agree to say it.” 

Yuuri rolls his eyes and nods until Phichit releases him. “Katsuki Yuuri is…a phenomenal skater and a real looker. Seriously, Phichit?”

“Deadly serious.” Phichit wraps his arms around Yuuri so tight that he can barely breathe. “I’m going to miss you so much.”

“So am I,” Yuuri squeaks out, his face going red.

If there’s one blessing of going to Montreal before he goes back to Hasetsu for the summer, it’s that skating with Shun-kun is reassuringly normal.

Shun-kun is tired and mildly disappointed from losing in the third round of the MLH playoffs, but he’s still willing to just skate with Yuuri and work through each element level by level until it’s perfect. Yuuri doesn’t know anyone else who practices like this, but it works well for the two of them.

“Are you good if I record this session? I want to have it for reference once you head back to Hasetsu.” Shun-kun digs out his video camera and fiddles with it while he talks.

“Sure,” Yuuri says, even though he feels like there is weight sitting on him in all of the wrong places.

They start with figures for edge control.

Yuuri squats down to squint at Shane’s edges. “You’re going a little too deep here.” He points at one of Shane’s circles. “Adjust the pressure and it’ll come out smoother and faster.”

“Right.” Shun-kun does it again, and this time it’s improved. He’s very good about these things, taking direction after he makes mistakes.

Then they move into step sequences and spins. Yuuri falls into it and just lets himself enjoy the sensation as he crosses the ice with confident strides and rotates fast enough to make the rink a blur around him.

Of course, they race a little bit. Shun-kun has the edge going forward, where Yuuri has the edge going backward, but it’s still fun to push and see if they can break the pattern.

It’s fun to skate like this. It doesn’t feel like throwing himself off a cliff and landing headfirst.

Maybe that’s why he says, “Shun-kun, do you have access to the speakers? I want to show you something.”

“Yeah—what do you want me to play?”

“Um, Stammi Vicino. It should be pretty easy to find.” Yuuri skates towards the bench and bends over to reach for his phone. “I have the arrangement here.”

Shun-kun glides over to grab Yuuri’s phone before he makes for the door, grabbing his skate guards and sliding them on as he goes.

“Don’t start it until you’re back down here, okay? I want you to see the whole thing,” Yuuri calls.

“Okay!” Shun-kun shouts back.

Yuuri glides to the center of the rink and brings his chin down to his chest, slightly hunching his shoulders.

As the music begins, he lifts his face to the sky and brings his arm behind his head before wrapping it around himself.

Sento una voce che piange lontano

Anche tu, sei stato forse abbandonato?

 

Orsù finisco presto questo calice di vino

E inizio a prepararmi

Adesso fa’ silenzio

 

Con una spada vorrei tagliare quelle gole che cantano d'amore

Vorrei serrare nel gelo le mani che scrivono quei versi d'ardente passione

 

Questa storia che senso non ha

Svanirà questa notte assieme alle stelle

Se potessi vederti dalla speranza nascerà l’eternità

 

Stammi vicino, non te ne andare

Ho paura di perderti

 

Le tue mani, le tue gambe,

Le mie mani, le mie gambe,

E i battiti del cuore

Si fondono tra loro

 

Partiamo insieme

Ora sono pronto

He finishes with his arms wrapped around himself once more, face tilted towards the sky.

It isn’t perfect by a long shot. He down grades the jumps and focuses on step sequences and spin combinations. He puts every ounce of longing that he can possibly feel into the words that resonate in his chest.

But it is real, and he’s done it.

A sudden clap breaks the silence as Shun-kun begins to applaud him before skating back out on the ice.

“That looked great,” he says. “Have you been practicing that since December?”

Yuuri blushes a little bit, embarrassed. “Technically before then.”

Shun-kun gives him a look. It’s one that they’ve shared many times over the years.

“I just wanted to see if I could do it!” Yuuri yelps, frantically waving his hands while the grin on Shun-kun’s face gets bigger and bigger.

“I see your crush hasn’t gotten any better,” he teases.

“It’s not a crush! I just admire his skating!”

“It’s absolutely a crush, Yuuri, admit it. How many posters are you up to now? Sixteen?”

Yuuri mumbles under his breath. “17.”

“What was that?” Shun-kun physically puts a hand around his ear.

“17, okay! 18 if you count the framed photo.” As soon as it leaves Yuuri’s mouth, they’re both laughing, heaving breaths as they try to come back to a calm state. 

“I don’t know how you have any wall space,” Shun-kun gasps.

“I don’t!” This sends them into further hysterics.

By the time they calm down, Shun-kun checks his watch and says, “Shit, we’re almost out of rink time for today. I should go get the camera.” He glides over to the tripod, fiddling with it until the red light stops blinking, before he starts to disassemble it.

Yuuri just enjoys the feeling of being in his body, more than he’s felt in months.

“Are you okay with me sending the footage to a friend of mine?” Shun-kun asks once he and Yuuri meet at the boards to exit the rink.

“You’re not posting it to your SNS, right?”

Shane makes a disgruntled noise. “God no. Mom does all of my sponsored posts. You couldn’t pay me to actually do it.”

“Sure, then. Who’s the friend?” Yuuri asks.

Against all odds, Shun-kun begins to blush. Yuuri feels his own smug grin start to creep over his face. 

“Shun-kun.”

“Nope!”

“Shun-kun. Who’s the friend? You don’t let just anyone see you figure skate.”

Shun-kun walks at a brisk clip towards the exit as soon as he finishes getting his skate guards on. Unfortunately for him, Yuuri is very fast with his. He skids in front of his cousin and tries to block the path despite being 4 inches shorter and 50 pounds lighter. 

Thankfully, Shun-kun is a very polite Canadian boy and actually stops instead of skidding into Yuuri with full momentum.

“Who’s the friend? I’m in the video, I should get to know who it’s being sent to.”

It’s Shun-kun’s turn to mumble. “Ilya Rozanov.”

“Who?”

“Ilya Rozanov!”

Yuuri has to take a second to think about if he recognizes the name. A lightbulb goes off in his head.

“The guy whose tape you were watching at World Juniors. 1st Draft Pick. Your professional rival. That Ilya Rozanov?”

“Yeah,” Shun-kun says, his freckles popping out from his utterly red cheeks.

Yuuri throws his head back and laughs. “Shun-kun, you have no business talking to me about my crush when you’re sending figure skating videos to Ilya Rozanov. He’s the only person I’ve ever seen you be interested in!”

“You knew about that?” Shun-kun asks, aghast.

“Well, I know you, so it was more obvious.” Yuuri watches as Shun-kun starts to breathe faster. “Relax, Shun-kun. You obsessively watched his tape in that hotel room five years ago. I know for a fact you didn’t stop.” He watches Shun-kun breathe a sigh of relief. “And I saw pictures from the draft. He was really smiling at you. A lot.”

“I ran into him at World Juniors, you know,” Shun-kun says quietly, his blush finally starting to dim.

“You WHAT?!?!” Yuuri is going to need a minute to process this. “And you’re telling me now? What was he doing there?”

“He came with his little brother, actually. We were supposed to meet at the banquet because his brother was a fan of yours. We didn’t actually get to meet up because they had to leave early, but he gave me his email. We’ve been talking ever since.”

Yuuri just stares at him for a minute. Shun-kun fidgets under his gaze.

“Is this what Phichit feels like all the time?” he says under his breath. “Shun-kun. You had an actual meet-cute at World Juniors and you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t want to distract you!”

“It’s been 5 years! You could have told me somewhere in there!”

“We were keeping it a secret,” Shun-kun says, abashed. “The league was really driving the whole rivalry narrative, and it wasn’t super safe in Russia. Now it’s especially not safe. And the locker room situation, at least for me, isn’t great.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, deflating a little bit. “That’s okay. I get it.”

“And we, uh, sort of started hooking up,” Shun-kun says in a rushed whisper.

The outrage comes back. “WHEN?”

“We filmed a commercial together the summer before our rookie year, so 2010?”

Yuuri has to take some deep breaths. He starts with 10 and then has to go to 20.

“4 years?!?!”

“Not so loud!” Shun-kun hisses.

“Sorry,” Yuuri says, bringing his voice down a notch. “Wow. That’s a lot of commitment. You must really like him.”

“Yeah,” Shun-kun says. “I do. He makes me laugh, and he’s very sweet, even though he doesn’t always show that side to everyone.”

“And he’s hot,” Yuuri interjects.

“Yeah.” The blush has come back in full force. “He’s really good at hockey, and playing against him is the most fun I have on the ice.”

“It figures that you would find someone who likes hockey as much as you do.”

Shun-kun gives him a dubious look. “Says the guy who’s crushing on the figure skater of the last decade.”

“Fair point,” Yuuri says. He shakes his head a little bit to break from the distraction. “You can send it to him as long as he’s not going to post it either.”

“He won’t,” Shun-kun says as he starts typing on his phone. “The emails are sacrosanct. Nothing leaves.” He stops typing for a moment before resuming. "He might show his brother, but that's about it."

“Good.” Another thought occurs to Yuuri. “Who’s his brother?”

“Oh!” Shun-kun says. “Yuri Plisetsky.”

Viktor Nikiforov is not often scared.

Okay, the ever present anxiety of his aging body and dying career notwithstanding.

He doesn’t scare easily. 

But Yuri Plisetsky seems to have been designed in hell to torment him.

There’s the obvious aggression in the rink, the constant cursing and moodiness, the violence with which he conducts himself. Yuri Plisetsky is a menace, through and through.

But that all could be explained by him being a teenager. 

it doesn’t explain the other things.

The enormous men, piling out of the same black car with tinted windows every two weeks to hand Plisetsky a box he guards with his life. No one has ever seen the contents. 

The appearance and disappearance of Moskvich skaters from Yubileyny. At first, they come frequently. By now, it is a rare occasion. It should be something that is attributed to time.

Viktor swears up and down that he saw one of the enormous men snatch a Moskvich skater right off the street in front of Yubileyny.

Then there are the beautiful women dressed in fur coats, no matter the season, who come up and pinch Plisetsky’s cheeks with the sharpest nails Viktor has ever seen. Without fail, they are impeccably made up and dressed to kill.

Mila is fascinated with one she thinks is named Yulia. She is there the most often.

In all, it paints quite the disturbing picture.

Viktor has a newfound friendship in Ilya Rozanov. When Sveta told him to rescue Rozanov at the Olympics, he was expecting a dumb hockey player.

Granted, there is a little bit of that. Rozanov is big and mostly focused on hockey. Reasonably attractive, but not Viktor's type. It comes par for the course.

He wasn’t expecting a funny, unexpectedly catty man who knows the pressures of performing for Russia like Viktor does.

Who saw what it meant to fail.

Who holds himself in tight control such that the public will never see what he holds closest.

Who sees why the endless toil has begun to drag on Viktor’s soul.

So when he gets a text from Rozanov, he doesn’t think anything of it.

The first sign he should have had that something was amiss is Plisetsky, pacing like he’s waiting for his regular delivery.

Plisetsky hasn’t been himself, the last few days, falling intermittently into a strange melancholy and manic joy. Viktor found himself agreeing to choreograph his short program out of sheer fear.

A bright orange sports car tears down the street, coming to a screeching halt in the parking lot of Yubileyny.

Plisetsky perks up at the sound, suddenly sprinting out towards the front doors. Viktor follows aimlessly, and Georgi and Mila join him.

They get to the doors in time to see Plisetsky sprint out at top speed before stopping and frantically looking around.

“Brátishka!” A deep voice calls from the parking lot. Ilya Rozanov stands next to the orange Porsche Spyder with a very familiar looking box in hand.

Brátishka, meaning little brother.

“Ilyusha!” Plisetsky shrieks at a glass-shattering volume. “I thought you were in Moscow!” He comes crashing into Rozanov, who stays remarkably stable, wrapping his arms around Plisetsky in a tight hug.

Meaning Plisetsky is Rozanov’s little brother.

“I was,” Rozanov says. “But I did not want to wait to see you.”

Suddenly, Plisetsky extricates himself, snatching the box out of Rozanov’s hands. “Did you eat any of them?” He asks suspiciously.

Rozanov goes to wipe a crumb away from the corner of his mouth. “Nooo…”

Plisetsky glares with the fury of the sun behind him. “You better not have,” he grumbles.

“Okay, I did have some…” he says the second that Plisetsky gets the box open.

“ILYUSHA!”

“...of the pryaniki that Dedushka made for me. Your pirozhki are all intact.”

The sigh of relief that Plisetsky lets out is tangible. “Good.” 

“This is what it all was,” Georgi whispers. “It wasn’t the Bratva. We’re safe. He just has a brother who plays hockey in America. And sends him pastries from their Dedushka.”

Viktor isn’t so sure, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Plisetsky’s face turns somber. “How is everything there?” he asks as they begin to walk into the Sports Palace.

“It is done, at least,” Rozanov says. “He is buried.”

Who is buried?!?!?

“You don’t have to worry about it anymore.”

Worry about what?!?!

Rozanov casts a look up at the ceiling. “It is not a matter of worry any longer, brátishka. We will take it day by day.”

Take it day by day?!?!

“...Are you sure about that?” Viktor whispers to Georgi and Mila. “This sounds…suspicious.”

“Only one way to find out,” Mila says, striding forward. She gets into Rozanov’s path and sticks out her hand. “Mila Babicheva. You’re this punk’s older brother?”

Rozanov laughs. “Yes, I am. Ilya Rozanov. It is good to meet you, Miss Babicheva. тигрёнок [tiger cub] has talked about you.”

“No I have not!”

“Only good things?” Mila asks teasingly.

“Mostly. I hate to tell you that I am probably better at lifts than you are…” Suddenly, Plisetsky is hovering in the air above Rozanov’s head, cradling his box of pirozhki like a baby. “...but it is easy for me, because I have been doing it since he was a toddler.”

Mila gapes a little bit before her face settles into a huge grin. “I think we will be very good friends, Mr. Rozanov.”

“No you will not, hag!” Plisetsky yells.

“Don’t be rude to your friends, brátishka,” Rozanov chides. “Or else you will stay in air jail.”

“You’ll get tired.”

“Try me.”

Plisetsky makes a face and says, “No, you will not be good friends with my brother, Mila.”

Mila’s jaw drops again, but only a little bit this time. Rozanov brings Plisetsky back to the ground.

“Vitya!” Rozanov turns to greet Viktor from where he’s slowly been creeping around them to get out of the room. “It is good to see you.”

“Ilya,” he returns the greeting. “You said something about wanting to learn figure skating.”

“YOU ASKED HIM?” Plisetsky squawks. "YOU ASKED THIS OLD-ASS MAN AND NOT ME?!?"

Rozanov rolls his eyes very quickly. “No, Brátishka, I warned him that I was coming so he would tell Yakov and not bar me from coming in. I will not be learning from him, as he so eloquently put it in our texts.”

“Hmph. Good.” Plisetsky looks a little pleased, if he can be said to be such a thing.

“That reminds me,” Rozanov says, as they get into one of the practice rooms. He pulls an iPad out of his bag. “I have something to show you.”

Plisetsky plops down next to him with an audible thump. Viktor, Mila, and Georgi crowd around behind them, morbidly curious.

Rozanov pulls up a video from his email and hits play.

The woodwinds and harps begin to sound as the man onscreen lifts his face to the sky.

A man Viktor recognizes.

Katsuki Yuuri, whose face he has been dreaming of since December. Who swept him off his feet with a rose held between his teeth. Who made him feel something more than the encroaching emptiness.

He is skating to Stammi Vicino, non te ne andare. 

It isn’t perfect, technically. Far from it.

But he performs it like he’s living and breathing it, like he knows love and heartbreak intimately, like he understands it far better than even Viktor does.

Be my coach, Viktor!

Against all odds, Viktor knows what he wants to do.

Chapter Text

Ilya smiles down at his phone as he drags his suitcase behind him. Shane really is too cute sometimes.

He’s broken out of his reverie as he hears, ”Entschuldigung. Sind Sie Ilja Rozanov?” [Excuse me. Are you Ilya Rozanov?]

There’s a lanky teenager standing there, clutching a large notebook to his chest. Ilya racks his brain for the tiniest bit of German that he learned in school. “Um. Ich spreche kein Deutsch.” [I do not speak German] That sounds right enough.

The kid flushes pink. “Sorry. My English is poor. I am sorry to disturb you.” He makes to walk away.

“It’s okay,” Ilya says. He lowers his voice. “I am surprised you recognized me.” 

If possible, the kid flushes redder. “I am a fan of hockey.” He thrusts the notebook out at Ilya. “Would you–would you mind signing an autograph?”

Ah. Ilya takes the notebook and opens it to a random page, only to be confronted with a surprisingly well rendered drawing of himself and Shane, standing across from each other like they did at the MLH Awards.

The kids squeaks, ”Entschuldigung!” [Sorry!] , and goes to snatch the sketchbook back.

“No, no,” Ilya says. “This is very good. I will sign it. Do you have a pen?”

The kid sheepishly holds out a pen. Ilya takes it before asking, “What is your name?”

“Luca. Luca Haas,” the kid, Luca, says faintly. 

While Ilya starts to write on an empty corner of the page, he asks, “Are you just hockey fan, or do you play?”

“I play,” Luca says softly, almost embarrassed. “Center or left wing.”

“If you are as good at hockey as you are at drawing, I am sure you will be in the MLH in no time,” Ilya says idly as he finishes his signature. He hands the notebook back to Luca, who looks like he’s going to faint. “Would you mind if I took a photo of this? I think my friend would like to see it.”

“Yes!” Luca exclaims, a little too loud as he holds the sketchbook back out. Ilya takes his phone out of his pocket and gets the photo in frame as best he can as Luca says, “Is your friend Shane Hollander?”

“Yes.” Ilya snaps a good photo of the drawing, including his signature, before he tucks his phone back into his pocket. “Did you want a picture?”

Luca alternates between blanching and going so red Ilya is worried about his health. He shakes his head rapidly. “No, that is alright. I do not want you to be disturbed in your travel.”

“If you say so.” Ilya rocks back on his heels. “I hope your travel goes well, wherever you are going.”

“Thank you!” Luca squeaks before scurrying off.

It really is a good drawing. Luca did not draw the podium in, so the drawing is just of him and Shane facing each other while Ilya holds the microphone up to his mouth.

Is this what our wedding photos would look like?

Ilya shakes the thought out of his head. 

Don’t get ahead of yourself. Go to his house first.

Shane taps his fingers on the steering wheel, looking out at the rays of sunlight setting on the horizon as he waits in the airport parking lot.

In his side mirror, a figure dressed in all black approaches, wearing sunglasses, a facemask and a hat pulled low. It does nothing to hide the width of his shoulders in his tank with cutoff sleeves.

Ilya pulls the door open after Shane unlocks it, sliding into the passenger seat and throwing his luggage in the back. “I should have known you would have boring car, Hollander. What is this, Jeep?”

“Better than 14 sports cars,” Shane retorts. “It’s British. Practical. Lots of storage. Good in the snow.”

Ilya holds his hands up as if to say truce. “Okay, okay.”

Shane starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot. “How was the flight? Did you sleep?”

“Flight was fine,” Ilya says. “Did not sleep so I can sleep when we get in.”

“Are you hungry?” Shane focuses on the road and not Ilya’s hand drifting over to cover his on the center console. “We can stop for food if you want. It’s about a two hour drive.”

“I am okay, Shane,” Ilya says as he gently squeezes Shane’s hand. “Dedushka sent me with pryaniki. I kept half for you.”

Isn’t that just something.

Ilya’s grandfather loves him enough to send him off with sweets and make sure he won’t go hungry when he leaves home.

Shane swallows back the little stone of guilt and selfishness in his gut and flexes his hand under Ilya’s. “I think you’ll like the cottage. It’s relaxing.”

“Relaxing?” Ilya raises an eyebrow. “You think we will be relaxing?” He’s got that little grin on his face that Shane likes so much. It’s smug, and only comes out when he’s really in the mood to tease.

“I mean, I would hope so. It’s the last of our time off,” Shane says dryly, not taking the bait. “It would be nice to relax with you for once.”

“It would be, yes.”

“I have groceries there, so we don’t have to leave if we don’t want to.” Groceries is an understatement. Shane has spent the last two weeks panicking about what Ilya will actually eat. They’re in offseason bulk. Shane has to put on at least 10 pounds of muscle this summer.

“Thank you for inviting me, Shane.” Ilya’s voice neatly cuts off Shane’s spiral.

Another thought occurs to Shane. “Did you run into any more fans here?” It’s more a question of if anyone recognized Ilya here in Ottawa.

“No—I put the mask on after Luca. Did not hurt to be careful. No one saw where I was going.” That and the fact that it took multiple flights for him to even get here. A travel itinerary from Moscow to Ottawa is surprisingly difficult to wrangle.

“Good.” Much as Shane is incandescently happy to have Ilya in his home, the threat of anyone connecting the dots still hangs over them. “The cottage is super private. We don’t need to worry about anything.”

“What about your parents?”

God, what about Shane’s parents.

He’s never explicitly told them that he’s gay, but they might know anyway. Whenever Yuuri came over, they were not subtle about telling him it was okay to be gay.

They just always ask him about girls, if there's anyone he's interested in.

The sticking point that Shane Hollander, Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs, prototypical hockey player, role model for all the little Asian kids who want to play hockey, can’t be gay. At least not in a way that’s real.

He can be gay so long as there isn’t anyone on his arm or any proof that he gets fucked by a man on a regular basis.

He knows his parents would accept him being gay if he told them.

He just doesn't know if they could forgive it breaking the hard work they put into molding him.

He doesn't know if he could deal with being gay and Asian before he's a hockey player.

Anyway, Shane has plans for diverting his parents.

“I told them that I’ll have contractors coming to do final assessments and it’ll be super chaotic. They haven’t even seen the cottage yet. I did promise I would invite them, but I can do that after you leave for Boston, if you don’t want to risk running into them.” He does not want to say the full emergency plan for them showing up unexpectedly, which is to pretend Ilya is a plumber and hope to God they don’t look too closely at his face.

He certainly does lay pipe, so it’s not technically a lie.

“I told my Dedushka about you,” Ilya says abruptly.

“WHAT?!?” Shane bursts out, all thoughts of contingency plans and his parents' wavering approval chased from his head.

“Not you-you,” Ilya says quickly as Shane’s breathing starts to pick up rapidly. “I told him there was someone I cared about. Here.”

“Oh,” Shane says, calming down a little bit, though the stone of guilt has started to rise in his gut again. “What did he say?”

Ilya is silent for a moment. “He told me he would be willing to leave Russia if I needed him to.”

And if that doesn’t make the stone of guilt bloom like a seed, spreading roots of hope into Shane’s chest. “What about Yuri?”

“He will stay until Yuri is an adult, at least. Maybe he will go to St. Petersburg. But,” Ilya hesitates. “Dedushka is very practical. And he is not so bound to Russia that he is set on dying there.”

Shane’s mind starts to chew on that thought like a dog with a bone. “Okay,” he says, at a loss for what to say next. Ilya squeezes his hand again as they fall into comfortable silence.

Shane needs to change the subject, or he’s going to start fixating further. He's going to start thinking about things like the little Russian bakery on the bottom floor of the Plateau-Mont-Royal apartment building, and homemade pirozhki and pryaniki and medovik, and how much of a hassle it would be to make sure one of the other condos is renovated and ready for tenants. “2 Questions. Scott Hunter. Go.”

“Dinosaur,” Ilya supplies immediately. “And you know he is a yes. I have told you this.”

“We agreed on existing animals though,” Shane reminds him. “If you want one that’s been around as long as the dinosaurs, go with a crocodile. Kind of slow until they really need to move. Creepy eyes sometimes. They live for a long time, up to 80 years.”

Ilya’s smile is slow, but opens across his whole face as he starts to laugh. “You have been planning this, haven’t you.”

“Yes,” Shane says, unashamed.

“Waiting to spring it on me.”

“I had other options too,” Shane says. “Aldabra tortoise would work. One of the longest-living animals on earth. Slow. Sometimes they exhibit homosexual behavior.”

The renewed burst of Ilya’s laughter makes Shane start to laugh just as much.

Ilya wakes to Shane shaking his shoulder while the sun casts its earliest rays over them. “Ilya.”

“Mmmngh.”

“Ilya, we should get married.”

Married.

Married.

Married.

Ilya’s eyes fly open and he stares up at Shane. “Wha–right now?”

Shane blushes red. “Not immediately. Sorry. I got ahead of myself.”

Ilya has to stifle a little bit of disappointment, and then stifle the thought of why he’s so disappointed. “What did you mean, then?”

“I was looking into it, and it seems like it’s the fastest way you could get citizenship here. It’s been legal since 2005 in Canada.”

Ilya is still not awake enough for this. “...Wouldn’t we have to tell people?” Getting a marriage license with their names on it will involve multiple people, all of whom could spill the secret of this to the world.

Shane hums a little bit. “Good point. I guess technically…I could sponsor you as a conjugal partner if we indicated intent on marriage. Given the whole Russia situation,” he gestures in the air, “We could note persecution on the basis of sexuality in your country of origin to add weight to your application. There are a lot of technicalities.”

“Bigger thing is that I live in Boston, дорогой. [dear/darling/treasure] How would I apply for Canadian citizenship?” 

“You’ll have to get a PR Card,” Shane says speculatively. “The requirement is 730 days in five years. If we add up the time you spend playing in Canada, and you came here during your time off, we could probably push to get you to that number. I could put your name on the deed for the Plateau-Mont-Royal apartment. Establish residence. We could live together.” He pauses for a second, scrunching his nose. “Marleau is Canadian, right? So you can play in Boston as a Canadian citizen.”

боже, [God] the thought that Ilya loves this man comes slamming into his chest, full force.

“You really think about all of this, Hollander?” Ilya says, his voice starting to get thick.

“I do,” Shane says, his hand petting over Ilya’s chest. “I mean, we don’t have to do anything. It’s up to you. I just thought,” he hesitates. “I just thought it might be nice to have something that we can call, um, ours. I don’t think I will ever want anyone else.” He says it with such frank honesty that Ilya knows he means it.

Ilya feels flayed open as he shakily rolls on top of Shane and says, “I love you. я люблю тебя. [I love you] ” 

“Holy shit,” Shane says, his eyes wide. Ilya’s face begins to fall before Shane says, a little clumsily, ”Я тоже тебя люблю, Илья.” [I love you too, Ilya.] As the words fall from his lips, he looks absurdly proud of himself. His accent is abysmal. "I love you so much."

Ilya hides his face in Shane’s shoulder. “Shanya, when did you learn this? I did not teach you.”

“I started learning before Sochi,” Shane says softly. “And I kind of just didn’t stop. I wanted to be able to talk to you and say what I wanted to say in a way I knew you would understand.”

Ilya can’t help himself as he leans up to kiss his boyfriend.

PHONE CALL TRANSCRIPT: Y. Katsuki -> S. Hollander
Date: 15 July 2014
Duration: 02:41

CALL INITIATED

S. Hollander: (muffled) Hello?

Y. Katsuki: (high-pitched shrieking)

S. Hollander: Yuuri? What’s going on?

Y. Katsuki: (abrupt silence indicating muted microphone)

S. Hollander: Yuuri?

Y. Katsuki: (whispered) Viktor Nikiforov is in my house.

S. Hollander: (exhalation) Did you just say Viktor Nikiforov is in your house?

Y. Katsuki: He is here. In my house. Eating Katsudon.

S. Hollander: Okay. Um. I feel like I’m not hearing you correctly. Viktor Nikiforov is in your house in Hasetsu.

Y. Katsuki: Yes. He is very enthusiastic. He stood up out of the onsen completely naked and told me he was my coach now.

S. Hollander: (extended pause) What did you tell him?

Y. Katsuki: …I said yeah.

S. Hollander: (unidentified noise) (microphone covered) Ilya, this is not what I meant for you to do when I gave you that address. What the fuck?

Y. Katsuki: I mean, I don’t think I would ever say no. It’s Viktor.

S. Hollander: Okay. Is that the plan then? You’re officially naming him as your coach for this season?

Y. Katsuki: Yeah. What we worked on in Montreal…it was good. I could try coaching. I know I could make it work. Maybe move up as an assistant or something. But I don’t want to let go of competing. And he came here to coach me. I can’t take that for granted.

S. Hollander: Did he say why he came so suddenly? I would have expected him to contact you, at the very least.

Y. Katsuki: Um. He said something about a video and then passed out in the dining room. Food coma.

S. Hollander: Goddamnit. I’m going to kill him. Okay. I think he might have seen you doing Stammi Vicino because he shares a rink with Ilya’s brother.

Y. Katsuki: Plisetsky, yeah.

S. Hollander: I’m sorry. I know you said it was okay for Yuri to see it, but I didn’t think about the other skaters.

Y. Katsuki: It’s okay. It brought him here. 

(silence)

S. Hollander: Has he seen the posters?

Y. Katsuki: Oh fuck. Shit. (rapid rustling, tearing of tape) 

S. Hollander: You didn’t take them down before?

Y. Katsuki: He got here before I did! I've spent the last 36 hours in international transit! I have no idea if he saw them already. (muffled in background) Yuu~ri, let’s sleep together! As your coach, there’s so much I need to learn about you! I love your room! Very cozy!

S. Hollander: Holy fuck. Is that him? (muffled in background) Sounds like Vitya. He is there?

Y. Katsuki: Yeah. I have to go.

S. Hollander: Love you and miss you.

Y. Katsuki: Love you and miss you. Bye.

CALL TERMINATED

“Ilya!” Shane shouts after he hangs up the phone. “Did you tell Viktor Nikiforov to show up at my cousin’s house naked?”

“He probably was only naked in the onsen,” Ilya points out unhelpfully. "I did not tell him to show up in the nude."

“Ilya.”

“Shane.”

“Did you or did you not tell him where Yu-Topia Katsuki is and to show up there to surprise Yuuri?”

Ilya throws his hands up. “Fine! I did. I showed Yuri the practice video you sent me, and then Vitya started going on and on about how that was the mysterious skater who swept him off his feet and pole danced at the Sochi GPF banquet.”

“The fucking banquet,” Shane whispers, as a puzzle piece clicks into place in his mind. “I knew something happened. He is not supposed to drink like that.”

Ilya continues, “He was so pathetic, Shane. He was planning on maybe retiring if he couldn’t find joy in skating anymore. He said something about Yuuri asking him to coach him back then. I thought it would be okay since Yuuri was the one to ask him first.”

Shane sighs. “Yuuri doesn’t remember anything from the banquet, Ilya. He just came home for the first time in five years and was confronted with his idol posing naked in his family onsen.”

Ilya makes a face. “That…was not the intention. I only suggested nudity because I thought they were both aware of the arrangement.”

“You point-blank suggested the nudity? Ilya!”

“It worked for us!” Ilya protests as Shane smacks him with a pillow. “I was speaking from experience! Did Yuuri not like it?”

“...I mean he did say yes to Viktor coaching him. And I think they’re about to sleep in Yuuri’s room together.” Shane takes a second to contemplate. “Fuck. I still can’t believe you told him that though.”

“They are at hot springs resort, Hollander. There are precious few places where nudity is normalized. Is like баня, [Russian steam baths] yes? Plus, Vitya needed a little…loosening up.”

“How would you know? You met him six months ago?” Shane asks as he swings a leg over Ilya’s lap to face him. “And you’re one to speak on loosening up.”

“I do a very good job, don’t I?” Ilya muses, grabbing a solid handful of Shane’s ass.

“Ugh, you do,” Shane grumbles as he leans down to kiss Ilya.

“You never really talk about your mom,” Shane says, apropos of nothing while they sit by the roaring firepit. “You told me about your dad and brother and everything, and your dedushka and Yuri, but you never really talk about her.”

Ilya stays silent for a moment, his head on Shane’s lap. “...Mama was great.”

“She had to be, if she made you,” Shane says.

Ilya shakes his head. “Was not that. Mama was beautiful, and kind, and my father made her so sad.”

A lot like you, then, Shane thinks.

“She was a ballerina, you know? Trained at the Bolshoi. A rising star. She was a soloist at 20, and well on her way to becoming a prima. But my father got her pregnant with Alexei, and did not let her back on the stage after they married.”

Every day, Shane finds new reasons to hate Grigori Rozanov.

“Did you ever see her dance?”

“She taught me,” Ilya says, voice held carefully steady. “Showed me how to dance and how to carry myself. It was the only time I saw her happy. After she died, I could not bring myself to dance ballet again.”

“How did she die?”

“Accident,” Ilya spits out. “She accidentally swallowed whole bottle of sleeping pills. My father beat her that day, you know? I found her with bruises on her face. She went to her grave with his mark on her.”

Wow. Shane’s never wanted to resurrect and punch a corpse before, but he’s sure coming close.

Shane pulls Ilya upright and into a tight hug. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

Ilya shudders in his arms, shaking his head. “I met Yuri on the day of her funeral. Polina brought him in order to demand my father marry her. Sometimes I think–” he cuts himself off. “They never got to meet her, Dedushka and Brátishka. They could not exist in my life together.”

Shane just hugs him tighter. “I’m sorry, Ilya.” There are tears in his own eyes, refusing to fall. 

They sit there, entangled as the fire crackles and the loons make haunting calls.

"Do you think you would ever go back to dancing?" Shane asks. He doesn't ask the other half of the question, which is now that your father is six feet under?

"I do not know if I could," Ilya says. "Maybe. Madam Lilia asked me years ago, and I said no to her. It would be strange, to think of doing it here."

"You could do it as cross training," Shane suggests. "Like I do with figure skating."

"Maybe." Ilya pulls his face away from Shane's shoulder. "I think you just do not want me to learn figure skating, because you know I would be better at it."

"You would not be better than me!" Shane protests instinctively, the competitive edge rising. As he sees the shaky smile on Ilya's face, it settles. "I don't want you to use Rasputin as your goal song."

"But Shane, it would be so funny!"

"No!"

PHONE CALL TRANSCRIPT: I. Rozanov -> N. Plisetsky
Date: 12 September 2014
Duration: 03:24

CALL INITIATED

N. Plisetsky: Allo?

I. Rozanov: Dedushka.

N. Plisetsky: Ilyusha?

I. Rozanov: Alexei is in St. Petersburg. Looking for Yuri.

N. Plisetsky: But Yurachka is in Japan. With Viktor.

I. Rozanov: He is looking for leverage.

N. Plisetsky: …Yes. How did you find out?

I. Rozanov: One of his underlings decided to send Mikhail Smirnov a message.

N. Plisetsky: Ah. Volodya.

I. Rozanov: I know I said no when you brought it up before I left for the draft.

N. Plisetsky: …

I. Rozanov: But things are different now. He is…not reasonable.

N. Plisetsky: Ilyusha. Do not worry. I will handle him. Focus on your season.

I. Rozanov: What about Katya? Has Oksana come back at all?

N. Plisetsky: Katyenka is still here. Oksana, I do not know. No one has seen her.

I. Rozanov: Fuck…fuck.

N. Plisetsky: I promised you I would take care of Katya. Polina will not take custody. I have already made arrangements. She will not go to the state.

I. Rozanov: Really?

N. Plisetsky: I promised you. Yurachka likes her too, even if he hides it. She will be safe.

I. Rozanov: And happy?

N. Plisetsky: As much as I can make it so.

I. Rozanov: Okay. Thank you, Dedushka.

N. Plisetsky: There is no need, Ilyusha. I will start putting things in motion now, alright? Take care, Ilyusha.

I. Rozanov: Bye, Dedushka.

CALL TERMINATED.

Yuri isn’t nervous for Skate Canada, per se.

It’s his first Senior-level competition. He knows he’s qualified.

But he wants to perform well. And he needs to perform Agape, not just understand it.

He tells himself that silver is not a consolation prize.

That Ilya and Dedushka will be proud of him.

It’s enough of a distraction that Yuri isn’t quite paying attention to where he’s going as he makes to leave after the medal ceremony. Yakov is talking to sponsors, and Yuri needs to not be here.

He starts walking out only to see the beginnings of a brawl. Countless posters lay abandoned on the ground.

“That poser was overscored. Biased judging!”

“Fuck you! Your little angel couldn’t hold a straight face if he tried. It’s not our fault that J.J. is simply so much better!”

Holy shit.

The J.J. Girls are fighting Yuri’s Angels.

Yuri’s Angels.

Gospodi, Yuri fucking hates Montreal. 

He tries to backtrack, pulling his hood lower and making sure his jacket is zipped all the way up.

Before the Angels notice that he’s there, Yuri hears a voice come out of nowhere.

“Hey. Do you need help getting out of here?”

Yuri whips around at speed to see a tall man, wearing a facemask, sunglasses, and a hat over jeans and a blue jacket. Despite the ugly outfit, he exudes a recognizable aura.

Hockey Player.

Yuri is about to say no when he hears a high pitched scream from in front of him.

Fuck. The Angels.

He squeaks out a “Yes,” moments before the horde threatens to overtake them. The man gets in front of Yuri as he pushes through the crowd, physically moving the grabbing hands out of the way.

They make it to a side street not far from the rink as the sounds of the Angels and J.J. Girls fade.

“Are you alright?” The man asks as they start to walk around the block.

“I’m fine. Who the fuck are you?” Yuri kind of wants to ask if this guys takes bodyguard applications, because he was efficient. Certainly better than Sergei, the traitor.

Vice President of his fucking fan club. Unbelievable.

“...Shun,” the man says after a moment of hesitation. “Katsuki Shun.”

Katsuki. Like fucking Katsudon.

“Hold on, are you the cousin Katsudon would sneak off to call all the fucking time?”

Shun mutters something under his breath before saying, “That would be me, yeah. He thinks you’re a great skater, you know.”

“I fucking know that already,” Yuri snarls, even if there’s a little bit of him that’s still delighted by the compliment.

“Yeah. I would bet. Your brother lords it over my head all the time.”

Immediately, Yuri’s hackles rise.

Obviously, Ilya Rozanov has celebrity status here. More of a villain status here in Canada, but still. 

There are only a select few people who actually know Yuri and Ilya are brothers.

“How do you know my brother?” Yuri grits out in a low voice, not wanting to attract attention.

The man sighs and scans around for onlookers for a long moment before he takes off his mask and sunglasses.

The recognizable aura makes sense as soon as Yuri gets a good look at his face.

Shane Hollander.

Ilya’s rival.

The guy he’s been emailing for the last 5 years.

“Holy shit,” Yuri says. “Does he know you’re here?”

“He doesn’t yet,” Hollander says. “The reason for the whole disguise—,” he waves a hand in the general direction of his face, “—was so I wouldn’t distract from the competition. Also,” he starts digging around in the small backpack that he’s been carrying with him, “I brought one of these in case I ran into you.”

It’s a plush toy, like one of the ones the fans throw on the ice after the skaters perform.

It’s a plushie of Potya, her seal-point coloring and bright blue eyes expertly rendered.

“Don’t tell him I told you, but he had like fifty of those made so he can send them to you for the competitions he can’t get to. I just stole one for hand-delivery.”

Look. Yuri knows Ilya is the best. He’s always been the best.

The reminder just hits a little harder.

More importantly, Hollander is close enough to Ilya that he’s out here coming to Yuri’s competitions. Competitions that Katsudon isn’t even in. Competitions that Ilya can't make it too because he's in Dallas right now.

“Holy fuck. Are you his fucking boyfriend?” Yuri blurts out. There’s a hand on his mouth within the next second.

“Not so loud,” Hollander hisses. Yuri licks his hand, but apparently, he’s been trained, so he keeps it there. Ugh, at least he’s clean and doesn’t taste weird. “But, uh, yeah. I am.” He takes his hand away, and Yuri stands there in silence for a moment.

Ilya’s boyfriend came to a figure skating competition to see him perform.

Ilya’s boyfriend defended him from feuding fans and got him to safety without unnecessarily touching him or getting dramatic about it.

Ilya’s boyfriend is Katsudon’s fucking cousin.

“If you hurt him—,” Yuri begins before Hollander interrupts.

“Blood on your hands, family vengeance, all nine yards. Trust me, I know. He talks about you a lot.”

That, he wasn’t totally expecting. 

It’s one thing to know this guy has been friends with Ilya for years. 

It’s another thing to know Ilya is casually talking about him.

“He does?”

“He does,” Hollander confirms. He puts his hands in his pockets. “I’m about the only person he can talk about you to, here. Except for Svetlana, I guess. But you’re the reason he even has my email, Yuri. You ran into me at World Juniors, he asked for my email, and we’ve been talking ever since.”

And oh, Yuri remembers this. He remembers crashing into someone in a hallway of that stupid rink and Ilya helping him up and talking to the guy in English. He remembers being excited to meet Katsudon when he was a gold medalist and having to leave because the Moskvich coaches were harassing him about pushing up his Junior debut. Ilya got him out, but they still had to leave without going to the banquet.

“Can I get your email?” Yuri asks. “He’s refused to let me even see his emails to you. I want to see what the hype is.”

“I can do you one better,” Hollander says. “Do you mind taking a photo with me?”

Oh boy. Yuri can see where this is going. He yanks his hood down. “Yes.”

Hollander takes a quick selfie and has Yuri hold the Potya plushie up so it’s in the camera view. Yuri rattles off his phone number, and sure enough, the picture shows up in a matter of seconds.

“Don’t post that, alright?” Hollander says. “I still want to be able to go to watch figure skating this year.”

“I won’t,” Yuri promises. “It’ll be great blackmail on Ilya. He didn’t even tell me it was you he was emailing until last year.”

Hollander smiles before putting his mask and sunglasses back on.

They’ve come back around to the arena, and Yuri can see Yakov steaming with rage out front.

On their approach, Yakov starts gearing up to yell, but Hollander neatly intercepts him. “Coach Feltsman. I’m a friend of Ilya’s. I was just helping your skater here—,” He ushers Yuri forward. “—avoid some of his more enthusiastic fans. You might want to consider more security if this has been an ongoing trend. I’m sure Ilya would be willing to help with this.”

Yuri has never seen Yakov taken off quite so guard by a rational human being before, but there’s a first time for everything.

Ilya, I hate to admit it, but you do have good taste.

Yakov deflates. “And you would be?”

“Katsuki Shun,” Hollander says. He pulls out a fucking business card with Katsuki Shun emblazoned on it. Holy shit, this guy is dedicated to his privacy. “I’m Katsuki Yuuri’s cousin, but if you ever need support for Yuri in Canada, feel free to reach out to me.” He zips up his bag neatly and swings it over his shoulder. “I have to head out, but if you’re in the mood for good pirozhki, there’s a Russian bakery up in Plateau-Mont-Royal. Kolya’s.”

Kolya, short for Nikolai.

Yuri and Yakov stare at his back together as he walks off.

2015

TD Garden riots as they see Ilya Rozanov on the Jumbotron hugging Yuri Plisetsky.

“What the fuck,” Cliff says. He’s echoed by the rest of the Bears. “Roz has a little brother?”

“Why do you think he has the tiger tattoo?” A voice says dryly from in front of them. Shane Hollander has turned around to face them. “He got it for Yuri.”

Shane Hollander.

Shane fucking Hollander.

“Hollander? What the fuck are you doing here?” Vic asks. “And how do you know about the tattoo?”

Hollander gives him a deadpan stare. “He does his post-game interviews shirtless, St. Simon. There's no one in the world who hasn't seen it.”

The calm logic of this statement is somehow shocking.

“And I’m here because my cousin is competing,” Hollander continues, jabbing a thumb down at the ice. “It’s the first time Worlds has been close enough for me to actually make it here.”

“Shit, who’s your cousin?” Sebbin jumps in.

“Katsuki Yuuri.” Hollander says it with the flat affect that he always has, but there’s a hint of something in his face. The corner of his mouth is twitching, maybe. “I’m going to meet with him after this.”

“Wait,” Zadonsky says slowly. “Plisetsky declared Katsuki his rival at the start of the season. It was a huge thing that he went to Japan from St. Petersburg.”

“Holy shit, you guys have two different rivalries between your families,” Cliff says, reeling a little bit.

Hollander chuckles. “Yeah. Roz and I actually ran into each other at the Junior Worlds Figure Skating Championship back in 2009. We’ve been best friends ever since. If we can, we meet up or video call when we watch their competitions.”

He says this like it’s completely normal, and not an absolutely batshit thing to say.

“But…Rozanov and Hollander. The rivalry of the decade,” Oregon says. “Are you saying you were faking it?”

Fuck. If they were faking it, then the Bears have been ragging on Roz’ best fucking friend to his face for the last 6 years. People have been burning effigies of Hollander in Boston for years.

“Well, we don’t hate each other. That part is all marketing,” Hollander says thoughtfully. “But I absolutely want to beat him on the ice. This just makes it more fun, you know? It’s fun to have someone to compete with on your level.”