Archive of Our Own

At least Seryozha knows that he’s in trouble. Rookie-wrangling is always easier when the rookie recognizes that he’s done something that necessitates the wrangling in the first place. It’s like puppy training, probably. Firm hand sometimes required. 

Lightning fast reflexes also invariably required, or else your puppy does something stupid the moment your back is turned like pee on the carpet or chew on your shoes or try to hit on the only witch in the stuffy bar in the financial district of Montreal only to end up cursed to hell and back the night before the last game of your ten-day roadie.

Ilya closes his eyes and exhales a long line of smoke, tipping his head back to rest against the brick wall behind him. He takes a second to recall the breathing exercises the sports psychologist taught them all in the pre-season as he rolls the cigarette in between his fingers. 

He also takes a second to remind himself that Dovonchezky’s point production has been off the charts since he joined the Raiders back in August, averaging a point per fucking game in the last four months. And really, Ilya likes the kid. Both from the perspective of a captain evaluating the dynamics of the locker room and from a more personal perspective. 

Dovonchezky is a sweet kid. Eager, enthusiastic, quick to laugh and somehow even quicker to offer a bit of comfort when he sniffs out a guy in need. It’s like the hockey gods bundled up everything Ilya has ever thought off-handedly he missed about Russia, all the good parts and none of the bad, and then put them all in a neat little package of a rookie, hand delivered to Ilya’s team.

Sometimes, Ilya will catch sight of Dovonchezky across the locker room and feel this yank in his gut, like he’s missed a step going down the stairs or something. In a lot of ways, it’s like looking in a fucking mirror, seeing Seryozha settle into the team and the city. Sometimes Ilya feels the sting of distant embarrassment at the idea that he could have ever looked so fucking transparent when he was in Seryozha’s place. So fucking—young. 

That’s the word for it.

Seryozha, with his chapped lips and missing teeth and perpetually messy hair and wide, incredulous eyes, looks young. So eager to be at the rink, every day, like it’s a miracle to go to work and be told to bag skate across the ice until he collapses. He must be hell to live with, Ilya already knows. Wilkinson must be slowly losing his mind, having to wake up every morning and share a kitchen with such bright-eyed bushy-tailed enthusiasm. 

It’s hard for Ilya sometimes, just sharing a locker room with the kid. Seryozha knows everything there is to know abou the sport, has spent the majority of his life probably learning all the rules and their interpretations and how his body can be used to further the game, win it for his team. He’s got a pretty high hockey I.Q., Ilya’s seen it in action out on the ice. But the kid knows shit about the league, and that makes it fucking—difficult to be around him. Sometimes.

The kid knows shit about a lot of things really, Ilya thinks wryly as he flicks the embers off the cherry of his cigarette before taking another drag, releasing the smoke up towards the sky. 

Honestly, Ilya would probably trade half of Seryozha’s hockey knowledge to give him a little fucking dash of common sense. 

Or, barring that, the ability to talk to women and not make an utter fool of himself. 

He can feel it when Seryozha shifts beside him even before the kid reaches out to tug at his arm. Ilya doesn’t open his eyes, because if he opens his eyes, he’s going to get a fucking headache.

He breathes in for five and then out for seven. Seryozha taps at his arm again, more insistent this time. “Can you still breathe,” Ilya asks without tilting his head back down to look over at him. 

Then he realizes that he’s going to have to look at him, because the goddammn Montreal witch cursed Sergei with some kind of fucking hex that’s got his tongue twisted up and glued to the roof of his mouth, and so he can’t say anything at all. 

She’s just fucking lucky Montreal has a relatively low pollen count this time of year. Chexy’s got allergies. This could have been classified as attempted murder. 

“What,” Ilya says, when Seryozha touches his arm again. He rolls his head against the wall and opens his eyes to stare balefully at the rookie, who taps at his wrist and then to Ilya’s phone with both eyebrows raised.

“Yes, I ordered the Uber,” Ilya tells him, unlocking the screen so Seryozha can read how far away the car is. His thumb hovers over the destination pin in the small map. “Seven minutes away. And you’re sure your witch still lives here?”

Seryozha shrugs and then nods. Hesitates and then shrugs again. Ilya mindfully resists the urge to pinch at the bridge of his nose. Probably, Seryozha had not even considered the option that the witch he’d told Ilya he knew in Montreal, the one who could absolutely reverse the tongue-tying curse because he is best witch in Montreal cptn he can fix me so fast and not charge so much either, could have, in the six months it’s been since Seryozha lived in this damn city, moved houses or neighborhoods or even fucking countries.

“Do you want to maybe text him and check,” Ilya says in English, because bad puppies who piss on his nice Italian-leather shoes and bad rookies who piss off Montreal witches do not get to be spoken to in Russian.

Seryozha frowns, eyebrows creasing and lips pushing out in a miserable hang-dog expression that does not tug on Ilya’s heartstrings. 

But he also pulls out his phone and starts typing on the screen. His witch, Ilya is assuming. That’s probably for the best. It’s nearly midnight, curfew well and truly fucked, and it’s a Tuesday too. Most people are probably asleep by now. 

Though, Ilya doesn’t know if witches have normal sleep schedules. Maybe the best witch in Montreal is up late, communing with the moon or something.

He turns the thought over in his mind before squinting up at the cloud-covered sky. Maybe not. 

Seryozha nudges his arm again, and Ilya looks back at him. “Five minutes away,” he says, and Seryozha thrusts the too-bright rectangle of his phone up into Ilya’s face. 

I’m sorry cptn (((((, Seryozha has typed into his Notes app.

Ilya huffs out a breath. It’s probably mostly his fault, honestly. He’d let Cliff take the rookies out despite tomorrow’s game, and then he’d let Cliff pull him into a conversation about the newest expansion team out west, which meant they’d both left the rookies unsupervised and gathered around a dart board at the back of the bar. 

Terrible things fucking happen when you leave rookies unsupervised in Canadian bars. Ilya knows this. Ilya remembers this from his own rookie years. Remembers cold and blurry nights in Vancouver, missing curfew and kissing people he probably shouldn’t have been kissing so out in the open and bold with it. Remembers the sting of fists against his cheek and nose somewhere in Winnipeg—because what the fuck else are you supposed to do in Winnipeg except freeze your nuts off, get into bar fights, and drink your hangover away—and remembers his captain fishing him out of too many dives to keep count of.

It’s probably poetic justice or at least some kind of sign from the universe that he owes his former captain a really nice fruit basket for all the shit he made him put up with that Ilya’s now in charge of the rookie-wrangling.

But, he thinks, stubbing out the remainder of his cigarette as he glances back to his phone again, he never got cursed by a girl he was trying to pick up.

Seryozha tugs at his arm and shows him his phone again. The Notes app message reads: Shane says he can fix before game tomorrow )))

Ilya narrows his eyes. The timeline—before game tomorrow—is a little too vague for Ilya’s liking. A little too noncommittal, given that he currently has a rookie unable to use his tongue, which means he’s only able to breathe through his nose, and his jaw must surely be stiff and aching from the unnatural position it’s being held in.

Before game tomorrow. What a fucking witch answer. Vague and noncommittal when the problem’s very real and pressing and needs to be addressed immediately before Ilya’s rookie accidentally rolls over in his sleep and suffocates himself on his own damn pillow.

“Driver is here,” Ilya tells Seryozha as a Prius rolls up to the curb in front of them and flicks on its hazards. Seryozha frowns at him, eyebrows creased up in heartbroken concern. Ilya barely bites back the urge to groan. He opens the door for the rookie and pushes him in first, feeling a little bit like he’s kicking a puppy when Seryozha accidentally bangs his head against the roof of the car as he slides inside.

“For Ilya Rozanov,” Ilya says to the driver, because it’d be just his fucking luck if they accidentally steal some other witch’s Uber and get cursed again. But the driver just nods, so Ilya buckles his seatbelt, makes sure the rookie’s strapped in as well, and then settles back against the seat.

He carefully angles his body towards the window, which is an asshole move when you’re sharing a backseat with someone who can only talk to you via Notes app, but Ilya is tired. It’s late and he’s tired and he’s stressed, something tight lingering in his chest and making it a little more difficult to breathe than it usually is.

He fucking hates witches. Hates the way magic can be used and abused by anyone with the patience to learn how to use it or the natural talent for it or the money to buy someone else’s talents. 

It’s like—if fucking—if you went to a fucking hospital, yes, for an open heart surgery or something, and the doctor cutting you open decided he’d take your leg as well, just because he could or because your neighbor paid him a little bit of extra money for it because she was tired of hearing you talk about the marathon you were training for.

But obviously doctors don’t do that because they’ve sworn to do no harm. Witches, as far as Ilya’s fucking aware, have no such code if the price is right.

Sure, probably some of them do. Most of them probably do, in fact, if Ilya’s feeling generous about his estimates here. But most isn’t all. Most means that for the right fucking price, a woman can curse her boss to tell the truth right before a day of networking. A disgruntled student can pay for his university professor to be hexed into early retirement. Marriages can be ruined by stubborn love spells. A guy who’s never put on a pair of skates can hire a witch to curse a nineteen year old kid into tripping over his blades and careening headfirst into the boards, ending his fucking career if the hit’s just right.

For the right fucking  price, magic can be a weapon and anyone can be its target. 

Like tonight, for example. Seryozha hadn’t even been crude or sexist or uncouth. He’d just, as far as Ilya understands it, been fucking nervous, put his foot in his mouth and and said the wrong thing to the wrong person. So instead of getting a drink thrown at him or even a slap across the face, they’re here. Traveling through the backstreets of fucking Montreal, on their way to visit another witch because the first one decided to take away Seryozha’s ability to fucking talk. 

Hopefully Seryozha’s witch, Shane, is kinder. More patient. More fucking humane.

Ilya breathes in and holds it for four seconds and then exhales for six. Is that right? Is it supposed to be holding for four? Is it supposed to be holding for five? How fucking long is he supposed to hold his breath before he’s allowed to exhale?

Seryozha taps at his arm, and Ilya turns to look at his phone.

Will you tell Gloria? The Notes App says, and Ilya is sighing before he can figure out how long he’s supposed to let this breath sit in his lungs. 

“You are cursed by witch in Montreal, Seryozha,” Ilya says. “Of course I have to tell your Raiders’ witch.”

Seryozha slumps back into his seat. (((((, he types as if Ilya is eagerly and selfishly jumping at the chance to talk with the Raiders’ own contingency of witches in charge of the wards meant to protect the players off the ice.

Mostly, when allowed, Ilya ignores them. He has his own wards, obviously, inherited and woven into his mother’s necklace. No need to cross the black cat’s path except when absolulely unavoidable. Usually he only has to travel down to the basement offices of TD Garden where the witches have set up shop in his capacity as Captain, and usually he makes Cliff do it instead as his A. He can’t even remember the last time he met one-on-one with Charlie, his own team-assigned witch. 

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t recall protocol though. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t understand the reasoning behind the protocol either. It’s a team matter and a secuirty weakness, the fact that some random witch was able to curse Seryozha when he’s supposed to be under the best protection from wayward jinxes and targeted curses on offer. The Raiders spend what must be an unholy amount of money every season keeping their witches on retainer for the safety of their players. 

So it’s not a great look, Seryozha being cursed in the city of Boston’s biggest rivals. 

It’s even worse that they have to rely on some other witch, outside of the organizaiton, to fix him. Surely that’s even more against protocol. Surely the Raiders would prefer one of their own handling the situation, but that would require either waiting another day and a half to get back to Boston or flying a witch up from Boston overnight, and Ilya would, maybe selfishly, maybe unreasonably, prefer that that sort of precedent remains…unestablished.

Witches don’t tend to travel with the team, and Ilya, for one, is not about to suggest anything that could change that.

At least this time, Seryozha has a friend in the area who can help them. Shane. Best witch in all of Montreal, apparently. 

Though—friend. Ilya isn’t sure if friend is the right word for whatever Seryozha’s relationship is to his witch. It’s certainly very late for house calls between people who are just friends. And Seryozha had been so very sure that Shane would be willing to see him. Like maybe he’d been planning to see him anyway, somehow. 

But if that were true, then Ilya wishes Seryozha had just tried it on with one witch tonight instead of getting greedy and going for two. 

It’s uncharitable, the thought. But it’s late and Ilya is tired and he hates magic, the kind of hatred that has to start young, be planted by someone else within a child and grow up parallel to his skeleton as he ages. 

Ilya feels on edge, teeth grinding together as he looks at the blinking cursor on Seryozha’s phone.

If he and his witch aren’t just friends, then that’s—that’s something else magic has taken from him tonight, because that’s not something Ilya should know without explicit permission. Sergei’s never hinted at being bisexual, never had anything even partially resembling that conversation with Ilya. 

And now here Ilya is, sitting in a car next to him, which is slowing down and then stopping in front of a row of identical-looking gray townhouses. And he thinks Seryozha wouldn’t have ever mentioned Shane to him except in dire circumstances like these, and that’s not fair. Not to Seryozha. Not to his witch. Not to Ilya, who doesn’t want to know anything Seryozha doesn’t want him to know, which means that he’s getting out of the car and thanking the driver and trying to ignore the familiarity with which Seryozha opens the front gate and takes the steps, two at a time, up to the front door.

Ilya follows him at a slower pace, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket as he looks over the front garden with a critical eye.

It doesn’t look much like a witch’s abode, if Ilya’s being honest. It just sort of looks like a house. Same as the ones on either side of it. 

There’s two low brick walls, dividing this property on each side from the neighbors’, and a pair of hedges pressed up against the gray brick. A skeletal hand of orange-red ivy extends across the front of the house, digging its fingernails into the facade.

A tabby cat tilts its head up at Ilya as Seryozha rings the doorbell. It’s sitting on top of the wall next to the steps, eyes flashing strangely luminescent in the low light of the electric lantern hanging by the door.

“Uh, hello,” Ilya says when the cat rises up on its legs and stretches, back bending and paws curling down. Its ears flick and it gives him a dour sort of mwor in return. It must be Shane’s familiar or—some sort of guardian. Probably at least. Witches have familiars, Ilya knows that. Knows Maury walks around the Garden with an unleashed dog at his heels and no one looks at them twice. 

So he says, very politely, “Shane is expecting us,” even though he has no idea if that’s true or not. Shane could very easily only be expecting Seryozha; Ilya could be poised to take him completely by surprise.

The cat yawns, tiny sharp teeth flashing at Ilya. Its ears flick again and then it curls up into a ball of fur, right there on the brick wall despite the fact that they’re hurtling towards the end of November and it’s fucking freezing outside.

“Is that good or bad, do you think,” Ilya asks Seryozha in Russian, gesturing at the cat when the familiar doesn’t move again except to curl its tail over the tip of its pink nose.

Seryozha’s phone screen flashes white in the darkness. That is a cat, he types, and Ilya scowls. It’s a fucking magical cat, but before he can press the point, the front door opens and golden light spills out onto the doorstep.

“Chex, hey,” Shane The Best Witch In Montreal greets them, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. 

Seryozha’s attention leaves Ilya immediately and completely, thumbs flying across the keyboard of his phone before he holds it up in the air between them. “SHANYA SHANYA SHANYA,” the tinny, mechanical voice of the text-to-audo programme says. It’s nonsense to Ilya, but Shane The Best Witch In Montreal ducks his head and lets out a little laugh, steps back from the threshold in invitation.

“Yeah, yeah, missed you too, big guy,” the witch says. “Get in here. You and your friend.”

“THANK YOU,” the phone says as they shuffle into the house. A second later, Seryozha jams his elbow into Ilya’s side, and Ilya lets out an oof.

“Uh,” he says, and then he doesn’t say anything at all. Not thank you, not get on it with it, not I’ll let you take it from here. He means to, obviously. Has already begun to reach for the automatic thank you drilled into him at a young age, but instead he stands there in the small entryway of the house and blinks dumbly at the man in front of him.

The very, very pretty man.

Ilya bites at his tongue, just to make sure it’s where he last left it. Staring at Shane The Best Witch In Montreal makes Ilya feel a little like he’s been the one tongue-tied. 

The witch has freckles; Ilya didn’t realize witches were allowed to have freckles, but there they are, flecks of color across his cheeks and over the narrow bridge of his nose. His eyes are dark and flitting back and forth between Ilya and Seryozha, though they linger on Ilya. His hair is messy, unkempt black strands sticking to his forehead in a style that should, by all accounts, be unattractive. 

But it’s not; it works for him. The stupid haircut, the awkward way he holds his body, the breadth of his shoulders and the narrow taper of his waist. His fucking—pink lips, tanned skin, freckles. 

Shane The Best Witch In Montreal blinks at Ilya, eyebrows furrowing and head tilting slightly to the side, like the cat outside had looked at him, and somehow that’s what makes everything click into place in Ilya’s head.

Right, of course. This is a witch. This is, if Seryozha is to be believed, the best witch in the city. He must be wearing a—a glamour or an allure or something similar. Of course. That’s the only explanation for why Ilya’s tongue feels twisted and heavy in his mouth and why when he stares at the witch, he can’t find a single imperfection on his face. Even the flash of his teeth—small and crooked—is endearing 

“Thank you,” Ilya manages to say, on a ten second delay. He opens his mouth, wants to request that Shane The Best Witch In Montreal undo whatever charm he has on that’s making it hard to look anywhere else, but he thinks—that’s probably rude, yes? This is Shane’s house. He can wear whatever charm he wants.

Ilya’s stomach tightens and then flips over itself when he glances at Seryozha and remembers his earlier theory, about the relationship between the two of them being more than friendly. Perhaps Shane The Best Witch In Montreal has cast some sort of—of allure spell because Seryozha had texted him. 

Strangely, that doesn’t sit well with Ilya, makes his stomach churn and sets his teeth on edge. 

Fucking witches. Fucking magic.

“Shoes off,” Shane directs, crossing his arms over the thin material of his sleep shirt and watching as both Ilya and Seryozha bend down to untie their boots. Ilya wants to take a second and look around, get his bearings, but he’s distracted by the bulge of Shane’s biceps, on sudden display. 

That fucking allure.

Fucking—witches.

Seryozha makes a noise beside him, fingers flying across the screen of his phone as he toes off his shoes and steps further into Shane The Best Witch In Montreal’s hallway. Wicked lair. Same difference.

“THIS IS LILY ROSE AND OFF,” the phone announces.

“Oh yeah?” Shane says, and he sounds a little like he’s laughing. Ilya doesn’t think he can stand to hear what Shane The Best Witch In Montreal’s laughter sounds like, so he straightens up and proffers his hand to him and says, in his most no-nonsense, tough guy voice he learned from watching The Godfather on television late at night to practice his English, “Ilya Rozanov, actually. Captain of the Raiders.”

Shane’s face twitches into an expression that Ilya doesn’t know how to decode. He takes his hand in his, skin brushing against skin in a way that Ilya’s felt a million times in his life. 

It’s never felt like this though. Like lightning. Like the beginning of a summer storm. Shane takes Ilya’s hand in his, and it’s not enough to say that they touch. It’s more akin to being struck. Like Ilya is a weather vane on top of an old barn; like he is a bowling pin, and Shane has barrelled into him full force, no holds barred.

Shane’s grip is firm, as firm as Ilya’s. His fingers are rough, long and thick. He has good hands. Working hands. There’s a freckle on the side of his wrist, right over the knob of bone there. Ilya doesn’t know what to do with that information now that he has it, but he can’t unsee the dark fleck of skin either. 

Ilya wants to run his thumb over it. He sort of wants to run his tongue over it as well. His mouth is dry just thinking about it. 

The wanting is a living thing inside of his chest. Shane The Best Witch In Montreal is so—pretty, with his rough hands and his pink lips and his steady stare that is saying a hundred things Ilya can’t even begin to decode.

Shane lowers his eyes, looks at the knots of their fingers. His mouth is parted, like he wants to say something but hasn’t yet figured out which words he wants to lead with. Ilya’s grip tightens; it’s mostly accidental. It’s mostly because his body feels alien to him and confused, at war with his mind. He isn’t sure what his own face is doing, what Shane The Best Witch In Montreal is seeing. 

He feels twisted and tangled up in the strings of his own veins, aware of the frantic beating of his heart without knowing which instinct—fight or flight—is going to win out.

Half of him wants to square his shoulders, and drop his own chin, like this is a face-off on the ice he can win, like Shane is just another opponent crouched opposite the circle. The other half of him wants to reel Shane in with the grip he still has on his hand, tug him closer into the line of his body like he would in a heartbeat if they’d met under different circumstances, different lights. If the heady pulse of blood through his body matched the pulsing music of a dance club, if Shane gave him that look, up through the fan of his eyelashes somewhere darker, more private; if they weren’t—if he wasn’t—

“AUTOCORRECT, SORRY HAT,” Seryozha’s phone screams and Ilya startles back, dropping Shane The Best Witch In Montreal’s hand.

Shane blinks at him, looking adorably confused. So fucking pretty when his nose scrunches up like that. 

Fucking allure.

“I MEAN CAP,” the phone says, and Ilya closes his eyes and sucks in a breath and holds it for five seconds.

“I am going to take that away from you,” he bites out to Seryozha in Russian, who gives him a despondent look.

Shane The Best Witch In Montreal coughs and then turns around before Ilya can catch his expression. “Through here, guys, please.”

Seryozha follows quickly, tripping over himself in his own eagerness to trail after his witch. Ilya lingers for a second longer in the entryway. He flexes his hand, tries to ignore the way that it feels strangely empty. 

In the end, there’s nothing to do but follow the both of them, damn the way his instincts are screaming at him to abandon ship. You can’t trust witches, everyone knows that; you should never let them lead, lest you find yourself being led back into their—lair or whatever.

But when Ilya rounds the corner and goes through the first doorway on his right, there’s no shadowy dungeon or dusty, cobwebbed laboratory waiting for him. It’s just—a kitchen. A bit cramped, appliances a little out-dated. Linoleum tile on the floor, a dark backsplash against the walls, dark countertops, light wood cabinets.

There are magnets on the fridge. Ilya blinks at them, startled. Like freckles, fridge magnets are not something he ever really thought witches could have, but there they are. A neon pink flamingo magnet holds up a picture of a man and a woman with two small children between them, all of them wearing Disney mouse ears. A magnet of the Statue of Liberty is being used to hold a receipt from a grocery store. Ilya squints at it, trying to make out what’s been purchased, before he thinks—maybe that’s weird. 

“So can you tell me what happened?” Shane The Best Witch In Montreal prompts, after he gestures for Seryozha and Ilya to take a seat at the small table shoved into the middle of the room. Chexy sits eagerly; Ilya holds himself back, lingering in the doorway.

Shane raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him, lines of his face sharpening with irritation, and if Ilya had been under any doubts about the allure before, they’re gone now because he even finds the witch’s bitchy expression strangely charming. Ilya scowls back at him.

Which, of course backfires immediately, because all it does is make Shane lean back against the countertop behind him and cross his arms again, biceps flexing with the motion. 

He is a little like the sun; Ilya cannot look at him for long, and so he cuts his eyes away, focuses on something else instead.

The tile of the countertops is a pretty shade of green, dark like pine needles. Ilya wonders if Shane chose the color himself or if someone else chose it for him. The previous occupants. A parent, a partner. 

“WOMAN AT THE BAR DID NOT LIKE ME LEFT PARENTHESIS LEFT PARENTHESIS LEFT PARENTHESIS,” Seryozha’s phone screams.

Shane lets out a huff of laughter that Ilya only finds a little devastatingly beautiful. “Maybe leave out the emoticons for now, bud,” he suggests.

“LEFT PARENTHESIS LEFT PARENTHESIS LEFT PAREN—”

Ilya plucks the phone from Seryozha’s hands and swipes the Notes App closed, cutting the robotic voice off and throwing the kitchen into immediate, blissful silence. Seryozha gives him a downtrodden look, but slumps back into the chair, putting his elbows up on the tiny table 

“A witch at the bar cursed him because she felt offended at something he told her,” Ilya tells Shane carefully, measuring out each word carefully. Logically, he knows that if Shane The Best Witch In Montreal and Seryozha are friends—are more—then Shane has heard truly terrible English at times, given Seryozha’s relatively tenuous grasp on English conjugations and sentence structure.

But that’s Seryozha. Ilya—it feels like a gap in his defenses, speaking to the witch in anything less than perfect English. Something that exposes him, leaves him vulnerable, like Shane will be able to wriggle his way through the cracks in his English and see the beating heart of him.

“Hm,” Is all Shane says though, eyebrows pinching together and nose scrunching up in thought. Ilya wonders again about asking him to drop the allure, if the rudeness outweighs the benefit. It’s just a little hard to focus. Surely Seryozha’s witch would understand. “Did you happen to hear what he said, Captain?”

Ilya blinks. Shane The Best Witch In Montreal sounds just as careful as Ilya must have. Captain. No one calls him Captain. 

He likes the way it sounds though. On Shane’s tongue, in his slight monotone voice, like no one’s ever taught him how to ask a question before.

“Eh,” Ilya says, waving his hand in the air as he leans back against the opposite kitchen counter. “He told me after. She mentions—mentioned failing a test in class and being worried about failing the module because she needed a good grade to pass, yes?”

Seryozha nods from his seat at the table, chin resting on his folded arms and mouth turned down. 

“And he said that if he was as bad at ice hockey as she was at psychology, he would not have pursued a career as an athlete,” Ilya rolls his eyes, and Seryozha grabs at his phone again. It’s only because Shane lets out a bark of laughter that he’s able to take it from Ilya’s slack fingers. 

He’s just—been caught off-guard for a moment, that’s all.

“Ouch, Chexy,” Shane says, and Seryozha’s fingers start flying across the phone screen.

“I WAS TRYING TO BE RELATIVE,” the phone yells.

“Relatable,” Ilya translates, and Shane laughs again, eyes crinkling as his mouth quirks up on one side only, smile crooked and fond.

“IT WOULD HAVE SOUNDED BETTER IN RUSSIAN,” Seryozha’s phone relays, and Ilya gives into the urge to rub at his temple. 

“Stop lying and just tell your witch you cannot talk to women,” Ilya tells him in Russian, and a dull flush works its way across Seryozha’s face. He pouts; Ilya is unmoved. 

“It would have sounded a little nicer in Russian,” Ilya tells Shane The Best Witch In Montreal in English. Shane raises both his eyebrows. Maybe witches can tell when people lie to them. Maybe Shane speaks Russian.

“Does he speak Russian?” he asks Seryozha in Russian, because that suddenly feels very important to know. Sergei is no help, however. He just frowns at him in confusion before turning his attention back to his witch like Ilya’s the problem here. 

Shane’s eyes flick away from his a second too late; he’s been staring and Ilya doesn’t know what he wants to do with that information. Doesn’t know what it means, that look in a room this bright. 

“Hm,” is all the witch says though, wetting his lips and tilting his head as he considers Sergei. He takes a couple of steps away from the counter, puts his hands on Sergei’s cheek and neck to lift his face up towards the light. Seryozha, who has no common sense and is far too trusting for his own good, leans into the witch’s touch. “That might make it easier, actually.”

“What does?” Ilya demands, on edge as he watches the way Shane The Best Witch In Montreal presses his fingers up against Seryozha’s pulse. Baring your neck to a witch? Ilya’s father would have a heart attack at the very thought. Ilya feels like he is having a heart attack, watching this.

Shane hums again, eyebrows furrowing as his hands run the length of Sergei’s throat. Seryozha, for his part, looks like he’d fucking purr if he had the vocal capabilities. “The most effective curses are rooted in strong emotions,” Shane says absently as he continues his examination. What he’s even looking for, Ilya doesn’t know. There’s a lot of—neck touching. 

Ilya doesn’t like it. Surely this is unnecessary. Ilya can tell him what’s wrong; Seryozha’s tongue is knotted up against the top of his mouth. Why the fuck Shane The Best Witch In Montreal needs to caress his throat, Ilya doesn’t fucking know.

He crosses his arms and glares at the pair of them. “Okay,” he says, and Shane makes a noise of agreement, like that is what Ilya wants from him. Agreement.

“The curse’s tethered to her anger,” Shane mumbles, eyes fluttering closed as he—Ilya doesn’t know. Communes with the spiritual world or whatever witches do. “But it feels like the anger’s self-directed, which will make it easier to pull out.”

“Of course,” Ilya says.

Shane drops his hands and stands back from the table, pivoting around his kitchen and opening a string of cabinets and drawers as he explains, still in that absent monotone that has no business being so interesting when it is so objectively boring. “It’s like, if the body is a—garden, or a plot of dirt, think of spells as weeds that try to take root in the soil, yeah?” he says as he shakes a vial of dried seeds into a shallow stone bowl. 

“Right, of course,” Ilya says. “The body is a garden. I am always thinking this.”

Shane The Best Witch In Montreal shoots him a look over his shoulder, but maybe there is some truth to him being the best witch in the city, because his hands don’t stop moving even as he tries to eviscerate Ilya with his dark, pretty eyes.

“Yes,” Shane says, a bit more curt than before. “A fucking garden. So the most effective curses—the really nasty shit—they’re like—have you ever seen kudzu? It’s a parasitic plant, basically. Grows fast and everywhere, just digs deep and spreads like wildfire. Chokes the life out of its host.”

Seryozha makes a worried noise. Ilya feels inclined to agree. A curse that chokes the life out of its host doesn’t sound optimal.

“Those are really angry, powerful curses,” Shane is saying as he grinds the seeds into the bowl. Ilya is having a hard time focusing on whatever he’s doing. He’s thinking maybe he should have been more proactive in finding the witch who cursed Seryozha in the first place. Chokes the life out of its host. Not optimal. Not—an option.

“So you have to tear the whole thing out at once,” Shane tells them, examining a bushel of dried leaves with a critical eye. “Or else enough of it remains to grow back. Like—if you try to uproot a plant, but you miss enough of the smaller roots, it could survive.”

“Okay,” Ilya says. “But you are best witch in the city, yes? You are good gardener?”

Shane huffs out a breath that could be considered a laugh. “Sure, Captain,” he says. “I’m a good gardener.”

Ilya relaxes at that. It’s less about the words and more about the delivery, the casual confidence Shane speaks with like he’s never even considered being bad at this. Like the idea of being anything less than good is a bit funny. 

“Well,” Ilya says. “Good.”

“Good,” Shane repeats, back turned so Ilya has no hope of seeing his expression. He’s sure it’s very boring though. Nothing beautiful or interesting to see there. “This one’s different anyway,” Seryozha’s witch says, pouring something viscous into the bowl. It smells foul, the smell permeating the whole kitchen. He pauses for a second and then adds another liquid, something thinner and sweeter smelling. “It’s not—like, rooted in Chexy.”

“I thought Chexy’s body was a garden,” Ilya says, blinking innocently when Shane turns his head around to give him another look. There is something Ilya likes about these looks of Shane’s. They’re dark and imperfect, a crack in his easy countenance. They feel real, allure aside. 

Or—Ilya still feels the tug of the allure, he’s pretty sure, because it feels a little hard to breathe when Shane looks at him, but there’s something separately beautiful and real about Shane’s annoyance.

“Did you hear that, Seryozha?” Ilya says lazily, tilting his head towards his rookie but keeping his eyes on Shane. “The witch thinks your body is a subpar garden with very shitty dirt.”

“LEFT PARENTHESIS LEFT PARENTHESIS LEFT PARENTHESIS—”

“I do not,” Shane snaps, putting his hands on his hips and turning around to glare at Ilya. There’s a faint flush on his cheeks. That stupid, impressionable, impulsive part of Ilya wants to lick it. “The curse is different, asshole.”

Ilya puts his hand up against his chest, over his heart.

Shane rolls his eyes and then he looks away, back to his witch concoction. “The anger behind the curse is self-directed moreso than specifically meant for Sergei,” Shane tells them. “So its roots are tangled up in itself. Not something that can be—planted, I don’t know. More like a tumbleweed, I guess.”

“A tumbleweed,” Ilya says.

Shane’s lips quirk up a little as he turns and sets his little potion on the kitchen table. “I did a lot of my training under a hedge witch,” he admits, rubbing at the back of his neck. “They sort of stressed the nature shit.” 

“Huh,” Ilya says. “I see that, yes.”

Shane glares at him again. “I can think up a few hockey metaphors, if that’ll help you understand, Rozanov.”

“Please,” Ilya says pleasantly. “It’s Captain.”

“I DON’T WANT TO DRINK THIS PLEASE SHANYA THANK YOU BUT NO,” Seryozha’s phone says loudly. It startles Ilya, though he’d never admit it. He hadn’t forgotten about Seryozha.

It’s just that goddamn allure.

“Fuck, Chex, of course you’re not drinking that shit,” Shane says, looking a little caught off-guard too, like Ilya’s not the only one to have forgotten himself for a moment there. “It’s topical.”

Witches, Ilya thinks derisively. Would speaking in full sentences actually fucking kill them?

“Actually, Captain,” Shane says suddenly, and Ilya’s eyes jump to his on instinct. “May I borrow your shirt?”

“What,” Ilya says, glancing down at his own chest, which is stupid. He doesn’t need to fucking confirm that he’s wearing a shirt. He’s wearing two shirts in fact, silk over shirt unbuttoned to show off the skintight tank top beneath.

But still—what.

“The tincture needs to be applied to something, preferably lightweight, that I can wrap around the neck.”

“You do not have a—rag for this?”

“Hm,” Shane says, with the air of one who almost certainly has a closet full of towels for this express purpose. “No.” He extends his hand and blinks up at Ilya, impatient. Demanding. Imperious. “How much do you like your shirt, Captain?”

“This is Alexander McQueen,” Ilya snaps. It’s fucking silk. Surely The Best Witch In Montreal has a disposable rag or cloth lying around his house he can use instead of—

“This needs to be applied immediately,” Shane replies, wriggling his fingers. “Or else the chemical structure changes and becomes an irritant on the skin, so. How much do you like your rookie, Captain?”

Seryozha makes a startled noise, turning wide eyes up to Ilya; Ilya takes his over-shirt off in short, brusque movements, thrusting it out to Shane The Best Witch In Montreal with a snarl. 

“If you want me to take my clothes off, there are better ways of asking,” he mutters, watching as Shane fucking—cuts his shirt into three different pieces and dips one of the makeshift bandages into the bowl.

Borrow. Fucking witches.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Shane snaps back, but the effect is ruined by the red staining his cheeks. Ilya crosses his arms so he doesn’t do something stupid like try and reach out to him, touch his freckles. God, but he is so—so—

“HELLO,” Seryozha’s phone screams, and if Ilya were a lesser man, he thinks he would jump from the suddenness. “I AM SITTING HERE THANK YOU.”

“I am going to throw your phone into the river,” Ilya tells him in Russian, and Seryozha glares back at him, as if he has any right to be offended. As if it is not an hour past midnight, and as if they are not here, in this situation, because of him.

Shane, at least, deflates almost immediately. He turns his attention back to Seryozha immediately and takes the adjacent chair at the table. It is a small table; their knees must be brushing together underneath it. Carefully, almost achingly tenderly, the witch reaches forward and tilts Seryozha's head back with nothing more than a brush of his knuckles underneath his chin. Seryozha makes a noise, and Shane hushes him absently. "Just a second, big guy," he murmurs, sticking his fingers in the bowl and moving the cloth around the liquid.

It makes Ilya feel strangely cold and out of place, standing in Shane's kitchen without the witch's eyes on him. Like this is so close to how things are meant to be, and yet somehow farther away than ever.

“I’m going to wrap this around your neck, alright?” Shane The Best Witch In Montreal is saying, lifting Ilya’s poor ruined shirt out of the bowl and holding one end of the strip against Seryozha’s throat. “It’ll need to stay in place overnight so your skin can soak up the tincture, but you’ll be better in the morning.”

Seryozha nods as much as he’s able, head still bent back and held carefully in place by Shane’s fingers.

Ilya watches from his place a few steps away, removed and dismissed, arms crossed and eyes sharp, but Seryozha doesn’t flinch away from Shane’s touch. Shane does not give him reason to; his hands are soft but firm as he winds the cloth around his neck, and Ilya finds himself studying them with a dry mouth. 

It is hard to remember, suddenly, who last touched Ilya in such a gentle way. How long it has been. If it has ever happened in this country, on this continent. Even the women and men Ilya sleeps with do not touch him so—so carefully. They are hungry; their hands are starved when they reach for him, leave red lines on his back and bruises on his neck.

Shane’s hands are big, strong. Working hands that belong to a working man. Before, Ilya had thought absently that they would be good at hockey. Gripping the stick, folding into a fist and lashing out when the moment comes for gloves to be dropped. 

Now, he watches the way Shane touches Seryozha’s neck, holds the wet fabric of Ilya’s shirt still as he ties the bandage into place, and he thinks—maybe he could play the piano with hands like those. Ilya wonders if he’s ever tried.

“Alright, done,” Shane announces, ten seconds or ten hours later. He leans back to examine his handiwork for a moment before he ruffles Seryozha’s hair, smile tucked back into the edge of his mouth. “No lollipops this time, buddy, sorry.”

Ilya blinks between them. “What.”

Shane stands and begins washing his hands at the sink. “I have a bucket of candy in the office,” he tells Ilya over his shoulder. “For reluctant patients.”

“You are a witch that gives out candy to children,” Ilya says slowly. “Is a bit too cliche, yes?”

Shane clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Not children,” he corrects. “Well, mostly not children. Mostly the guys. Occasionally their children. But it’s not my fault children and hockey players react positively to the same good behavior reward.” 

“What,” Ilya says, feeling suddenly like the earth has moved two inches to the right just beneath his feet. Shane turns the sink off, grabbing a towel to dry his hands as he blinks back at Ilya. 

“You do,” he replies. “I pick up a bag of lollipops and attendance to quarterly check-ups skyrocket. I had to switch to stickers because it was hell on their diet plans.”

“GLORIA NEVER HAS CANDY FOR ME LEFT PARENTHESIS LEFT PARENTHESIS LEFT PARENTHESIS,” Seryozha chimes in helpfully.

“Sucks,” Shane commiserates in his monotone before he turns his attention back to Ilya. “So I want him to stay the night for observation. The bandages should work and the curse should be gone by the morning, but it’d make me feel better to check first thing to make sure. Sergei’s always been especially sensitive to magic.”

Seryozha preens in his seat, like this is a compliment. 

“We have a game tomorrow,” Ilya says because it’s the first thing he can think to say. He doesn’t particularly want to think about Seryozha and Shane The Best Witch In Montreal, staying up together, late into the night, in one of the rooms in this house. Shane’s bedroom, perhaps. What does observation even mean? 

“I’ll drop him off at the practice rink,” Shane replies easily. “It’s on my way to work.”

“I WILL STAY, LILY,” Seryozha’s phone announces, and Ilya fights against the urge to pinch at the bridge of his nose. The way Seryozha is smiling hopefully up at him is not helping matters. It feels a little like he is trying to organize a sleepover for his child or negotiate with his divorced wife over who gets custody of the kid for the holidays.

“Fine,” Ilya says, because—it’s not his decision, not really. They have already fucked curfew. Ilya will already have to have a very long discussion with the coaching staff about tonight’s events. Might as well do everything in his power to ensure that Seryozha is fixed by tomorrow’s practice. 

“Great,” Shane says, like he knows it wasn’t really Ilya’s decision either. “Chexy, the guest room’s all set up. You remember where it is?”

Seryozha nods and stands; if he had a tail, it’d be fucking wagging, probably. “GOOD NIGHT CAP,” his phone says, and Ilya gives him what he hopes is a genuine sort of smile as he leaves.

“On your way to work,” Ilya says, a question and not a question at the same time. He leans back against the dark green colored counter, arms crossed.

Shane picks up the empty bowl from the table and puts it in the sink before he turns around, mirroring Ilya’s position perfectly. “Yeah,” Shane says slowly. “It’s like fifteen minutes away.”

“Because you work at the Bell Centre,” Ilya says. It’s not supposed to be an accusation, more like a statement of fact. The fact is damning, yes. But it’d be a waste of his time, trying to accuse a witch of being a witch.

“Yeah,” Shane says. “I mean, obviously.”

Obviously. Obviously.

Ilya grinds his teeth together until they start to hurt. Obviously. Fucking—witches. Fucking—Shane. Fucking Best Witch In Fucking Montreal. 

Of course the best witch in Montreal would work for the Montreal Metros. Of course that’s how Seryozha knew there was a witch he could trust to fix him. Shane has probably treated him before. No, he definitely has. 

Fuck. The Raiders will not be pleased when they find out that Ilya has taken one of their players to see an opposing team’s witch, hours before they play against them. Ilya isn’t pleased, and he has no one to blame but himself.

And Seryozha, he supposes.

And Shane.

Shane, who could have done anything to Seryozha. Who could have slipped him any number of potions or drugs to affect his performance tomorrow in the name of the team that gives him his paycheck. Witches are not doctors. They hold no oaths. There is always a price; someone always pays it.

“Can you—take it off?” Ilya barks, gesturing down the length of Shane’s body because the fucking allure is making it hard to think clearly and Ilya—cannot be distracted right now.

Shane blinks, looking startled. “My clothes?” he asks, strangled. His hands fall to rest along the hem of his shirt though, like he’s really actually considering obeying the command. Like he’d give Ilya his shirt, just because he asked.

Which—well. Ilya gave him his shirt, so it’d really just be—fair. Right? It’d make them even.

“The allure,” Ilya says tightly, because thoughts of Shane The Best Witch In Montreal taking off his clothes because Ilya demanded it is the exact opposite of what he currently needs right now. “Please,” he adds belatedly and only a little begrudgingly.

Shane frowns. “The allure,” he repeats.

“Yes,” Ilya snaps, because—really. He gestures again, cutting his hand through the air. “Whatever you want to call it. Charm. Compulsion. Allure.”

“I’m not—what the fuck,” Shane splutters. “Allure? I’m not a fucking vampire, dude. What the fuck.”

“No,” Ilya says with incredible patience. “You are a witch. And I would like to talk to you about my rookie without thinking about fucking you, so it would be very nice if you could just—take it off. Thank you.”

“I’m not wearing an—allure,” Shane says, face going through a series of very complicated expressions before he seems to settle on red. “There’s no such thing as a fucking—sex charm.”

Ilya blinks. “Really?”

“As far as I know,” Shane says, and now his eyes drop away as he crosses his arms over his chest and clears his throat. His blush is furious and heated, and Ilya still sort of wants to lick it. Or at least press his palm against his cheek and feel the burn of it beneath his fingers.

“But I thought….” he trails off, and Shane’s eyes flash up to his and then away again. Embarrassment or shyness. Discomfort, perhaps. 

“All you, buddy,” Shane mutters. 

Ilya considers this. “Fuck,” he says succinctly, because he isn’t sure what else you're supposed to say after you accuse a guy of casting a spell that makes you want to fuck him and he tells you he hasn’t cast a spell at all but you still sort of want to kiss him, which is apparently entirely your fault.

Fuck seems like a good summary.

Shane’s mouth quirks up. He still looks a little mortified, cheeks red like they’ve been permanently stained that way, but he looks a little like he’s coming around to the idea of laughing at Ilya too, which is—very unkind. Actually. Very rude. 

“Oh,” Ilya says finally. “No further questions, I think.”

“You don’t want to talk about your rookie?” Shane asks, arching his eyebrow and shifting his weight further back against the counter. “We can, if you want.”

“No, that is okay,” Ilya replies, carding a hand through his hair. “Actually, we could maybe never speak again, and that would be okay.”

Shane lets out a surprised snort of laughter, and it’s unfair that the sound still makes Ilya want to kiss him despite the raging tide of embarrassment flooding through his body. Ilya doesn’t usually feel embarrassed. He has been turned down before, obviously, but this is different. This is not—propositioning someone who does not want to sleep with him. This feels more revealing than that.

Fucking witches.

“Let me show you the way out then,” Shane says, which is probably a kindness. Ilya takes it as one at least, following Shane back into his hallway and to the front door where his discarded shoes lay on their sides. “I swear I’ll get Chexy to the rink in time for practice tomorrow,” Shane tells him softly, resting his shoulder up against the wall as he watches Ilya kneel down to put on his shoes.

Ilya nods and tightens the laces of his boots. The problem, he thinks, is that he has no reason to trust Shane’s word. He has no reason to distrust it either, save for the fact that he is a witch. But when he peers up at Shane in the dim light of the hallway, he thinks—maybe—Shane is one of those witches who have a code. Who have taken an oath. Who can be trusted to be gentle.

Ilya has seen Shane’s hands at work; Ilya knows that they are capable of that. Of gentleness.

It is more than he can say for his own.

Shane’s eyes are dark and unreadable when Ilya stands. He’s closer, suddenly, than Ilya thinks is—normal. He can’t tell which one of them has moved though. He can’t decide if that matters. 

“An allure,” Shane mutters, shaking his head. His eyes flash up to meet Ilya’s and then fall. First to his lips, and then away completely. Ilya’s brain feels—fuzzy. Stuffed to the brim with cotton and static. Shane smells good. Like sweat and ice and flowers.

“Sorry,” Ilya breathes. He isn’t sure he means it. He isn’t sure he can. There are only a few inches between them. If Shane asked him to stay the night also, Ilya would accept the offer in a heartbeat. Despite all the reasons he shouldn’t. Despite the fact that Shane is a witch, a witch on the Metros’ payroll. Despite the rookie, his rookie, somewhere in the house, despite the fact that Shane is a stranger to him and Ilya has no reason to trust him and a thousand reasons to be wary of witches and magic and boys with gentle hands and curious eyes.

“Fucking right you’re sorry,” Shane says. “You spend half the night fucking—looming in my kitchen and glaring at me with your—jawline and your lips and your muscles just on display, and then you accuse me of—”

“Wait a second, you asked me for my shirt,” Ilya points out, lower than he knew he could speak. It’s almost unbearable, the static in the air between them. A whole lightning storm. Ilya is struck all over again. “My muscles were covered, yours were—”

“You were being an asshole,” Shane snaps. “I wanted to see what you would do.”

Ilya’s mouth is dry. Shane’s gaze is back, focused and intent and like a brand across his fucking—soul. “And? What do you think of what I did?”

“Eh,” Shane murmurs. “Jury’s still out.”

“Is it, Witch?” Ilya wants to touch him, which is dangerous, but Ilya likes dangerous things.

“No,” Shane admits, and then he smiles. God, but it’s a gorgeous smile. A flash of white teeth, a curl of his pink lips. The brightening of his entire face. Magic distilled into a single quirk of his mouth. Then, “Get out of my house, Captain.”

“Ouch,” Ilya says, even though the words don’t hurt at all. How can they, when they’ve been whispered so sweetly only an inch or two away from his mouth? “You know, you do not have to call me this. I am not your captain.”

“I’m not your witch,” Shane replies, and Ilya wants so badly that the wanting feels like kindling catching fire within him.

It keeps him warm the entire way back to the hotel, the desire. It is a spark of lightning, bottled up in his chest. He scores on Montreal twice the next day, and he burns and he burns and he burns with it.

Seryozha corners him after the media scrum has dissipated, eyes wide and guilty as he passes over a folded piece of paper. “This is from Shane,” he tells him very quietly, darting a furtive look around the room. “He wanted me to give you his contact information. To discuss payment. For the—cure.”

“Payment,” Ilya repeats, and Seryozha shrugs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. It must still be sore after a night of being twisted so uncomfortably. 

“I told him I could handle the payment,” Seryozha says, looking guilty now. “But he wanted it to be you. Because you are the captain.”

“He said this?” Ilya asks, feeling a stab of amusement.

Seryozha shrugs again. “Why else would he want to charge you?”

“Hm,” Ilya says. “Yes, that must be it. Thank you, I will handle it.”

He claps Seryozha on the shoulder and slips the piece of paper carefully into his bag. It’s a wellknown fact, after all: witches have a price. Everything has a cost.

Sometimes, though, maybe it is a pleasure to be asked to pay.

At least if it's—Ilya sneaks the piece of paper out of his bag and unfurls it to peer at the writing—Shane Hollander doing the asking.