Archive of Our Own

When Ilya skates out onto the ice in Montreal, the first thing he thinks is it’s been too fucking long. Five weeks since the Voyageurs lost 2-3 to the Bears in Boston; five weeks since Ilya snuck into the home of their captain and kissed him hungrily, greedy with victory. These scattered nights are all that they have had for years but Ilya desperately wants more. He sickens himself with wanting. He finally has this beautiful, spectacular man all to himself and it still isn’t enough to satiate him. They never have enough time.

Right now, though, as Ilya pushes away from the boards to start his shift on the ice, he is almost overflowing with the rush of it. Playing against Shane makes him feel like a wild thing, unbound and inexhaustible. It’s almost the end of the second period and Boston are up 2-0. Ilya’s only got one goal and he wants three, wants to crow about his hat-trick while he fucks Shane into his mattress tonight. He’s the fastest on the ice. When he neatly picks up a well-aimed pass and sprints straight down the wing, leaving the unprepared Voyageurs struggling to give chase, his heart swells with the knowledge that no one here can catch him.

Well. There is one person who can.

On cue, Shane Hollander barrels into Ilya with a brutally efficient check, turning his shoulder into Ilya’s chest and pushing him away from the puck. There’s a second when Ilya is still in control, when he looks to his left for a pass but finds Marlow absent, and then Shane is snatching the puck out from under him. Ilya glimpses dark, narrowed eyes and a familiar frown of concentration for barely a moment before Shane pivots and flings himself away, launching himself back down the ice towards the goal that - oh, shit - Ilya’s linemates are doing a really terrible job of defending. Ilya’s charge into the offensive zone has left a hole in Boston’s forward line which Shane neatly exploits, passing straight down centre ice. The defensemen are taking a fucking nap or something and it’s no trouble at all for both of Shane’s wingers to get into position. It’s a set-up so perfect that Ilya is not surprised, only disappointed, when Hayden fucking Pike manages to score cleanly over Varkov’s left shoulder. 

Hot in pursuit of Shane, Ilya nearly wipes them both out when Shane stops abruptly to fling his arms around Pike. Spinning on the ice, patting Pike’s helmet with his glove, Shane meets Ilya’s gaze and his grin widens. The bastard knows exactly how furious Ilya is and he’s delighted by it, his cheeks flushed, eyes dancing. Ilya thinks, as he thinks almost daily, that he has never seen anyone so beautiful. 

“Keep up, Marlow, I am tired of telling you!” Ilya calls, mostly teasing, but when he looks to his wing Marlow is nowhere to be found. There is usually only one reason for Marlow to disappear in the middle of a hockey game, so Ilya begins to scan the rink for signs of a disagreement. There it is: Marlow is waving half a stick around while an unimpressed-looking Montreal defenseman - presumably the cause of the broken stick - skates ominously towards him.

Explains why Marlow wasn’t there for my pass, Ilya thinks, and then, oh, fuck, fucking Comeau is going to kill my A.

Shane clearly has the same thought, because at the exact moment that Marlow’s gloves and broken stick hit the ice both captains are already skating straight for their respective players. Before either of them can get there, though, Hammersmith is cannoning into Comeau and several others are impacting the scrum, one after another. Marlow can handle himself, but one goal down and following their previous defeat the Voyageurs seem dead-set on turning this into an all-out brawl. Shane gets there a second before Ilya and reaches to drag Comeau out of the crush, level-headed as always. Ilya doesn’t see if he gets clear because his vision is obscured by Hayden fucking Pike doing his pathetic best to murder Hammersmith. Ilya takes a deep breath and punches Pike in the face.

Fighting is not always the answer, Ilya reflects philosophically as Montreal’s fifteenth-best player reels before him, but I should do that more often. Pike, more shocked than hurt, lets go of Hammersmith’s jersey and gapes at Ilya. 

“What the fuck?” Pike asks, looking genuinely offended, but the brawl has grown to include every player on the ice save the goalies and he is swept away in the press of bodies. A scrum like this, penned in by the boards on one side, can become dangerous quickly. Ilya knows this and, although he is not worried for himself, he turns his head sharply to make sure that Shane and his shitty fucking defenseman have made it out of the fray. This is why he is the first to notice when Comeau, struggling against his captain’s firm grip on the collar of his jersey, kicks backwards and accidentally swipes Shane’s legs out from under him, sending Shane crashing forwards onto the ice. Shane vanishes from sight beneath the tangle of players, but the sharp sound of his helmet cracking against the boards or the ice or God knows what cuts right through the noise.

Ilya moves before he realises.

Less than a second after that terrible, terrible crack Ilya is shouldering Comeau aside and flinging himself to the floor. He lands, as gently as he can - which is not very gently - on top of a prone torso amidst the crush of skates. Ilya presses himself along the line of Shane’s back, his legs scrabbling for purchase. He thinks of the way their legs tangled together the last time they saw one another, the way he covered Shane’s body with his own. That was not gentle either. Now the back of Shane’s helmet stares up at him, meaning Shane’s face must be pressed into the ice. Ilya grabs that helmet, wraps his arms around it, shields it from the slipping and lunging blades around them, lowers his own head over it. He’s reminded, momentarily, of the posture of prayer in the Orthodox churches of his childhood. Bent over, supplicatory, Ilya prays, hurt me instead.

“Hollander,” he says, and then, “Shane. Shane!”

Less than a year ago, Ilya had stood over Shane’s motionless body on the ice and allowed the referee to push him away. He had heard that sickening crack, seen the impact of Shane’s helmet, snatched a glimpse of unfocused eyes and despite the anguish it inspired in him Ilya had been too afraid to insist on staying by Shane’s side. Ilya was not supposed to be afraid. Russian men are strong, he had grown up believing, and fear makes you weak. Fear of this calibre, of this intensity, for another man, his rival - was wrong. It was shameful. It was something to be suppressed. 

It comes back to him in nightmares, sometimes. That moment, that sound. The sudden freezing of his blood in his veins, the splintering of his heart. He traces the outline of Shane Hollander’s body in his dreams every night - mostly, these days, he sees Shane open, pliant, wanting. But sometimes, when Ilya sleeps fitfully, when he is anxious or when the thing he resolutely refuses to name as depression gets bad, it is this broken Shane that he sees. When he wakes, panting and cold with sweat, the after-image lingers, printed on his lids. He has to turn on the lights.

Fuck, it had cost him to let himself be pushed away. Watching the paramedics wheel Shane down the tunnel, Ilya had known himself for a coward. He had hated himself, then, more intensely even than he had loved Shane. Fear was a bitter thing. It left no space for anything sweet.

It had cost him to walk into the hospital, too, in equal and opposite ways. He had spent the night prostrate with grief and terror that often spilled over into rage. Anger was the only thing he knew, the only way he had been taught to respond to things that frightened him or that he couldn’t control. Waiting, waiting for the dawn, refreshing various news pages again and again, no longer pretending to be unbothered with only his empty house as witness. When he caught sight of himself in the mirror, eyes bloodshot and mouth taut with fear, he flung himself down onto the sofa and buried his head under a cushion so that not even he could see himself cry. When morning came, he washed his face, put on clean clothes and schooled his face into an expression somewhere between serious and bored. He was certain that his eyes would have poured out the whole story, but no one had looked at him closely enough to tell. 

His eyes must have spilled the whole story now, because as soon as Shane - who is wriggling urgently beneath him, Ilya realises - manages to flip himself over, his whole face softens in understanding.

“I’m fine, Ilya,” Shane says quietly, just for Ilya’s ears. “I just tripped. My helmet took the brunt of it.”

His eyes are liquid, boring through Ilya’s skull into his stupid, malfunctioning brain. 

“I worry about you,” Ilya says dully, “All the time I worry.”

Shane nods. The referees have done their job and the scrum is dissipating, leaving them enough space to get up. Ilya rolls begrudgingly off Shane, kneels by his side; Shane sits up without wincing.

“You kept me safe,” Shane whispers. Then he’s on his feet, extending a hand to pull Ilya up after him, and it’s like Ilya comes back into himself in an instant. He’s aware of the crowd roaring at them from all sides, the linesman hovering awkwardly only metres away, the cameras and reporters and fans. He’s also aware of Shane’s lovely smile and the crinkling of his eyes and the warmth of his familiar hand. On his feet, Ilya realises he’s lost both his gloves and Shane, comically, has only one. They are standing together on the ice, hand in ungloved hand. 

They linger only slightly longer than is appropriate and then Shane is skating away in search of his other glove, tapping Ilya lightly on the helmet as he passes, just as he might a teammate. Ilya turns his gaze to the ice in case his eyes give it all away. That gesture is everything to him. It is almost enough.

*

@Sportsnet Sportsnet

Classy move from Ilya Rozanov at tonight’s Boston-Montreal game.

https://www.facebook.com/sportsnet/videos/classy-move-from-mike-matheson-/1301045688842402/

r/NHL

Rozanov uses his body to shield Hollander’s head.

https://www.reddit.com/r/nhl/comments/1t7voib/matheson_uses_his_body_to_shield_bensons_head/

@BearsBearsBears BostonBears

Our very own Rozanov proved good sportsmanship is alive and well tonight when he protected rival player Shane Hollander from injury during a brawl on the ice. Find tickets to the next Bears game here.

@Voyageurs MontrealVoyageursNHL 

We are pleased to report no injury following Shane Hollander’s @SHollander24 fall at tonight’s game in Boston.

Nous sommes heureux d'annoncer qu'il n'y a pas de blessé suite à la chute de Shane Hollander lors du match de ce soir à Boston.

*

Ilya is on Shane the moment he’s through the door, pulling him down the hallway into the kitchen to get a better look at him, hands fluttering up and down Shane’s arms, along his collarbone, feeling the back of his head and the curve of his jaw as if to make sure that it is all still there. Shane, half-laughing, goes with him and lets himself be pushed against the kitchen counters while Ilya makes his inventory of his body. Ilya runs his fingers delicately across Shane’s cheekbones, kisses them, then the corner of his lips, then the spot Shane particularly likes on his jaw. He tugs demandingly at the hem of Shane’s shirt until, laughing aloud now, Shane reaches up and pulls it off. The glorious sight of Shane’s upper body has Ilya breathless but he doesn’t stop in his mission, prodding gently at Shane’s ribs, squeezing his pecs teasingly, drawing one hand lightly over Shane’s tight stomach and another down his spine. He’s cataloguing, measuring Shane’s body against the way he knows it should be, searching for anything wrong and broken. When he stills, finally satisfied, and slumps into the warm curve of Shane’s shoulder, Shane catches him like he always does.

“I told you,” Shane says, voice thick with amusement, “I’m fine.”

Ilya bites his collarbone just to make him yelp.

“Vampire,” Shane says. “Come and sit down.”

He guides them both over to the sofa and flops onto it, pulling Ilya on top of him. Ilya lets himself go limp. Shane is so warm and Ilya has not had him for so long. Wriggling into a comfortable position, Ilya stretches greedily for Shane’s lips and is rewarded with a gentle kiss. It’s not a gentle kiss that Ilya has been hungering for all day, though, and Ilya bites at Shane’s lips to make him open them, presses his knee between Shane’s legs and feels the warmth there, pushes himself closer and devours, devours.

“Ilya-” Shane grunts, twisting his mouth away. “Ilya, we should talk about it.”

“Don’t want to,” Ilya says petulantly, and chases Shane’s lips. He can feel Shane hardening against his leg, knows that Shane has been wanting this and dreaming of him for weeks. But Shane, despite his flushed cheeks and eyes glassy with desire, has on a very serious face. Ilya knows that he is not going to win against that face. He slumps, pouting, and buries his face in Shane’s armpit. It doesn’t smell very good, but it does smell of Shane.

Careful hands come up and cradle Ilya’s head, combing gently through his hair and swiping over the corners of his eyes where, oh, God, tears have begun to form. It’s just that Ilya has realised how closely their position resembles their frantic huddling on the ice, just the two of them clinging together surrounded by blades. Now it is Shane who puts himself between Ilya and fear, as if he knows - like he always knows - exactly what Ilya needs.

Shane murmurs into Ilya’s hair, “You don’t need to worry about me so much.”

Ilya knows. How can he express that he knows? It’s not like he chooses to worry about Shane, any more than he chooses to love him. It’s the price he pays to have this beautiful, kind, gentle man in his life. He could no more watch Shane be hurt without concern than bite off his own finger.

“You were thinking about when it happened before, weren’t you?” Shane asks with devastating perception. “Last year, I mean.”

Ilya doesn’t reply but he feels himself stiffen against Shane. It’s all the answer Shane needs. He runs soothing hands down Ilya’s spine, stroking circles into his skin until, gradually, Ilya begins to relax.

“It’s different now,” Shane continues. “They know we’re friends. And my parents know - you wouldn’t have to wait to hear if I was okay, wouldn’t have to sneak into the hospital or anything.”

“I know that!” Ilya snaps. He doesn’t mean it to sound as heightened as it does. Shane doesn’t admonish him for the outburst, just continues carding his fingers through Ilya’s hair and drawing circles down Ilya’s spine.

“Tell me,” is all Shane says.

It comes pouring out of Ilya then, all the pain and grief and fear he had felt in that moment on the ice more than a year ago, the anguished necessity of hiding his pain and the endless night after. The pressure he had felt then, had always felt, to keep up his mask. The anger at having to hide, at not having the right to be there by Shane’s side, and the terror that he always felt when he reached such peaks of rage. A memory of his father throwing glass after glass at the wall the day after Ilya’s mother died, unable to handle his grief and regret in any other way. Twelve-year-old Ilya had watched and hated him with his whole being, because that, too, was easier than grief. He still fears that he will always reach for anger, for hatred, because to feel anything else is weakness and Ilya, like his father, has to be strong.

Ilya is snotting into Shane’s armpit by the time he runs out of words, but Shane - his clean, meticulous Shane - doesn’t seem to mind. He just holds Ilya close and lets him cry.

“I think,” Shane says at last, and Ilya hears in his voice that he too has been crying, “I think that your father had it backwards. I think that he was very afraid - of judgement, of failure, of what his own sons might think of him. I don’t think that your father managed to avoid pain at all. I think that all he avoided was love.”

It’s something that Ilya has known for a long time, had puzzled out for himself as a teenager when he just couldn’t seem to close off his heart. He knows that his father’s reasoning is logically flawed, that it only ever made him miserable, and that the best parts of Ilya are those that he learnt from his mother. It makes a difference to hear Shane say it, nevertheless.

“I think, too,” Shane goes on, very carefully, “that there’s nothing wrong with being angry or scared. And it’s not - I don’t know, overprotective or stifling. I would have been frightened too.”

Ilya nods, snuffling in Shane’s armpit. His nose is so bunged up that he can’t really smell it any more, which is something of a win at least.

“You really should talk to somebody better about this - like a professional, I mean. A therapist, or something,” Shane says. “But I want you to tell me things too. I want to know how you feel. I want to help you.”

“You always help me,” Ilya says, raising his head. He must look a state right now, red and snotty and dishevelled, but Shane is gazing back at him like he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “I love you, Shane. More than anything.”

Shane smiles and wipes at Ilya’s eyes. “My Ilya,” he says, “I love you too.”

Then he adds, "I'm going to make you apologise to Hayden, though."

Ilya whines pathetically and Shane laughs. When he leans down to kiss Ilya, it is languid and gentle, nothing like the heatedness with which Ilya had kissed him earlier. There’s pure love in this, Ilya realises, in his fastidious boyfriend choosing to kiss his wretched, blotchy face. It’s not perfect, this moment when they still have to hide from their teammates and friends and the world, but it is loving and tender and achingly hopeful. For Ilya, soothed and caressed and handled like something precious, like something worthy of protecting, this moment is almost, almost enough.