Archive of Our Own

The first platform the video hit was Twitter.

It was immediately re-uploaded to all other major socials, plastered onto subreddit pages and FYP algorithms. From there, it went to self-published sports blogs, pop culture forums, shitty news outlets that paid a buck for fake tips and real but menial drama alike.

If Shane had to hazard a guess, he figured the whole thing took just under two hours. Once they got to three hours, major sports publications will have made their calls. They would start to speculate on what, exactly, had gone down in that bar.

Shane was walking. Instead of calling an Uber, he’d decided to hoof it the five miles home, because he still felt like he was going to vibrate out of his skin.

He passed by the large Catholic school where his neighbors sent their kids, the park where he’d attempted and failed to kiss a girl, a neighborhood market that always kept his favorite organic carrot juice stocked.

He passed by his own face, plastered upon a rotating electronic billboard on one of Montreal’s busier streets, which was quieted by the late-night weekday. The smile he presented was plasticky, hair artfully mussed as he held the can of sparkling water to the viewer.

His phone was blowing up in his pocket. He should probably look at it. Instead, he’d made a game of trying to imagine what the headlines would say.

Shane Hollander V. Tyler Bratchen In Shocking Fist Fight!

Has Hollander finally lost his cool? Read more.

Tempers fly in downtown Montreal between these two NHL players…

They’d all be eerily similar to the ones that made the rounds when he got into a scrap with Scott Hunter, but he knew that he’d blown that situation out of the water. By like, a very large proportion. He’d managed to dodge scandals for years because he just…didn’t do anything scandalous.

Well, aside from being in love with Ilya Rozanov, which he supposed was ironic. His first negative public scandal, because he was in love with Ilya Rozanov – and no one even knew it.

⚘

An Approximation: Two Hours Earlier

⚘

“Bullshit call,” Comeau complained. “It was high-sticking. I swear to God, whenever we play Florida, the refs act like they’re blindfolded. Or someone is paying them off.”

“You sound like a fucking conspiracy theorist whenever you bring this up,” Hayden said dryly, which earned him some boos. Shane rubbed his temple, tapped his pinkie rhythmically against the side of his glass, and considered his exit strategy. The game against Florida had been unexpectedly brutal, full of aggressive forward plays and dirty attempts to ride the line of penalties. Montreal had managed to eke ahead, finishing the game at 2-1, but it had been hard won.

Shane was satisfied. Satisfied enough.

The team had been relieved when they pulled ahead without going into overtime, and cajoled him until he’d agreed to go out. His teammates had their usual haunts in the city, places with the best success picking up girls or getting heavy-handed drinks. They’d ended up at Cabinet, a bar down by the water that Shane only somewhat hated; it was clean, and the bartenders gave him free ginger ale.

It was packed tonight, and Shane’s ribs hurt from the hard elbowing he’d endured during a mass pile-up. He wanted to go home. He wanted to Facetime his boyfriend, who was currently on a travel leg down the East Coast.

“Bratchen is a piece of work. I give it two years before he does something to get himself banned,” Stedlund was saying as Shane resurfaced his attention. “I can’t believe Florida traded out Gunthar for that cocksucker.”

“C'est un connard, but good at the job,” J.J. shrugged. “That is why. Big dollars for big guy.”

“Yeah, Boiziau, I know how hockey works.”

“Are you sure? It did not seem so tonight.”

That inspired a fluster of very creative curses, and Shane sighed, standing and taking the few empty glasses from their table.

“Can you grab me another beer?” Hayden asked, glancing up from his phone as he texted Jackie, and Shane nodded. He’d already bought a round for the team, so he darted away before anyone else could put in their requests.

He wove his way through the throngs of people, annoyed in the vague way he always was by the raucous yelling and chatter all layering atop each other. Cabinet hosted a weird mix of a crowd, cheap enough that it drew in college kids but aesthetically pleasing enough for the corporate suits.

Shane kept his head slightly ducked, trying to avoid drunk fan attempts to drag him into a conversation. He could usually pretend well enough, but he had maybe fifteen minutes of grinning and bearing left in him.

He parked himself by a big, older guy who seemed much more interested in sulking over his bourbon than talking. Shane drummed his fingers on the sleek bar top, waiting for one of the overwhelmed bartenders to get to him.

He quickly checked his phone, but there was only a text from his mom; Ilya must’ve still been hanging out at the hotel pool with the guys, killing time until Shane got back home.

A loud, rattling laugh cut over the white noise of the bar’s chatter, and irritation flared sharp in his gut, automatic.

“We’ll beat Toronto’s ass, though. Team is full of pussies,” he heard, and Shane briefly shut his eyes, because he knew that voice.

It was brash and American, belonging to one Tyler Bratchen, a notoriously foul-mouthed, nasty defenseman that had been traded from Utah. Shane had been on the receiving end of a few choice slurs and hard, almost-illegal checks from him, but he was one in many who went after Shane with a certain amount of vitriol.

Of course he and his teammates had to be at this bar. It wasn’t uncommon, opposing players ending up in the same spots. No big deal. Shane just really, really wished that this particular set had gone elsewhere.

“No team has as many pussies as Ottawa, though, Jesus,” someone else said. “At least Toronto can give us a run for our money. Even with Rozanov, they’re still trash. How does that happen?”

Shane’s jaw tightened. He thought of ditching, but he needed to get Hayden’s beer and close out the stupid tab. The way Ilya got discussed nowadays inspired something guilty and unsettled within him. Ilya was making the Centaurs better each season, he was trying his hardest, but Ottawa was no Boston. Not yet.

At best, people were just confused about the decision; at worst, they were mocking.

“Rozanov is too busy sucking his own dick to manage anything. He’s on a trash team where he belongs,” Bratchen seethed, his tone warping with a certain malice that one reserved for genuine loathing.

Because yes, most guys hated Bratchen, but Ilya was on the top of that list. And the feeling was mutual.

Ilya’d had more personal run-ins with the guy than Shane, none of them good, and there had been a few scathing fights over the years. During a home game, he’d knocked out one of Bratchen’s teeth, which had earned him a fantastically gnarly black eye in return.

Truthfully, Ilya was one of the only players who’d ever managed to draw even with the bastard. Bratchen was built like a linebacker and beer-drinker, as big as he was short-tempered. It was the reason why, despite the disdain, most others tried to avoid actually dropping gloves with him unless they needed the kudos.

“Nah, I think he’s trying to turn them around. They’re at least scoring goals now,” added another of Bratchen’s teammates – Birchman, maybe. “He still killed his own career, though. First the Ottawa pick, then the Hollander thing…dude went off the fucking rails.”

The mention of his own name struck Shane with a decisive clarity that no one had noticed him standing so close. He was blocked by the guy next to him and the general press of thrumming bodies. They were wrapped up in their little bubble, anyway, the type of loud that pointed to being drunk as hell.

“He’s never been on the rails, Birchman, I’m telling you. Rozanov has always been insane,” Bratchen replied. “That little charity gig is probably just his agent trying to cover him knocking a chick up or something. I bet my whole-sale ass they had to hold a gun to his head when they pitched him the idea.”

There was a smattering of laughter, and Shane thought he could bite through steel with how hard he was grinding his teeth. He needed to walk away. He really needed to walk. They were ignorant, mouthy assholes, but most guys usually at least had the decency to leave the Irina Foundation alone.

It was the human thing to do.

“It’s a total PR stunt. We’re supposed to think he’s a good guy just because his mom offed herself?” Bratchen continued, and the men were still laughing, but there was an uncomfortable tension bleeding into it. “God, I’d end my shit too if I had to raise a kid like that. No wonder he’s so fucked up. Must run in the family.”

A ringing started in Shane’s ears.

It was like someone had shaken a hornet’s nest and replaced it with his brain. Stunned by the words, he felt nothing, like he couldn’t physically process them. His hand started trembling against the bar and wouldn’t stop.

The guys weren’t really laughing anymore, a couple weak chuckles instead, some throat clearing. But no one said a goddamn thing, all spineless. Because they were scared of men like Bratchen, because they were supposed to be buddies and teammates, because they hated Ilya but not enough to agree nor disagree.

Shane had always treated his body like a well-oiled machine, and like most perfected machines, it went on autopilot. His feet were pacing before his brain could go, wait, wait, wait. Birchman saw Shane approaching before anyone else did, but he gave no warning, too drunk and too stupid.

It was like he saw his arm move as if looking from outside of his own body, a witness, not the driver. He was helpless to stop as he reached out to clutch Bratchen’s shoulder.

“Hey, Bratchen. Look at me.”

He gave the idiot time to turn around, because Shane was oh-so ethical. He even allowed a couple seconds for the smile to slip, for him to understand exactly what kind of situation he was in, before Shane punched him clean in the face.

The numb, empty feeling that had drenched itself throughout his entire body was gone, replaced with a sheer, blinding wash of rage. For years – maybe since he was born – Shane had practiced the art of falling on his own sword.

This was something he didn’t quite recognize. He wasn’t a person anymore, he was just an emotion, one that propelled him to crack Bratchen’s nose open like an overly ripe watermelon.

The second his fist made contact, everything exploded.

The hit stunned Bratchen, obviously, but Birchman kept him upright for the moment it took him to react. Even drunk and sustaining a strike that made blood gush like a fountain, adrenaline was a hell of a shot. Bratchen slammed into Shane, using all 250-plus pounds to try and knock him off his feet.

Shane planted hard, ignoring the pain exploding in his side as Bratchen wailed on his ribs, already sore and aching from being hit during the game. He wasn’t thinking about what to do next; it was instinct that had him punching again and again, knuckles glancing Bratchen’s temple, catching his cheekbone. They grappled messily, taking down bar stools and scattering the crowd around them.

A glass shattered, and all the laughter sucked out of the bar like it’d been put in a vacuum, replaced with alarmed shouts and exclamations. The flash of cameras and recording phones were obvious. But Shane couldn’t stop it now, even if he wanted to.

“Jesus, shit, quit it!”

One of Bratchen’s teammates scrambled to pry them apart, but he and Shane were too tangled together. Another blow to the ribs almost had Shane greying out, but he refused to drop. The animal part of his brain screamed that if he relaxed for even a second, he would be dead meat.

“Shane!”

Two arms managed to wrap around Shane’s stomach, yanking as hard as they could. It threw him off balance, and Bratchen caught him good in the mouth, the bright tang of copper slipping over his tongue as his teeth cut into his lip. The hurt was white-hot and immediate, and Shane’s shirt ripped at the shoulder as he was wrestled backward.

“You fucking faggot!” Bratchen screamed, two of his teammates taking the window to hold him. His white tank top was drenched red from his definitely-broken nose. Shane spat the blood from his mouth, and it splattered to the ground.

Good, his brain supplied, so quickly and so fervently that it should have scared him.

He hated Bratchen with every ounce of his bone marrow, and somewhere, distantly, he knew he’d made a terrible display of his image. Made a nasty public spectacle after years of carrying himself so carefully, calculating his social steps like chess pieces.

He was propped up to be a good boy. A polite boy. Fierce on the ice, mild-mannered off it, the kind of person who shook hands and engaged in small talk without ever revealing anything about himself. A dry joke every now and then. It was that way because he – and to a very close degree, Yuna – had orchestrated it as such. A mask that slipped very rarely.

The public definitely didn’t view him as someone who needed to be hauled out by security.

Which was exactly what was happening, one of the bouncers trying to snatch Shane from what he could recognize as Hayden’s grip. The other was trying to clean up the mess that Shane had inadvertently created. At some point, a Florida left wing had hit one of Shane’s defensemen, and they were now rolling around on the floor. J.J. was cursing in Birchman’s ugly, flushed face.

Everyone was screaming to be heard over each other, insults meshing together. The patrons were still filming.

“I’ve got him!” Hayden yelled.

“Take him out right now or the cops are getting called,” the bouncer yelled right back, and Hayden didn’t have to even try. Shane was already breaking free, practically lunging toward the exit. The faces of strangers and his own teammates blurred together into one pressing, gawping presence. Always watching.

He exploded out onto the sidewalk, the late autumn breeze intense and sudden on his hot face.

A group of people smoking in a circle fell silent at his presence, probably because he looked fucking insane. There was blood on his chin, and the fabric of his t-shirt was flapping in the wind, chest heaving to try and catch his breath.

It felt really, really good to punch Bratchen. Something he’d wanted to do for years. He knew the fallout would be very, very messy.

“What was that, Shane?!”

Hayden, nipping at his heels, and Shane shook his head. His friend wrapped an arm around his shoulders and soldier-walked them around the corner of the block, out of sight of the chaos. There was a small alley running behind Cabinet, and they found themselves there, Hayden understandably concerned and Shane woozy, trying to recalibrate.

He was pissed off, and shocked, at himself. Maybe afraid. He felt like the shape of a person, cobbled together by a muddle of feelings.

Hayden gave him a beat before he repeated, “What just happened? Are you okay?”

Shane pulled the hem of his ruined t-shirt up to wipe the blood off of his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said, automatic. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

“Dude, what? What the hell did Bratchen do?” Hayden asked, looking more exasperated by the second. “Is this about what he called you? Was he being like – like, homophobic, or whatever? Because I’ll beat his ass a second time.”

Hayden could absolutely not beat Bratchen’s ass, but it was a nice gesture.

“No. No,” Shane said. “He was talking shit about Ilya. I don’t know.”

And his mother, his brain supplied, and Shane shut his eyes.

“…that was over Ilya?” Hayden asked.

He immediately didn’t appreciate the tone. The disbelief, the scoff in his breath. It was a secret to no one in their circle that Hayden and Ilya didn’t get along, because Hayden considered Ilya an annoying asshole and Ilya considered Hayden a pestering nuisance.

Shane saw that the scale wasn’t tipped evenly.

“Yes, it was over Ilya,” Shane said, and it came out sharp. It didn’t keep Hayden from shaking his head.

“You almost got the cops called on you. Hell, you still might, if Bratchen wants them to. The league and press are gonna eat this up, man. What could he have said about Ilya that was worth it?”

“Hayden, don’t. It was fucked up. I don’t care.”

“I’ve never seen you act like that, Shane,” he bulldozed. “That guy is not worth getting into fights over. Everyone knows he’s an asshole, I think his reputation can handle a little shit-talk. And you don’t–”

“Hayden, shut up,” Shane snapped, and Hayden did.

A silence fell between them, between Shane’s rabbit-fast heartbeat and Hayden’s shocked expression, because Shane had never said that before. Not with any serious bite. Shut up, man, you’re being stupid. Oh my god, Hayden, shut up! It was always said with a laugh or exasperated eyeroll.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he continued, and Hayden nodded slowly. “Just, not now. Don’t talk about Ilya right now.”

“Shane, I don’t actually hate the guy, you know that, right?” Hayden pressed, and Shane grit his teeth. His friend seemed earnest, blue eyes wide and searching, and Shane just – couldn’t.

“Maybe. Yes. Sure, I do,” he said, and ignored the throbbing in his mouth and ribs. Idly, he saw that the skin on his knuckles had split. “Listen, Hayd, I want to go home.”

Hayden blew out a harsh breath, and said, “Lemme ask again. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Hayd. I’m pissed off. I need to take a walk,” he replied. “I’ll just walk home.”

“I don’t think you should do that.”

“Well, that's what’s happening. Tell the team I’m really sorry, that I needed to blow off steam, whatever.”

Hayden looked at him for a long moment, frowning.

“Just…maybe stick close for a bit if this goes sideways. Well, fuck, more sideways than it already did,” Hayden said. “Are you? Sorry?”

Shane started his journey back to his apartment, leaving his friend without an answer, which he figured was answer enough.

⚘

20 missed calls. 41 texts. The bulk of them were from his mother and Ilya, but others belonged to Rose, a few pissy ones from his teammates, players who volunteered for the foundation, Farah.

Tiredly, he opened up one voicemail of four from his mother at random.

“Shane, I know you see me calling. Please call me back, immediately. I need to know you’re okay, honey. Your dad is worried too. And fuck Tyler Bratchen.”

Because he was a dutiful son, he texted his mom to let her know he was alive and home, and then promptly put his phone on Do Not Disturb.

The only other person he bothered responding to was Ilya.

Lily ❤️

The worst has happened

Dykstra played a song that I did not completely hate

about a man talking to his old girlfriend while real girlfriend is in the other room

One of the rookies calls it divorced dad rock)))

I see your location. you are still at the bar?? Leave so we can 💦

What the fuck?

???

Why did i check twitter and see you in a fucking bar fight

call me

Shane.

I’m serious.

Jane

I’m home.

It took approximately thirty seconds before an incoming Facetime call from Ilya popped up. It was almost one in the morning.

He took a few deep breaths. He was still standing in his kitchen, ribs and face throbbing.

Ilya’s face appeared on the screen once he’d accepted. He looked so tired, eyes a little bloodshot, curls frizzed from where he’d probably been tossing and turning around in bed. It made him seem vulnerable, soft at the edges, and Shane felt a swell of pressure build up his throat.

He also looked some mixture of pissed, confused and worried, which caused an unusual amount of movement in his eyebrows.

At the sight of Shane’s torn lip and similarly torn shirt, he exclaimed, “What the fuck is going on? Are you okay?”

“Hi,” Shane replied. “Can you stay on the phone while I shower?”

Ilya just stared at him.

“You are freaking me out. And I do not get freaked out easily.”

“Liar. A bird can freak you out.”

“Shane. I’m being serious for once in my life.”

Shane rubbed his eyes, remembered the broken skin on his hand, and winced.

“I’m being serious too. Please, just…please. I need to shower. And change.”

Ilya seemed to consider this, the quiet desperation in Shane’s voice, thumbing at his nose before sighing. He thumped back onto the bed and propped his phone up on his chest, in what was probably his most unflattering angle. Shane missed him so much it hurt.

“Okay, take me into the shower with you. I will play you the not-so terrible song that Dykstra had on by the pool.”

It was an out, and one Shane would take gratefully.

His phone screen got foggy from where he sat it on the shower shelf. Ilya blasted some grungy tune from his iPad and complained about Philadelphia’s guest locker rooms. Something-something about how they’d all go crazy from black mold. He didn’t mention the vicious red swelling on Shane’s torso, nor the way he pressed his forehead against the shower wall in an effort to ground himself.

He just talked, until Shane had toweled off and slipped into a fresh pair of boxers. Menial, small details.

Shane crawled into bed, slipped under his goose down duvet. When Ilya finally stopped his chatter, Shane didn’t rush to fill the silence, content to just stare at his boyfriend.

“Tyler Bratchen can rot in hell,” he finally said.

“Yes, would be the afterlife he deserves. He is probably in hell right now getting that ugly nose reset. What did he say?”

“I don’t want to talk about that. Just, like, believe me when I say he deserved it. God, I’m never gonna hear the end of this,” Shane muttered, but then made sure to add, “But I’m not sorry. And I’m not going to say that I am.”

“Okay, then don’t,” Ilya replied, easily. “If you need to punch people, I know you have a good reason, even if press will be making a big deal about it. Me, though, maybe no one would be shocked.”

“Yeah, no, they definitely wouldn’t,” Shane agreed, since there was some truth to it. There had been plenty of tabloids of Ilya over the years, from pictures of his tongue down girls’ throats to dissections on his choice of cars. But he’d never been a violent man, off-ice. It was just the sort of thing people would expect from him, if they didn’t know him.

Shane had no doubts that Ilya would go to bat over less than what he’d heard tonight. He’d gotten into several scraps because of other players shit-talking during games for years, after all.

But that wasn’t a downtown, public bar in the middle of a city, and Ilya didn’t have a carefully, agonizingly curated image to uphold.

Shane knew what the league thought of him. They overlooked a certain amount of his being and neuroticism because he was, undeniably, a generational talent. Beneath the layers of acceptance for his gameplay, though, they would always see him as something that could be handled. Something that would give if shoved enough.

And Shane was…Shane was Shane fucking Hollander, and still, somehow, he had to walk this razor-thin edge to keep any sort of respect. It had been blatant to him and his mother both, at a young age, that Shane’s entire professional life would be a constant choosing of sacrifice and stoicism over comfort and understanding.

Inexplicably, and with no small amount of frustration, his eyes filled with tears. He could feel the hot, insistent press of them.

“Sweetheart,” Ilya said. Oh, so he was pulling out the big guns. “Moy shanezhka, it will be okay, as long as you are okay. I wish I was there right now.”

I’m okay. I’m terrified. Everyone is going to think I punched Bratchen because he called me a faggot and they’ll wonder if I reacted so horribly because it’s true. I don’t regret it. It was for you. I just hate it.

“Is that another way to say my name?” he asked, wiping his eyes. He said none of what he was thinking.

“No. It is like, a fluffy bun? Tart? Little dessert, in Russia. It’s just lucky that it sounds close to your name,” Ilya replied. “Because I eat you all the time, and you are so sweet.”

“Oh my fucking god,” Shane sputtered, letting out a wet laugh. “You’re such an idiot.”

“For you, yes.”

He watched as Ilya rolled over on his side, settling in, and Shane wanted nothing more than to be there in some random Hilton. Always back in a hotel room, except now, he could press kisses to the curve of Ilya’s spine and fall asleep on his chest, whisper that he loved him.

He could say that, now, a privilege that had been hard-won over the years.

“I love you,” Shane all but sighed. “You know that, don’t you?”

Something flickered in Ilya’s face, and Shane understood it was a sort of confession. That the situation of tonight had driven him to soften, unable to keep up their usual teasing.

“I know. I love you too. Shane–”

“I’m really tired,” he cut him off. “And I’m sure you are too. I’ll stay on until you fall asleep.”

“Okay, fine. I will let you off the hook as a reward for being very sexy and punching that asshole in the face,” he said, and then muttered, “But we are talking more about this later.”

Ilya, contented by the knowledge that Shane was at least safe at home, fell asleep within minutes. Shane kept tracing the contours of Ilya’s face, the slight squish of his cheek, fingers curled around the edge of the pillow. His mother’s cross had fallen into the dip of his collarbone.

God, I’d end my shit too if I had to raise a kid like that. No wonder he’s so fucked up. Must run in the family.

It took a while, but Shane eventually brought himself to end the call. He lay in bed. He did not sleep.

⚘

There was a certain house on the way to the cottage that’d been there forever. It had a beautiful Italianate balcony and a cerulean door, and the owners grew thick thatches of peonies in the front garden. They added a shocking burst of color that drew the eye when driving past, blooming in hazy, pastel shades of pink and orange.

Ilya had seen them on his second trip to the lakeside, during last year’s balmy summer. They’d been coasting with the windows down, and Ilya hung his head out like a dog at the sight of the flowers, asked Shane to slow the car. The smell on the breeze was distinct and sweet.

“There is a park in Boston I like very much,” Ilya had said. “The first year I lived there, I was walking around and found it near my apartment. It has lots of these flowers. Пионы, sounds almost the same in Russian.”

“Oh. Yeah?”

“My mother used the same perfume all her life, even though my dad hated when she spent the money on it. These always remind me of how she smelled. The closest I can find, anyway.”

Shane got the car to a near crawl as they passed the house. Ilya took in deep breath after deep breath, drawing in the scent of the flourishing peonies until he sneezed from the pollen floating in the air.

“When we get a place together, we’ll grow some in the garden. I don’t know how, but I’m sure my mom does. We’ll figure it out,” Shane said.

Ilya had kissed his knuckles and thanked him.

There was only one faded picture of Irina in Ilya’s possession, following Grigori’s desperate, mad attempt to wipe her memory from existence. Shane had stared at the photo for several minutes when Ilya had unearthed it, unsurprised to see that Irina was practically Ilya’s twin.

She had a lot of moles, too, the same wild curls and steady, clever gaze.

Shane thought he must have taken her personality, not just her face; taken all the good of her. He’d learned pieces about Ilya’s father over the years, about his ability to ice his own children out, just like he iced out the fact that Irina had once walked the Earth. At least, until the end.

His furious rages, his insults, an occasional belting or slap. The way Ilya suspected that Grigori had known, on some level, that he was queer.

Maybe it is why he hated me more, Ilya said. I can never prove it, but…thank God I could play hockey.

Shane had always been horrified at these scraps of information and tried not to show it. He thought of the children they might have running around the house someday, and he couldn’t fathom Ilya screaming at them to quiet down or to stop crying, much less beating them. He could only imagine deep, deep love, not disdain.

His Ilya. Irina’s son.

⚘

He fielded Farah’s call first.

“Obviously we need to make a statement,” she said, and Shane nodded, rubbing his hands over his face. He was sitting at the kitchen island, wearing a faded t-shirt that had maybe been Ilya’s at some point.

When he’d gotten up this morning, he hadn’t been surprised that it was nearly impossible to bend at the waist, his lip fattened to twice its size. He knew he’d have to see the team doctor before the next game to check for bone bruising.

Typical logistics.

“You don’t have to tell me the whole story, Shane, just enough that I can draft something up,” Farah continued gently, when he didn’t respond right away.

“Yeah, of course,” he said. “There’s not much to it. I was at the bar and heard them talking, and Bratchen said some really, really fucked up things. Not his…his usual shit. I don’t know. We fought. I left and walked home.”

“His usual shit?”

“You know, saying things about if I like men, or being Asian. Nothing worse than what I’ve heard before.”

His jaw clenched. He hated that there was a caveat to the statement. Nothing worse than what I’ve heard before.

It was a simple truth – these men couldn’t be better than him, so they stabbed and prodded where it was supposed to hurt the worst. And Shane never cracked. Instead, he just redirected his fury into wiping them on-ice, getting away with violent checks performed so smartly that refs waffled on sending him to the penalty box.

This wasn’t that, though. Shane was used to swallowing down all the poison about himself; he’d done it for years, like he was trying to build immunity.

He thought, distantly, about his third season. Some forward for Anaheim had made a nasty, vulgar comment about his mother, and Shane had later tripped him during a check that was ruled minor. No one could decide if it had been done purposefully, and it had resulted in a two-minute banishment.

It wasn’t his finest moment. He liked to play clean. But there was a score to settle.

There was a sick satisfaction in seeing the dumbass favor his left side as he fumbled his way to the final buzzer, ankle probably swollen beneath his skate.

Weeks later, in a hotel bed, Ilya had side-eyed him and asked if the trip had actually been accidental. Shane had said yes, and Ilya appraised him carefully.

I think other biggest secret you have is how mean you can get, Hollander, Ilya had commented. Shane had never forgotten that.

“So, simply put, Bratchen was being inflammatory. You had a reaction. There was a fight. Bratchen did use a slur, Shane, that was caught on several cameras. I don’t have to tell you that that will play into your favor, as horrible as it is,” Farah explained, and Shane rubbed his temple.

“Ah. Yeah. The optics of being called a fag,” he said, and while Farah didn’t flinch, her frown did somehow deepen.

“From the background check I did, he doesn’t seem like the type to press charges. Too much pride. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, if we need to, of course.”

“Right.”

“Shane, I know I already asked. But are you okay?”

“I will be,” he said. “Bratchen is the worst of the worst. I’m just sorry you have to take care of this.”

“It’s my job. And you know I care about you, seriously. This isn’t just my paycheck.”

“I know, Farah. You’re amazing.”

“I’ll draft something up and send it to you for review. I’ll CC Yuna as well. Take care of yourself.”

The next call he took was his mother’s.

“Shane, what the hell happened?” she demanded the moment the line connected, and before he could even reply, “Baby, are you alright?”

In the background, he could hear his father ask, “Is that our son? Put him on speaker. Real right hook on that kid.”

“Hi, Mom,” he greeted tiredly, rooting around in his freezer for a bag of peas.

“Hi Mom, is what he says. Shane!”

“Oh my god. Yes, I punched Tyler Bratchen. Yes, I’m okay. Yes, I talked to Farah already and no, he’s probably not going to press charges. She said it way more professionally, but he won’t do it because he doesn’t want to seem like a bitch,” Shane explained in a rush, and pressed the peas to his face. Sighed in relief. Much better.

“Well, yes, that’s all great. But I care more about the why, if you’d like to explain?” she asked, and Shane managed to hinge himself over enough that he could press his forehead to the cool countertop.

“He said something insane. I couldn’t help it.”

“Honey, you’ve never gotten in a fight outside of the rink. Even with those horrible boys in Juniors,” she urged, and Shane squeezed his eyes shut.

“I know.”

“So why?” she asked, even though she must have been able to tell that he didn’t want to talk about it and didn’t care. “Tell me now, Shane.”

Shane had admonished himself as he lay awake last night that he would never repeat exactly what had come out of Bratchen’s mouth, unless he was in a court case. He’d get close to the truth, only here. This once.

“Was I was supposed to just stand there while he said my boyfriend is fucked in the head because his mom – because she…” Shane started to ask, and it came out strangled, scraped from his throat. He choked on his words. Some of that rage was back, burning on a low heat in his gut.

His mother drew in a sharp breath, heard his father say, softly, oh, God. There was a long, long pause, before she said calmly, “Let’s talk about how to handle this from here.”

⚘

Things became strange with the team – they fell on him like bloodhounds when he returned to the locker room, interrogating him with varying degrees of heat. At the very least, their indignation about being ejected from the bar had passed, instead replaced with a giddy, burning curiosity about the event.

There was also a shocked layer of newfound respect to their voices that Shane tried not to loathe. Mostly, it just made him exhausted. He was molded into worse shape after several rounds of meetings with his coach, with HR, and then to the head of the DOPS.

Shane was their star player, and much worse flew under the radar with the NHL – the only reason they were putting Shane into boiling water was because he didn’t exactly look or act like a majority of his peers.

The standards were different. They suspended him from the first two games against the Pacific Division, just to act like they cared, making it the singular off-ice suspension of Shane’s career.

He allowed himself to cry, privately, wishing that Ilya was back in Ottawa so he didn’t have to sit alone in his home while his team left without him to Edmonton. The only reason he didn’t fold in on himself was because Ilya called constantly to check in, even though he was exhausted from being on the road.

The medical team had at least confirmed that his ribs, somehow, weren’t actually internally bruised. They wrapped him up tight, and he weathered the flight to Vancouver with a blazing headache and a heavy dose of extra-strength ibuprofen.

When he landed, it was raining hard, and Shane went through the motions.

Unsurprisingly, the press were sharks in the water when he came out to do interview screening before the game. There were zero questions about the impending match, instead close zoom-ins on his scabbed, bruised lip and thousands of overlapping questions, pleas to comment.

Shane, can you tell us how the fight with Tyler Bratchen was instigated?

Can you speak on what happened in Montreal with Bratchen? Has the league responded past your suspension?

Mr. Hollander, you’ve never gotten into personal disputes over the course of your career. Is there a new rivalry for you?

It kindled the anger that’d been stoking in his belly for days now, but as always, he schooled his expression into one of polite indifference and continued to say no comment, no comment, all matters were handled.

No fucking comment.

They lost to Vancouver, because Shane was running on low reserves and his men kept fumbling in ways that made him want to rip his hair out. He couldn’t even feign his usual positivity or patience with analytical explanations; Hayden had to take over the stupid pep-talks for him.

He was pissed. They’d lost, and he was pissed, and his ribs hurt, and he missed his boyfriend. The team gave him a wide berth, wary of his seething, and Hayden even let him choose the movie that they watched that night in their hotel room. Not much of a choice, since Shane didn’t care.

He apologized in the form of getting Hayden his favorite chips from the vending machine and saying that they could watch Fast and Furious for the hundredth time.

Shane started falling asleep despite the volume being so high that it sounded like Vin Diesel was driving a car through the goddamn hotel. He jerked, though, when his phone started ringing and he saw Lily ❤️ pop up.

“Be right back,” he said as he hobbled out of the room, and Hayden called to his back, “Yeah, sure, tell Roz I said hi. Or whatever.”

He went as fast as he could to reach the stairwell, and he picked up with a breathless, “Hey.”

“Oof. Hollander, you play with your eyes closed tonight?”

“Fuck off. As if you won your game either,” he replied, and the light chirp felt like a balm on his stormy mood.

“Yes, it’s very disturbing. One of us needs to win, and since that is not me right now, it needs to be you,” Ilya teased, and then sniffed. “How are you feeling?”

“Pretty crappy, not gonna lie,” he said, and Ilya gave an empathetic hum. “Just…playing hurt is fine. It’s all of this. The press is on my ass, Coach is on my ass, my team sucked shit tonight – ugh, well, like, they tried their best.”

“No, it’s okay. They sucked shit, I saw. We can say it.”

“I miss you,” he blurted, leaning his head against the unforgiving concrete wall of the stairwell. “I miss you and I don’t want to talk to any more idiotic journalists. They’re not even asking about my sport, they just want soundbites about Bratchen.”

“They are all little bloodsuckers. New scandal will come out soon and they’ll move on. And I miss you too. Only, uh, 12 more days,” Ilya reassured. “Your ribs will be good enough by then to take me for a ride.”

“You will not make me do any of the work with my ribs like this.”

“The doctor said you’re fine!”

Shane laughed, even though it sent a jolt of pain through his torso, and shut his eyes.

“How are the boys?” he asked, because he was tired of talking about himself.

“All good here. I’m rooming with Bood and he is very, very high on cold medicine right now. It will be veeery funny for me.”

“Shouldn’t you be a good captain and make him drink water and sleep?”

“I can do both these things while asking for embarrassing sex stories,” Ilya said, and his voice gentled. “He is not the only one who should sleep. I only called to say goodnight. You need to get better so you can beat Seattle and jerk off for me on Facetime.”

“My dick isn’t broken,” he muttered, but he still smiled. “I wish you were here right now.”

“Can you come here instead? I do not want to share a room with Pike.”

“Asshole. Just – seriously. The time can’t pass fast enough.”

“I know. I have a countdown going on my phone,” Ilya said, and Shane knew he meant it. “Ya tebya lyublyu. Love you.”

“So much,” Shane whispered.

⚘

After Ilya purchased the new house in Ottawa, Shane had stayed over as much as possible, right before the season started. Ilya would have never admitted it, but Shane could see the nerves in him, already burdened to be captain for a losing team that were star-struck by his presence.

He’d helped Ilya unpack, organized the entire kitchen and hung curtains in the guest bedrooms. He was also dutiful in making sure Ilya didn’t get sucked into social media for hours, poring over the questions of his departure from Boston.

Ilya was a touchy person by nature, but he slept closer than usual, those couple of weeks. Shane couldn’t rouse at any point from sleep without finding Ilya plastered to him, drooling on his chest or clung to his back like a leech.

It was slightly alarming, then, when he’d awoken one night to an empty bed.

He’d wandered into the kitchen, where Ilya was barefoot and hunched over a mug of tea. His eyes were a touch raw at the edges, a surefire sign he’d been crying. Shane had stayed quiet, running fingers through his curls and kissing the bare nape of his neck until he spoke.

“It’s weird,” Ilya had said. “I can go days and not think much of my mother. It’s always there, though, you know? Like…having pot at the back of the stove. But then I see her in a bad dream, or someone is wearing a sweater like she used to have, and I’m twelve again.”

“That’s hard. That’s really, really hard,” Shane replied, because he didn’t know what else to say. And then, “What kind of sweater?”

It had gotten a wet laugh from Ilya.

“Ugly. Very thick and brown. But she looked pretty in it.”

Shane made him another mug of tea, and Ilya leaned against his shoulder while they sat together under the dim lights that suspended over the island.

“My grandma died when I was six, so my mom had to go to Japan to handle her ashes and settle the will. I complained so fucking much, because I was a kid, and I didn’t understand,” Shane said. “When she got home, she made the same soup over and over again until we were sick of it. Some kind of miso with pumpkin in it. It was my grandma’s favorite, I guess.”

“Yes. It’s like that,” Ilya sighed. “Doing all kinds of shit to make missing them less terrible.”

“Do you do anything like that? When you miss your mom?”

Ilya was quiet for so long that Shane assumed he’d fallen asleep in the warm crook of his neck.

“Russian Christmas is very religious. I went with her to every boring service and helped her cook the big dinner after,” he said. “I try to find the right church each year and light a candle, even when I’m on the road. I think she’d like that.”

Something had clenched in Shane’s chest, then, a swell of love that made his teeth ache. He’d kissed Ilya’s temple and lingered, felt the gentle pulse of the vein there.

⚘

TheRealShaneHollander ✔︎

Hello everyone. I’m aware that the altercation surrounding myself and Tyler Bratchen is circulating, and I wanted to address it briefly. It was an unfortunate personal dispute, and I remind everyone that my values do not lie in violence, either physically or verbally. I will not let what happened effect how I play on the ice.

TheRealShaneHollander ✔︎

Moving forward, I will not be answering any media questions concerning the altercation. As always, I’m so appreciative of the support I receive from my fellow hockey fans and everyone who powers the Voyageurs. Thank you!

⤷ dave4582: what kind of pussy shit is this lmao bratchen is gonna fucking jump u next game

⤷ calliebby_: We love you shane!!! #FuckTylerBratchen

⤷ rip0tide: shane you could have literally beat that man with a nail-studded bat and spit on him and we would have thanked you #FuckTylerBratchen

⤷ evanconstra: so like are you gay tho because I’m trying to hit lol check your DMs

              ⤷ calliebby_: omg he’s not gay is that really what you got from this?

                             ⤷ evanconstra: #FuckTylerBratchen #Shaneletmeseehole

⚘

He and Yuna Hollander were currently in the middle of a particularly fantastic stand-off, right in the driveway. His father was watching from the porch with his hands in his pockets, eyeing them sympathetically.

“Mom. You act like I’ve never gotten hurt before.”

“I have somehow stopped myself from asking you a single thing about it the entire time you’ve been here.”

“I’ve been here for five minutes.”

“Shane, so help me God.”

He begrudgingly lifted his hoodie so his mother could look at the impressive mottle of bruises that adorned his torso, finally turning brackish shades of yellow and green. He told himself to not be annoyed with her, that she was allowed to fuss.

He was just tired, so tired, more fidgety about wasting time than he was about the fussing. When she’d learned he’d be in town, she insisted on making dinner so that he could pick it up before heading over to Ilya’s.

He’d asserted on driving into Ottawa, even though Ilya said repeatedly that he’d make the journey to Montreal. But Shane had stood firm. He couldn’t aptly explain that, even while exhausted, the drive was more than worth it.

What he wanted was to be nestled in the comfort of his hometown, where everything in the house smelled like his boyfriend.

The roadie had been particularly brutal. Even after his statement (thank you, Farah) on social media, the bar fight situation hadn’t died down like he’d hoped. As a matter of fact, it had sort of picked up more traction. Bratchen had posted a selfie on Instagram, flicking off the camera, both eyes black aside his splinted nose.

The picture got pulled off the Internet, but not before it was screenshot a thousand times and reposted. Shane was getting mentioned in an endless stream of comments a day. Reporters were still asking about it.

Even other players were using it like ammo, thought they were funny and original trying to goad him. Oh, big boy Hollander. Scary now, huh? He’d kept getting booted to the penalty box, and his team consistently fell behind when he was off the ice.

It took every ounce of control Shane had to not tell everyone to just shut the fuck up. Every reminder dredged Bratchen’s words from the bar back up like nasty silt. It made it hard to shake off the anger that hounded at his heels, biting at his most sensitive parts.

But he would not take this out on his parents, even if he was being interrogated as he tried to flee the scene.

“And the doctor is sure those weren’t actually bruised?” she asked skeptically, and Shane patted his clothes back down.

“I think I’d know, Mom.”

She wrapped her cardigan tighter around herself, and her expression softened, taking on a crease of worry.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to tell Ilya?”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Shane, baby. I know you’ve been avoiding the subject with him. He complained about it yesterday during breakfast,” she said, and Shane swallowed thickly. It was bad, if Ilya had talked about it with his parents. “He just wants to know you’re okay. And you have to discuss these things.”

“I’d rather take a brick to the teeth before I told him what Bratchen said,” he replied, mentally added, and gunshots to both knees. He knew, of course, that Ilya would want to discuss it. He’d been pestering Shane about it every other night over the phone, rotating between pleading and annoyed.

“You don’t have to give details. Just…be as honest as you can. He can tell that this whole situation is wearing on you.”

“Yeah, I’ll try.”

His mother sighed, and then gave him a tight hug. She went to join his father on the porch as he pulled out of the driveway, both of them waving, and he honked the horn before zipping over to Ilya’s. It was less than a 15-minute drive, but it seemed to take ages before he was punching in the garage code and parking next to Ilya’s obnoxious Ducati.

“Ilya?” he called as he entered the massive house, because his boyfriend could be anywhere in the sprawling square footage. However, Shane barely made it through the laundry room before Ilya appeared in the doorway.

He looked obnoxiously good, still hadn’t shed all the weight from bulking over the summer. He was huge and damp from a shower, mercifully half-naked, and Shane dropped his bags to the floor. Ilya didn’t budge an inch as Shane flung himself into his arms.

It was exactly what Shane had been craving. He wanted to be held so tight that he got absorbed into Ilya’s ribcage.

“Hi,” Ilya murmured into the dark of Shane’s hair, let Shane burrow his face into the side of his neck. He smelled clean and almost sweet from his signature curl cream, and Shane dug his fingers into the hard muscle of his bare back.

“Fuck. Hi,” he replied, before catching Ilya in a kiss. It wasn’t tender – too desperate to be tender.

Ilya didn’t hesitate to slide his tongue into Shane’s mouth, had no trouble keeping up with the messy pace that Shane set. He pet soothingly at Shane’s waist, and carefully slowed them down, until Shane felt goopy and warm at how Ilya softly sucked on his bottom lip.

“Did Yuna make pasta with that spicy sauce I like?” Ilya asked against Shane’s mouth, and he surprised himself by barking out a laugh.

“How do you know that?”

“This is trained like those dogs that can smell bombs,” Ilya said, pulling back and tapping his own nose. Shane was smiling for real, for the first time in weeks, ran the pad of his thumb over his cheek mole.

He took Shane by the hand and gathered the abandoned bags. Dusk had deepened into a dark blue, and the lights in the kitchen were pushed down to a warm cast. There were game highlights running on the TV from the sunken living room, and in the echoing house with Ilya present, tension finally bled from his shoulders.

“Go shower. I will re-heat all of this,” Ilya said as he unpacked the food. Shane couldn’t help but plaster himself against Ilya’s back, squeezing his arms around his strong stomach.

“Can we just eat later?” Shane mumbled into the nape of Ilya’s neck, and Ilya stroked his fingers over Shane’s clasped hands.

“No. I’m starving. I went extra hard in gym today so I can fuck my boyfriend up against a wall,” he replied, and turned in the circle of Shane’s hold. “Or however he wants.”

“Okay, well, he wants it right now.”

“Too bad,” Ilya said, but he still sipped a kiss from Shane’s lips, running his thumb over the splash of freckles along his cheekbone. “Go. Shower. Get comfy. I will take my time with you later.”

And Shane was powerless but to listen, because he really did need to take a full shower, had only rinsed off at the arena after practice before heading straight to Ottawa. Still, he was a little more brisk than normal as he nearly scrubbed his skin raw, thanking past-Shane for waking up early to douche.

He haphazardly yanked on a pair of sweatpants and one of Ilya’s old t-shirts, which was so stretched at the collar that it slipped around his shoulders. Guys go crazy for a little something falling off your shoulder, Rose had advised once, and Shane had thought it was bullshit until he’d tried it at the cottage. It had resulted in a satisfying yet mortifying number of hickeys.

When Shane returned to the kitchen, Ilya was sitting on the kitchen island, swinging his feet and scrolling on his phone. It put him at the perfect height for Shane to shove his face between the deep swell of his pecs.

“Welcome back,” Ilya said, and Shane groaned, nuzzling against warm skin and wiry, cornsilk-soft chest hair. Ilya caressed the curve of Shane’s head and down the back of his shirt, scratching lightly. When Shane showed no sign of moving, he extracted him with a hand at the base of his throat.

“Sorry,” Shane said.

“For what?”

“Being clingy, I dunno.”

Something perplexed skittered through Ilya’s expression before he slid off the counter, and as he did, Shane could feel that he was half-hard. He let out a little breath as Ilya pressed his erection into Shane’s hip, his own cock twitching in interest.

“I don’t know that word,” Ilya said. “Because I’ve been like this since you walked in the door. Now eat your boring chicken, Hollander, so we can get tonight going.”

Shane nodded so quickly that Ilya laughed, and they ate in front of the TV, Ilya inhaling his carbs and Shane poking around his veggies. Aside from the obvious elephant standing awkwardly in the corner, it was all perfectly normal and sweet.

Ilya warmed his bare feet beneath Shane’s thighs, commenting brashly as they watched Washington D.C. and Pittsburgh go toe-to-toe. He fielded a phone call from Dykstra, who apparently was convinced he’d left his AUX cord in Ilya’s car.

“Trust me, if you left the AUX, I would have burnt it by now,” Ilya huffed, before hanging up on his teammate.

“Jesus.”

“Shane. His music is really bad. Can make a grown man cry. Lots of grown men, a whole team of grown men.”

He put his empty plate on the fancy wooden coffee table and crunched forward, resting the point of his chin on Shane’s bared shoulder.

“Are you done?”

His tone wasn’t petulant or teasing. It was asked earnestly, because Shane had been rolling the same brussels sprout beneath the tines of his fork for five minutes.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Not hungry?”

“Mm, not really.”

Ilya gently wedged the plate from Shane’s grip, set it down before grabbing at his waist.

“Come here,” he said as he maneuvered Shane into his embrace, reclining back against the arm of the huge leather couch. Ilya hoisted Shane atop his chest so that he could properly lay on him, and as always, Shane felt a flush spread across his face at the casual manhandling.

Shane tipped his head down, ran the straight slope of his nose over the curved bridge of Ilya’s, and sighed when Ilya kissed him, open-mouthed. All the vertebrae in his spine went liquid as Ilya slowly ran his hand down his back, gathering up a healthy handful of ass and squeezing.

His boyfriend tasted like a strange combination of spices and sweet cola, and Shane moaned when their tongues slid together just right, slick and hot. Ilya answered by kissing him harder, sloppier.

“Pretty thing,” Ilya whispered when he broke away to mouth at Shane’s jaw, and Shane swiveled his hips in a little circle, shuddering at the sweet friction. Because Ilya was, in fact, still somehow half-hard and getting harder as Shane writhed atop him.

“Kiss me more.”

Ilya immediately put his lips back where they belonged against Shane’s, and then it was just that for long, stretching minutes. Making out until everything got tingly, grinding their clothed cocks together with no real rhythm.

“Shane,” Ilya breathed, easing back, and Shane chased his lips. He got one more peck in before Ilya did it again. “Shane.”

“What?”

Ilya tucked a lock of hair behind Shane’s ear, and he gusted out a big lungful of air before scrubbing a hand over his eyes.

“Okay. No. This was not part of the plan.”

“Pretty sure this was always on the agenda, Rozanov.”

Ilya cracked his fingers apart so he could peer at Shane, and his mouth pursed into a perfect heart, pouting in that way he did when he was thinking about the next step.

“No, listen, I was talking to Yuna–”

“Ew, what? Don’t bring up my mom right now.”

“…and as I was saying, before some pervert interrupted me, is that she told me, ‘Ilya, make sure you have a good chat! Be very direct because my son is a stubborn ass who does not listen!’”

Shane frowned and sat up, resting his hands on Ilya’s stomach. Something anxious crept at the back of his brain, because he knew where this was going, and he hadn’t had the fucking time. The time or mental fortitude or capacity to sit down and rehearse what he would say.

In theory, looking at it from all angles, he knew that Ilya was made of thick stuff. It wouldn’t bleed him dry, if Shane told him some version of the truth. But Shane wondered if he was avoiding this to spare Ilya more than he was to spare himself.

He was exhausted. He was exhausted from years of hurting Ilya and being hurt back, both unintentionally and not. Talking about his mother was like pressing against a stitched-up wound. Closed, but tender. Sore.

Was it so bad that Shane didn’t want to press?

Ilya sat so they were level, even though Shane cut his gaze away, down to his own fingertips as they created divots in his boyfriend’s abs.

“Tell me what happened with Bratchen,” he insisted. “I have given you time to not.”

“Why do you care that much?” Shane asked, and he flit his eyes over to catch Ilya’s exasperated stare.

“Why do I care? You get into a bad fight and everyone makes it a shitshow for weeks. You don’t like it when someone even takes picture of you out to dinner. I know this is not…okay with you.”

“I mean, of course it’s not fucking okay. But I made that choice. I’m the one who did this to myself.”

“No. That is not true. Bratchen did this, because I know he is an evil, trashy man who upset you very much,” Ilya said, and rubbed at Shane’s thighs as if he could knead the answer out of him.

“Ilya. Just drop it.”

He meant for his tone to come across as pleading, but instead it grew an edge, sharp in the air between them. It was a tone that Ilya recognized, because something quickly battened down across his face. Steeling.

“You can keep secrets from the whole world, Shane, but not me.”

“Oh, right, because the whole world trying to make me spill my guts isn’t enough. You want to get in on it, too? Like, Christ, can I get a second to breathe?”

He knew immediately that it was the wrong thing to say. Ilya was a master of stoicism on any good day, but he was out of practice around Shane. He could see the way the words landed wrong, dragging up something defensive.

“So I’m every other asshole trying to get gossip?” Ilya asked, pulling away. Shane buried his face in his hands, trying to figure out how the hell they got here. He was supposed to be having hot, loving sex with his boyfriend right now, not arguing on the couch. Over Bratchen, no less.

“I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I ask and ask and okay, you don’t want to talk about it. I get it. But I see you playing like shit. And the reporters and stupid online people don’t help. I’m trying to actually help.”

Ilya tried reaching out again, but Shane’s fingers automatically curled tight, like he was creating a hard shell. He hated it, hated that his frustration was getting misdirected, but Shane couldn’t help it.

He was wound up like a spring, and he could hear himself get mean when he said, “Well, you’re not fucking helping, Ilya. I don’t think you can lecture me about not talking when trying to get anything out of you is like pulling goddamn teeth.”

Keyed up and feeling stupid, Shane stood, grabbing their plates and stomping to the kitchen. Ilya instantly followed him, but Shane didn’t look back as he threw his leftovers in the trash, stomach turning.

“Was it about what he called you in the video?” Ilya pressed.

“Stop. I don’t want to do this.”

“He said something bad about Yuna? About David?”

“Ilya.”

“He said something about me?”

It was obviously a shot in the dark, but Shane couldn’t help the hiccup of his inhale, and he knew it wouldn’t slip past Ilya.

“Fucking talk to me. That fight was over me? Us?”

Shane dumped the plates into the sink, clutched the lip of it for a second.

And he wasn’t angry at Ilya, for asking the right questions – he was angry at the NHL, at men like Bratchen, at all the greedy, prying eyes that lurked outside of his carefully constructed walls.

He was so goddamn angry that he couldn’t protect one of the only people he cared about in this confusing life. Would Bratchen have had the balls to say what he said if he knew? If he knew that there was a person out there who Ilya belonged to, who would care?

Probably, yes. Cruel men didn’t care if the people they wanted hurt could be held close at night. But he might have thought twice, at least, if he’d known Shane was looming in the background.

“I’m mad, Ilya. Like all the time. You get that, right? I feel crazy about it sometimes,” he spat. “I’ve wanted to beat the shit out of Bratchen forever and what, people are shocked when I finally do it?”

“Shane–”

“I’m done talking about this.”

“No,” Ilya said sharply, and Shane tried to skirt past him, but he grabbed at his elbow. “No, we are finally getting somewhere. So you hit Bratchen. So you’re mad. Tell me why.”

“I told you to drop it, Jesus Christ.”

“And I told you I won’t. What are you not getting? What, so you can punch men in bars, but you can’t say why? You want to be a coward now?”

It was a low blow. It was bait.

The hair-trigger of his mouth pulled back, but the words died the moment he looked into Ilya’s face. Really looked, because what he found there was familiar to him. He’d seen it at his hospital bed, through a drug-induced haze, had watched it change Ilya’s features when Shane crumpled after his father had walked in on them.

It was concern, and so much love that he wanted to wilt.

Shane took a measured breath, and with it, used everything in him to school his tongue. The ire drained out, then, and left him raw. He and Ilya were both hot-headed jackasses, but they had a whole future of fighting over banal shit. If Shane was ever going to check his temper for something, it should be this.

“It was about your mother, Ilya. Okay? Don’t ask me to repeat it. I won’t do it, and I mean it.”

There was a drop of silence between them, like ink spreading out into paper. It seeped and seeped, bringing with it the relief of a punctuated argument.

Ilya’s eyes started to flit in that way that meant he was processing, his brain conjuring up possibilities of what was said in that bar. What, of all options, could have made Shane react how he did. The exact second that anger washed through him was obvious, brought with the tell-tale thinning of his mouth and flare in his nostrils, before he gave it up.

Just kind of deflated, and God, did Shane hate it.

He started scratching at the back of his own hand, in that curious act that betrayed something anxious lurking under his skin. Shane made up for earlier by reaching out, taking both hands into his and holding them firmly to keep Ilya still.

“Hey,” he tried. “I’m sorry. I never wanted to fight over this. I just – wanted to keep you from it.”

Ilya blinked, eyes still cast somewhere else, somewhere vague, before he returned his gaze to Shane.

“I knew this would happen,” Ilya said, then, and Shane’s brows furrowed. “People will say anything horrible, especially when they hate me. It’s my problem, not yours.”

“What?”

Because. What?

“I don’t know how to put this,” he started, stopped, mouth pulling tight in frustration. Trying to find the words. “Thank you for what you did, but…I know a lot of people watch you, yes? And you try to be good. You should have just told me so I could handle it.”

Ilya sniffed, hard.

“You scared me. When I saw that video and Bratchen was hitting you, it fucking scared me. I know you’re strong, Shane, but maybe I’m not so strong.”

Shane couldn’t help the wave of something defensive and fierce surging up in his throat. Distantly, he recognized the emotion. It had run beneath the rage when he’d hit Bratchen, lurked in the weeks that followed whenever he needed to remind himself why he went that far in the first place.

It was a feeling that traced all the way back to when Ilya had collapsed in his arms, weeping after they managed to punctuate a decade with three words.

“That’s not how this works,” he hissed. “Ilya, you’re my person. You would never let anyone insult my mom in a million years.”

When Ilya tried to turn his head away, Shane’s hands shot out to grab either side of his face. It was an ironic twist to how this usually happened, but he needed Ilya to get it through his thick skull.

“If Irina were still alive,” he continued, “she’d be my mom, too, whether she knew the truth or not. I would love her ‘cause I love you. Do you understand me, Ilya? No one is allowed to talk badly about either of you. I would have done anything to make him fucking sorry.”

He didn’t realize, until it was said aloud, how true it was. Just like that kid from Anaheim, years ago.

There were so few things that Shane could control in this world, so little he had that didn’t belong to a franchise or brand, but love was all his to dole out as he saw fit. He would stretch himself thin and ragged to make sure the people in his life were safe in the space he’d carved out for them.

Ilya was quiet, still, but his eyes had glazed over so thickly that they looked like mirrors. Shane watched one tear escape over his lash line, streaking hot and abruptly ended by the barrier of Shane’s thumb.

“Tell me you understand.”

“Yes,” Ilya rasped, and kissed him. Saltwater slipped into the seal of their lips, and he resented how familiar he was with what Ilya’s tears tasted like. But he could fix it, like he fixed it every time.

Shane slung his arms around Ilya’s neck before crushing him into a hug that was so tight it probably hurt. They stood there for several long, stretching minutes, with Shane cradling Ilya’s head to the crook of his neck, breathing together in a house they’d hopefully share one day.

He waited until Ilya drew back, and they stared at each other for a split second before Shane said, “Take me to bed. No more thinking about this, all right? At least not right now.”

And Ilya obeyed, dragging Shane up the stairs and hauling him into his arms at the doorframe. He always loved when Ilya picked him up, breathless at how his weight was handled, like Shane was something easy and not burdensome.

Instead of tossing Shane down onto the mattress, Ilya kind of just collapsed on top of him, smothering his face with kisses. The bedsheets smelled of clean detergent and the lingering effects of Ilya’s spicy cologne, evidence that they hadn’t been changed out in a day or two.

“Missed you so fucking much,” Shane sighed as Ilya sucked at the thin skin of his throat, light, trying not to leave marks. Shane tangled his fingers in Ilya’s curls and shoved, forcing him down harder, and Ilya moaned at the wordless message. Fuck his teammates if they tried to jeer him for the juvenile hickeys; he wanted Ilya to leave something behind.

And oh, Ilya was definitely going to leave them behind, sinking his teeth in and rolling his tongue. It was a hot, hot way to hurt.

“Missed you too, sweetheart,” Ilya said, tilting to suck at the lobe of Shane’s ear. The movement of his lips was so close and wet, and Shane groaned, rolling to grind his crotch against Ilya’s. His boyfriend was obviously hard in his sweats, and returned the motion eagerly, humping at him as he nosed into Shane’s hair.

Clothes came off, then. Shane’s shirt flung to the floor, Ilya’s sweatpants and briefs kicked off, until they were finally naked.

It all went hazy as Ilya dedicated his mouth and tongue and teeth to skirting down Shane’s chest and ribs. He paused at the aged bruises there, and murmured something in Russian that Shane didn’t understand. Then the affection moved over his thighs, even as far as the ticklish insides of his knees.

They were better about exploration these days. A race against the clock wasn’t the biggest worry, not anymore. It still made Shane tender-hearted, when Ilya touched silly parts of him that were often hidden.

The curve of his ankle. The crease between thigh and groin, a thumb to the sore arch of his heel.

By the time Ilya made his way back to Shane’s flushed face, he had practically melted and become one with the sheets.

“My scary, vicious boy. You would fit right in with the stray Moscow dogs,” Ilya crooned, and Shane mustered the energy to punch his shoulder. Ilya huffed out a laugh, palmed Shane’s blotchy chest and gave it a tight squeeze. “Roll over for me.”

Shane went onto his belly, breathless and eager, as Ilya got his hands beneath his hips. He maneuvered Shane into arching, and pressed a soft kiss to Shane’s nape. And then he trailed down, taking his time with each knob in his spine, the two deep dimples that surrounded his tailbone.

Ilya had never been shy to eat Shane out, even when the act had once made Shane cagey and embarrassed by the vulnerability. Sometimes a little lonely, when he thought of Ilya doing it to someone else, wondered if he was more eager for it when there was a vagina involved.

Shane wasn’t sure how Ilya could get crazier than he already was, though, always sloppy and voracious about it. So he was surprised when Ilya didn’t dive right in, kneading hard at the back of Shane’s thighs and laving at every inch of his ass before he even bothered to spread him open.

“Fuck, look at you,” he said, and Shane sighed as Ilya slowly licked him, one long indulgent swipe from perineum to the stretched skin above his hole. And then just – kept doing it, over and over, until Shane was squirming. He didn’t try to focus in, even as Shane thrust back to encourage him.

“Ilya, come on,” he said. “Come on, enough teasing.”

“I’m not teasing. Just appreciating. Let me do what I want with you,” Ilya replied. “Let me make you feel good.”

So Shane did, even if it was torture, Ilya moving at a glacial pace as he sucked and licked at Shane’s hole with a finesse that felt like he was making out with it. By the time he even got his tongue inside, Shane was leaking like a faucet and jerking his hips this way and that, red-faced and panting into the pillow.

When Ilya tried to touch his cock, Shane fumbled to push his hand away.

“No, don’t wanna come yet. Only want to come with you inside me,” Shane said, and Ilya answered with a resounding groan, nipping at one of his ass cheeks before he flipped Shane onto his back.

“You are so fucking gorgeous,” Ilya said, when he got sight of Shane’s face, and he ran his knuckles over the sweep of his cheekbone. “Freckles were made to torture me.”

“You’re dramatic,” he replied, but he was grinning. He ran his hands up Ilya’s ribs, onto the broad sweep of his shoulders, pulled him as close as he could.

It was obvious that Ilya wasn’t trying to rush, so Shane didn’t try to do anything especially cockhungry, nothing to goad him. He just let Ilya drop all of his body weight, legs tangling as they kissed and kissed, until Shane’s mouth felt swollen and numb.

Time was syrupy when Ilya finally got fingers inside of him, and he worked his way up to three, teased a fourth, which had Shane practically crying. Ilya was smart about it, taking his fingers away and occupying himself with idly sucking on one of Shane’s dark nipples until he toed away from the brink.

It was like the gentlest form of edging they’d ever done – usually at this point, Ilya would be squeezing Shane’s cock and mocking him for his eagerness, cooing in fake sympathy. You need it so bad, don’t you? Impatient slut.

“Shane,” Ilya panted, as he pushed Shane’s knees to his chest, fit the head of his cock to Shane’s ass and started to sink in. “God, Shane.”

Even stretched and pliant, the pressure made Shane’s eyes flutter, head knocking back as Ilya pushed inside. Ilya sucked desperately at the bob of his Adam’s apple with a quiet moan. It was crazy, that no matter how worked over he was, getting Ilya’s cock still felt like the first time. It demanded that space be made, and Shane would always make it.

“Feeling good, lyubov?”

Shane nodded jerkily as he bottomed out, dizzy with want.

“You always make me feel good,” Shane said, clutching at the arcs of Ilya’s shoulder blades as he slowly pulled back, inch by agonizing inch. He released Shane’s knees, and Shane wrapped his legs around Ilya automatically, ankles crossing at the small of his back.

It was obvious how this was going to go from the very start. Ilya didn’t speed up, didn’t work Shane into a lather, instead rolling his hips as cleanly as a wave. They had never fucked like this until the cottage, spooned on their sides in the morning sunlight.

It turned Shane on so much that it made him crazy. When Ilya restrained himself and kept his thrusts measured and heavy, indulgent, he got brilliantly red. Red from his forehead all the way into his chest, and damp at the hairline, mouth dropped open in a permanent gasp.

It made him look raw, cracked open and disgustingly in love.

Ilya wedged a hand beneath Shane’s back and crushed him as close as possible, grinding in, and the friction of having his cock trapped against Ilya’s belly made him wrench out a dry sob.

“Right there, holy shit. Right there,” he whined, and Ilya kept at it, pulsing his hips so that he was rocking against Shane’s prostate. Shane brought their mouths together in a messy kiss, unaligned and too wet and perfect.

“Are you getting close?” Ilya asked, words airy and strained. There was sweat running down his temples, and he pulled back enough so that he could keep his eyes on Shane’s. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, please,” he gasped, tried and failed for a more succinct reply as Ilya thrust harder, but no faster. Something tremored in his belly, and Shane could feel the ache of anticipation in his teeth.

He felt like he was stuck on a loop, moans going punchy and high-pitched as Ilya kept up the slow, steady pounding. It was merciless, and so goddamn good that Shane wanted to die, his cock jerking and dripping.

And then Ilya tangled their fingers together on either side of Shane’s head. Squeezed hard, like Shane was an anchor.

It was somehow the simple act of Ilya holding his hands that made him realize with a sharp urgency that he was going to come. The swell of it was urgent, and Shane considered letting it happen. It would shatter him, he knew, and it would be devastatingly delicious.

But.

“Ilya, pull – pull out,” Shane managed, and it was the hardest sentence he’d ever had to cobble together. He abandoned one of Ilya’s hands to slap at his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” was the first thing Ilya asked, his hips immediately stuttering to a stop. He slipped out, and the empty ache of it made Shane desperate, clenching around nothing. A wounded noise escaped him, one he couldn’t stop, as he shoved at Ilya’s heaving chest. Ilya clumsily let his legs drop down, moving stilted and unsure until Shane pressed a hard kiss to his lips.

“Roll over, go,” he replied, bullying Ilya onto his back. He scrambled to obey, tossing a pillow to the floor when it bunched up awkwardly under his head, wiggled his way into sitting upright against the headboard. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown, swallowing up the blue.

Shane clambered into his lap, falling upon him like something ravenous. He tipped forward to latch onto Ilya’s neck, licking and biting until Ilya was jerking his hips up helplessly, wet cock sliding between Shane’s ass cheeks. He moved to grasp Ilya at the base, steadied it so he could sink and fill that emptiness inside him. There was something about doing it this way that made Ilya’s cock seem especially thick, all Shane’s body weight forcing every inch inside.

It wasn’t a secret that this happened to be one of Ilya’s favorite positions. He went glazed over in awe, hands never able to fully settle, slack-jawed while Shane took what he wanted.

It’s probably what I will see right before I die. Like, hm, when people see light at the end of the road, he’d said once, post-orgasm.

They didn’t usually finish with Shane on top, because Ilya would be in danger of finishing too fast. A risk he was willing to take tonight, and it was worth it when the exact expression he’d been expecting overwhelmed Ilya’s face.

Ilya pressed hard against Shane’s lower belly, as if he could find himself inside. Shane gripped Ilya’s wrist to keep it there as he got his knees under him.

“You’re so deep like this,” Shane breathed, and Ilya groaned as he rose, until just the head of his cock was inside. Sharply, heavily, Shane crashed back down, and a loud cry stuttered out of him. “Oh, oh, fuck, Ilya.”

“Can feel me in your stomach, huh?” Ilya said, and his tone wavered, but Shane didn’t comment on it. Instead, he picked up and dropped, over and over again until his orgasm snagged like a thread. Shane shot out one hand to get a grip on the headboard, gave himself leverage to start really working.

He was frantic, chasing the pulse of pleasure that throbbed nonstop, luxuriating in the stretch, the wet slap of their skin each time he fucked Ilya’s cock back inside. It made his ass and thighs jiggle, and Ilya got a hard grip on one of his cheeks, digging into the meat.

“Oh my god,” he sighed, bouncing in Ilya’s lap. There was sweat slipping from his hairline as he kept his head tilted back. Ilya hadn’t stopped pressing his palm into Shane’s abdomen, and that was – something. Something really molten, and almost scary, adding a sharp edge to the build-up in Shane’s gut.

“Shane, baby,” Ilya said, voice tight, “you need to come.”

“I’m so close, just hold on for me, I’m close.”

He really was, teetering right at the edge. He ragdolled forward, and Ilya was breathing heavily through his nose, jaw clenched so hard it looked painful.

He finally released the grip on Shane’s ass, slipping inwards, and it was like an electric shock when Ilya rubbed against his already stretched rim.

“I know. I know, moy angel, you’re so sweet, giving it up. Just made for me,” he panted, and it was different from his usual dirty talk, had a syrupy edge to it. Shane all but sobbed. “Whatever you need, Shane, take it.”

His finger somehow wedged its way in, and Shane was gone. He slammed down and stayed, twitching and rolling as he came in pulses. At first, he made no noise, like his lungs had just stopped working. And then he moaned, shuddery and loud, the pleasure dragging him under like a heavy wave. Cum leaked down his cock, got onto Ilya’s belly.

It felt never-ending, brain just pure static, and his mouth was moving even if he couldn’t really register what he was saying. He thought it might have been Ilya’s name, over and over. Ilya carefully massaged his palm over the head of Shane’s twitching cock, and he nearly came off Ilya’s lap all together, seizing up with a sharp cry.

“Come for me,” Shane said, the words thick and cottony in his mouth as he rolled his hips into the wretchedly sweet overstimulation. “I want it, want you to fill me up.”

“Oh, you’re perfect,” Ilya whispered, and his arms wrapped around his torso in a vice grip, forearms pressing heavily on either side of Shane’s spine. He clasped both hands over Shane’s shoulders to keep him in place, locking him still as he started thrusting up uncontrollably, with no finesse or restraint. He was just trying to get off, just trying to make himself finish, and it was a version of Ilya that Shane craved.

Shane skated along the line between it being a bad too-much and a good too-much, letting Ilya steal everything from his body, and it lit him the fuck up. Because if anyone could handle it, it was him.  

“I love you,” Shane panted, fingers digging into Ilya’s chest, willing his poor muscles to clench around Ilya’s cock even as they screamed at him to stop. “I love you, Ilya, I fucking love you.”

As if it were a command, Ilya came.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya gasped, voice breaking in the middle of his name. Sh-ane. His lips were pressed open and hot against Shane’s chest, teeth scraping his nipple, spit smearing. He was flushed nearly scarlet, curls frizzy with sweat. Buried in deep as he was, Shane could feel the way his cock flexed, the slight warmth of his release.

Like his strings had been cut, Ilya went slack.

Shane wove his fingers through his hair, tipped Ilya’s head back again so he could better watch the orgasm play out. Still shaking, Shane finally put a name to that defensive feeling that crept around his heart.

It was a well of possession so strong that it made his head swim.

His only job in this world was to crush Ilya against his chest, practically smothering his boyfriend into the dip between his pecs. Ilya was shuddering, automatically sucking at whatever skin he could latch onto.

And Shane, for his part, was patient. Waited as Ilya came down, huffing in the scent of shampoo and sweat as he buried his face in the thick cloud of his curls.

“Kiss,” was the first thing Ilya said, when he was a little bit more back in his body, and Shane diligently leaned to kiss him. Ilya was careful as he maneuvered Shane off his cock, and wrapped an arm around his ribs to tip them over onto their sides.

Shane couldn’t say how long they lay there, sharing the same air, with Ilya stroking along the curve of his spine. He could feel the cum starting to leak, and the sweat was drying into something tacky, but Shane didn’t leap to get up. For once.

Finally, Ilya extracted himself to go retrieve warm wash cloths, and he moved Shane’s limbs around as he saw fit to get him clean. He should have gotten up to shower, but Ilya was thorough, at least enough that he’d last until morning.

“It was that good, huh,” Ilya commented, crawling back into bed and curling tight to Shane’s side. He slung his heavy leg over Shane’s and extended his arm so Shane could pillow onto his bicep.

“I’d rather die than get up right now.”

“Lucky for you that no one will force you to,” Ilya said, and smooched Shane’s forehead. Shane rolled his head to gaze into Ilya’s face, fingers finding the cross that sat in the cradle of his chest. He rubbed the gold between his fingertips, felt the weight of it, skin-warmed.

“What did you mean?” Ilya asked quietly, after the silence had unraveled. “When you said you’re angry all the time.”

And what a question that was. If Shane were being honest, it had been present for years and years. It was just always a third-degree burn that he’d learned to live with.

Why can’t I be liked more outside of the rink? Why can’t I want girls? Why do some of these men hate me before they even know me? Will it ever be enough, everything I do, when I can’t even love you out loud?

A thousand questions he still asked himself, sometimes. These days, he asked a certain one much more insistently than others.

“I think I just want things to be different,” he said, because he didn’t know how to start explaining this all to Ilya. But Ilya had also been witness to Shane’s spectacular meltdowns, the only person alive who he’d been able to admit the truth to on his own terms. That he was gay, that he was scared.

Maybe Ilya knew already, the soft contours of what had shaped Shane since he’d been born. Maybe one day, they’d really talk about it.

“They can be. It’s a nice thought, yes?”

“Yes,” Shane whispered.

They exchanged stupid comments and soft laughs until Ilya’s eyes started to flutter, and Shane massaged the back of his neck, willing him into sleep. When his voice fell away, the only sounds for Shane to hear were the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock, the heft of Ilya’s breathing as he truly drifted.

As lightly as he could, Shane ghosted his index finger over the thick slash of Ilya’s eyebrow, the bump of his nose bridge, traced it across his cheek mole and the soft, dry angle of his Cupid’s bow.

It was still insane to him that the same flighty, standoffish boy he’d met in Saskatchewan had turned into this. A man he was going to love forever, if Shane had any say in it.

Because no one knew Ilya like Shane did.

No one got to witness the way his face grew puffy when he cried, no one got to hear how he sounded when he said I love you during sex. So tender that it felt like being sliced in two. They didn’t see how Ilya slapped obnoxiously around the house in his Adidas slides, or the intense concentration he employed for getting his curls to set just right, nor how bad he was at cartwheels, though he insisted he wasn’t.

They didn’t see how beautiful he was. The world knew it in abstracts. Because of course he was gorgeous, all golden with a body that sculptors predicted centuries ago. But they didn’t know.

Ilya Rozanov was the most beautiful man to exist, and only Shane understood that. He was made that beautiful because he was Shane’s.

⚘

An Approximation: Two Years Later

⚘

Exhausted as he was, Shane made himself get up, ensuring that Ilya was still snoozing before he slipped out into the rise of dawn. Their whole Sunday calendar was empty, which meant that by mid-morning, they’d go for a jog with Anya at their side and then probably have slow, lazy sex. There were meals to prep and equipment to organize and a vacuum to be run, so this was Shane’s only chance.

He set off to the backyard, pulling on gloves and unpacking the bulbs Yuna had ordered for him. She’d inspected the yard, which had perfect plots for flowers, all gone unutilized.

This is great soil. Plenty of space!

So his mother had said, and marked off the places where the planting would be best. The autumn sunlight was just cracking through the trees as he dutifully got to his knees and started digging, following the strict instructions from both his mother and the internet.

Bulbs must be planted shallow, a few inches apart. The soil must be rich, and covered for the harsh Canadian snowstorms. He could do all of this. He hoped, with a desperate fervor, that it paid off.

The months passed.

Autumn wilted away into winter, which opened into spring. Their warmer months were punctuated with barbeques at Bood’s house, the grind before play-offs, dinner with his parents, soft love-making and rough fucking and arguments and slow syrupy days.

It was both the easiest and most out-of-body experience, living with Ilya inside their Ottawa home, which was bright and warm come June. Shane sat on the back patio, still wearing his pajamas and enjoying the brief breeze before the day gave way to heat. Ilya stumbled out to drop a kiss on top of his head, and they sat together on the wicker bench, sipping the coffee he’d delivered.

“What is this?” Ilya asked, pointing to the soil beds aside the stone patio. Shane glanced over, and saw that a pink bloom had started to unfurl from its young green stem. “Did Yuna plant something while she was over?”

“Oh, no. I did that,” Shane said, and was privately thrilled that they hadn’t died over the winter.

“You planted something?”

“Shut up. You know I’m capable of following instructions, right?”

“Oh, I’m very familiar with how good you are at following instructions,” Ilya purred, and smacked a kiss to Shane’s cheek.

It only took a few days before the blooms started to flourish, and their shape was quickly tangible. With their growth came a thick, mustard-yellow pollen that perfumed the air around their kitchen windows with a distinct sweetness.

Shane saw the moment it hit Ilya; he’d opened the window panes while he’d been cleaning, and he paused in the middle of scrubbing the counter. Something soft slid over his expression, and he took a deep breath.

“It wasn’t hard to figure out,” Shane supplied from his place at the dining table, glasses slipping down the slope of his nose. “They’re easy flowers to get in the ground.”

Ilya walked over, and Shane didn’t comment on the wet look in his eyes, too busy with being kissed. In the summer breeze, the peonies swayed along, thriving from the intentional work of Shane’s hands.