Alexei can remember the first time he heard that speech from his father. The one that laced his responsibility to the family with moral obligation to Russia and tethered it to his personhood.
“You are old enough now, Alexei, to know better. You will listen to your father, and you will obey.”
It became a symphony he learned the melody for in his sleep, one that he knew so well he could see the gaps in an uneven harmony, a singular breath out of place.
He’d dressed in crisp navy, a uniform from school his mother had washed each night, and he learned to iron at the age of seven. Without a crease or button out of place, he knew he wore the family name well. That he made his father proud.
That’s all that mattered.
When he was four, the world gave his family Ilya.
A tiny, red-faced little being that stole Alexei’s mother from him, that made his father’s eyes shine with a different kind of pride.
Cleaning the house, helping his mom, making sure he was in the kitchen on time to set the table, adding an extra space for his little brother. It all became routine. Expected.
He stopped hearing celebrations for following the rules. Stopped earning laughter from his mother when he swept crumbs for her in the dining room.
It was all pointed back at him. At Ilya. The youngest child, the most precious gift to the Rozanov name. At least that’s what Alexei heard time and time again.
“Alexei, I’m tired, I don’t have time for you to misbehave today.”
“Stand up straight, you look sloppy, boy. Is that any way to bring respect to our family?”
“Your brother needs you.”
He tried to settle the feeling that grew hard and heavy in his chest over time. The one that resented all the ways Ilya got what Alexei so desperately craved. What got shoved to the back of his mind at every opportunity.
No chance for creativity when the world expected him to fall in line.
It’s who he was born to be. His father’s son.
And Ilya belonged to his mother.
From birth they were destined for different paths, and it was that realization, the sinking feeling of dread and sorrow, that left him with the grim taste of envy on the back of his tongue year after year.
Hockey became a blood oath; one Ilya had traced through his DNA but tuned under the vigilant eyes of Grigori.
Watching him skate was magical, the way he embodied the game, the way he glided so easily around opponents, left audiences with their jaws lax and their eyes wide with wonder. Alexei too, and when he was forced to go to games through the years, there was always a sense of pride he didn’t realize he’d kept so tightly locked away.
That was his brother. Powerful. Delicate. A balanced act of every piece of himself Alexei didn’t dare let escape.
It still wasn’t enough, though, to write over the legacy of their father.
At 16, Grigori knocked on his bedroom door, so late the dark had started shifting to grays and purples, hazy with the threat of dawn. He’d whispered that something bad had happened and that Alexei must wake at once, must help him.
It changed Alexei, that night. The night he lost his mother. His father barely mentioned the incident, like it was nothing but circumstance and that the only thing that mattered was making sure their family stayed intact. That their legacy wasn’t tainted and sullied.
They’d rushed into his office and gathered paperwork, discussed how they would handle her will and the finances, how they’d make use of the time with family friends during the funeral. Alexei swallowed back bile and shoved down any emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. For her.
For Ilya.
He knew it broke his brother, finding her – gone. Alexei was already broken but Ilya didn’t deserve to be shattered so young. So, he’d taken notes and kept track of documents, tears rolling down his cheeks quietly that he’d brush away before his father had a chance to reprimand him.
He still thinks about Ilya’s face when he’d found them in the office, like she’d barely been worth the time it took to get her from the house to the morgue. Dreams about it sometimes, too.
When Alexei graduated high school, his name was already known. Through his father’s tight-lipped stare. His staunch support of the country. The way he raised his children.
But it was built in a way all his own, too. Every time he lost a part of himself to his younger brother, Alexei placed a brick in the walls of his foundation. Precision. Sacrifice. Expectation.
He gathered the grout of his father and grandfather and bloodline dating back, used it to pack the bricks together tighter. A structure so sound even jealousy couldn’t rattle it.
The military felt like home, in a way, so familiar were the words of his commanding officers, of admirals that were bred on the same battlefield as his father. It was easy, then, to climb the ladder, because of the familiarity of it ingrained in his bones.
Over time, his will grew stronger, steel-wrapped and lead-lined, protected with guns and distance from any emotion that didn’t serve him.
He met Anastasia after an ill-advised night of partying. One that started with vodka and ended with lines blurred on the sidewalk that barely guided him home.
She’d gone home first with him. With Ilya.
And he served her well, at least at first. She’d fallen for it like Alexei always did. The charm, the ease with which he moved through the world. The way his attitude carried him further than any effort did. They’d flirted with one another easily, Alexei saw it from across the bar. Ilya had bought her a drink and she’d asked him to dance.
She was impossible to miss, the way her honeyed hair traced over her cheeks, sharp and strong with the flush of alcohol and the heat of her body moving to the music.
Ilya moved easily behind her, his palms at her waist, shaping the way they flowed together, connected in more than the beat of the bass.
Of course she’d gone home with him, how could he have expected anything different? He’d bought her drinks, told her she looked radiant, kissed her lips gently and without the force of fear he’d gotten so used to feeling, skittering under his skin.
So he did what he always did. Escaped in the form of more booze, drugs, anything that would keep his mind pleasantly hazy, distant from the world around him.
The next day Ilya smirked when Alexei asked him about her, said she’d been just as beautiful under his lights as the club’s, filled a cup with orange juice and drank it in one go with a brow raised.
It made Alexei sick.
The next night he’d gone back. Tried to find her again, but she wasn’t there. He returned – again and again and again – until that spark of blonde flashed across Alexei’s vision. Her shoulders were drawn, dress draped over ivory skin, hugging each delicate curve of her body, each line of her beauty.
Alexei moved alongside her at the bar, insisting on getting her a drink and inviting her back to his table. Always ready with closed off luxury, leather soft and supple on the cushions of a couch tucked against the wall, a bottle in the middle of the table with glasses lined around it.
She was perfect in every way.
Beautiful, soft, kind-hearted and mild. She laughed at his jokes and leaned in when he whispered in her ear. His brother was a distant memory by the time they made it home that night. She stepped inside with him that night and never left.
She was Alexei’s escape, in the beginning. Her smile was wide when they danced in the kitchen together, she’d tucked notes into lunches made just for him. Ones that said I love you and A house with you is never empty.
The bricks he’d stacked so high – the ones worn against the press of his thumbs, the beat of his heart, over and over as he tried to take them down – they held firmly in place. Even with her. Especially with her.
She needed him to be strong, to protect her, to care for her in every conceivable way.
It was a job he took more seriously than anything Grigori had assigned him. One she showed her appreciation for in the way she cooked for him, kissed him good morning, left him sated and satisfied each night.
Before his daughter was born, he thought he knew love.
Thought he knew it in the shape of his father’s pride, in the quiet lullaby of his mother, in the first kiss of sunlight with Ana.
It wasn’t until his little girl arrived that he finally understood his mother. That he finally connected the pieces of his childhood and found meaning where he’d otherwise lost it. She was perfect in every meaning of the word, her hair golden like her mother’s, features soft and warm, with her father’s nose and Irina’s eyes.
Beauty didn’t begin to describe her.
When Ilya’s career took off in the United States, when he was drafted so young to such an amazing team, it was natural to assume he’d want some of what he’d built to go to his older brother. He watched from across the world and reasoned, with every goal scored and every game won, that he’d earned it just as much as Ilya. That it was what he was owed when Ilya abandoned them in Russia and only found time to talk through the tinny speaker of a cell phone.
He faced his father’s expectations. Carried on the weight of their last name, their legacy. He’d suffered, in so many ways, when Ilya had been nestled so closely to his mother’s chest, to his father’s heart.
Ilya had it easy, the least he could do was share what Alexei shared equally with him.
And when Ilya became an uncle, a proud one full of that laughter he missed each day from his mother, it was only natural Alexei thought that would add more. That he’d been owed, as his father’s keeper. That Ilya just had to smile for the cameras, float across the ice, bask in the limitless wonder of America and all it had to offer.
Arguments built, battles for meager rubles, bargaining and threatening and waging a war Alexei had no interest in fighting. It all put a strain on an already taut relationship. Money Alexei knew that Ilya could spare, especially as his daughter grew stronger and their father grew weaker.
Time spent taking care of the old man was tossed in Ilya’s face whenever the topic came up – vile anger spitting through teeth that were crooked with frustration and the tight set of his jaw from birth – built and built until it fractured the occasional happier moments.
They used to share inside jokes, sometime in their lives, Alexei used to know the lyrics to Ilya’s favorite songs. Ilya used to grab Alexei’s favorite snacks from the shop on the way home after school. He’d help Ilya study for class and Ilya would help Alexei flirt with girls, left notes in a locker of his high school crush one spring bragging about how cool his older brother was and if she’d want to go out sometime.
When Alexei stumbled on Ilya stealing kisses with the coach’s son, he’d been shocked but kept it hidden. Didn’t dare speak a word of it for fear of losing the one person that knew him more than anyone else in the world.
As Ilya grew older and soaked in celebrity, laughter grew sparse, yelling grew frequent, and Alexei felt less like a brother and more like a beggar, a pathetic excuse for family that hid behind fear and anger that masqueraded as bravery.
The apartment he shared with Ana and their daughter didn’t get bigger. Their food didn’t taste better over time, their love didn’t grow deeper with age.
Instead, Alexei became an even bigger shadow, a larger shell of a man he used to wish he could become. His father lost pieces of himself and seemingly left them branded in Alexei, and every time he looked in the mirror he stared less at a reflection of himself and more of a reflection of every soldier he’d gotten to know. In the military or with the police.
Cold. Hollow. Longing for something better but stuck exactly where he always knew he’d end up.
And Ilya was still on the other side of the world living the life Alexei wanted but never got.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
RATED T | WORDCOUNT 6K | TW: Shootings, home invasions, vomiting, hospitals, outings, homophobia
or…hollanov get outed because of a home invasion, and the shooting isn’t even the worst part of ilya’s year! i wrote this in a fugue state so if u see any mistakes….no u dont <3
The officer sitting across from Shane looks far from sympathetic. It might worry him, if he wasn't so busy staring at the flecks of maroon currently buried beneath his fingernails.
"Why were you at Rozanov's apartment, Mr. Hollander?"
Shane blinks. "What?"
"Why," The officer repeats, leaning forward, "Were you at his apartment? You have to admit, it's pretty strange to—"
"We're together." Shane interrupts, tone flat. It doesn't make his stomach churn to say it out loud. It doesn't make him want to shrink into the uncomfortable plastic chair he's sitting in. "We had a three-day stretch with no games, so I was staying with him."
The officer bristles. He has a nametag, but Shane has no interest in reading it. He seems, overall, unconvinced. Shane supposes if he was a cop who was clearly awful at his job and stuck on the night shift, he'd probably be just as miserable.
"Okay," He sighs, "Let's start again. Tell us what happened, from the beginning."
It's a waste of time. Shane is making bad decisions, right now, this much he knows; he's talking to cops in a tiny detainment room in the hospital, with no lawyer, without his mom, without his agent. None of this is smart. He's outed himself to about a thousand people over the past three hours, and none of it fucking matters, because Ilya could have died.
Shane looks back at the dried blood on his hands. It's staining his t-shirt, too, and his sweatpants. No-one has offered him a change of clothes or even a towelette to clean his hands. It's evidence, says the little voice in the back of his head that sounds like Rose's true crime podcasts, if Ilya dies, they'll need it as evidence.
If Ilya dies, it might be all he has left of him. His blood, on his hands. Shane is struck by a vision of himself in forty years, old and alone and still covered in the blood he couldn't bring himself to wash off.
"Mr. Hollander," The officer prompts. Shane resists the urge to roll his eyes. "From the beginning again, please."
"Okay, uh. There was some noise, I woke up. It's not, like, weird for Ilya to be up in the night, he has trouble sleeping, sometimes. I figured maybe he, like, fucking fell, or something, I don't know. Tripped, maybe. It was like a, I don't know, a crashing sound?"
Shane swallows. His voice is still hoarse, throat stripped raw from crying and yelling and more fucking crying. Another added humiliation to the pile, the pictures he knows people took of him in the emergency room, tears and snot congealing on his face, blood staining his hands. He takes a deep breath, and continues.
"I got out of bed and went downstairs— It's like a duplex, kind of, but more open-plan. The kitchen is downstairs, and it's, y'know, I heard more noise, but it sounded like arguing. I saw Ilya, and I saw the fucking asshole, y'know, in a fucking ski mask. He was holding a gun and I guess he freaked when he saw me 'cause he fucking— Um. Fuck, sorry."
Shane can see it, almost as if it were happening right in front of him, right there in the hospital. Ilya, shirtless and dishevelled and standing a few feet away from this strange person invading their bubble. The light of the refridgerator hitting the dark metal of the gun, and Shane's mouth moving— Did he say something? What did he say? It doesn't matter, now. The shot rang out, and Shane was grabbing one of the few sticks Ilya keeps mounted on a shelf in the entryway because it impresses the puck bunnies and hitting the guy over the head with it.
A standard skull with no helmet usually doesn't fare so well against a Shane Hollander slapshot. This guy was still blinking the last time Shane saw him, which means he got off lucky.
"Yeah, uh. So, y'know, he got spooked and the gun went off and Ilya, um, he kind of, like, held onto the counter for a minute? Like, he has this really nice, um, marble kitchen island. It's Italian, or something, he had it imported. He wants to, like, move it with him when he— It doesn't matter. Uh, then he went down. Like, to the floor. And I knocked the guy out with one of his exhibition sticks. and called 911."
The officer nods, face carefully blank. "You seem to know a lot about Mr. Rozanov's property."
Shane wants to laugh. He can't hold it in, the breathless half-sigh of disbelief that bubbles up in response to this fucking cop's inability to hear what Shane is telling him. If he'd have known that outing himself would be this fucking hard, he might not have been so careful. He might have let Ilya put his name down as his official next of kin.
"Yes, fuck, I know a lot about Ilya's fucking apartment," Shane snaps, "Jesus fucking Christ. I spend half my free fucking time there."
The officer opens his mouth, brows furrowed, and for a brief, hysterical moment, Shane thinks he might have to endure being scolded by this dumb fucking American cop.
Luckily, or unluckily, the door opens before any words can leave his mouth, and another cop appears. She gestures for the officer to leave, and he does, without a word to Shane. Which is fine. He doesn't need an explanation. He doesn't need medical attention, or an update on his boyfriend, or for literally anyone to believe the secret he's been keeping so tenderly and so carefully for the past decade of his life.
He stews on this while the cops talk outside, the unjustness of it all, the blood on his shirt, the way Ilya was shaking. It was blood loss, Shane thinks, and not fear. Ilya is so rarely scared of anything, except the call of a loon on a balmy summer night and the concept of ending his life like his mother did. Did it ever occur to him that someone else would try to end it instead?
Shane thinks of the split-second before the intruder realised he was there, meeting Ilya's eyes over the counter, the ocean blue and his pinpoint pupils. And then the intruder muttering something, panicked, and the shot.
It's not like he's never seen or heard a gun go off before. Shane spent most of his childhood either on the ice or in the woods. He didn't hunt with his dad and his friends because he was busy skating, not out of any ethical or moral dispute. Maybe if he thought on it hard enough it would have turned his stomach, but he just didn't give it any thought. They had hunting rifles at the cottage he grew up in. He knows the feeling of cold metal warmed by his skin recoiling after a shot.
Ilya hadn't looked like a frightened deer. His jaw was tense, gaze set, staring down this faceless man and his stupid American weapon. Daring him to leave or shoot. Russian roulette, of a kind, because only one of them knew how many bullets were in the chamber.
The wastepaper basket is close enough that Shane manages to snag it with two fingers and drag it closer before he vomits up his remaining stomach contents.
———————————————————————————
[ TRANSCRIPT - 911 BOSTON DISPATCH - 15/02/2018 01:34:56 AM ]
DISPATCH: 911, what's your emergency?
CALLER: Um, my boyfriend, he's— He's bleeding really bad, he's been shot, and… God, I don't—
DISPATCH: Okay, sir, is he breathing?
CALLER: Yeah, yeah, he's breathing. He's… Fuck, Ilya, open your eyes. You need to stay awake, okay? It's all okay, I got you, I—
DISPATCH: Sir, where is the injury?
CALLER: Um, like, his hip? Near his hip? I don't— Sorry, baby, sorry, I just— I'm putting pressure on it, is that…
DISPATCH: That's exactly right, sir. If there are any towels near, gauze, or clean clothes, I need you to put them over the wound and press down as hard as you can. Okay?
CALLER: Yeah, yeah, I have— We're in the kitchen, I have, like, towels. There's a lot of blood, there's— Is that, I mean, fuck—
[SLIGHT CLATTERING; MUMBLING]
DISPATCH: Is there someone else at the scene? Are you in immediate danger?
CALLER: No, no. I mean, yeah, there's— Um, a guy broke into my boyfriend's apartment and he's, he shot him. But I knocked him out.
DISPATCH: Alright, sir, I'm dispatching police along with the ambulance. Can you confirm your address, please?
CALLER: Yeah, uh, it's [REDACTED - REDACTED - REDACTED] and the door code is [REDACTED]. Fuck. You can't die, okay? I don't care if it's fucking boring to say that, you need to—
DISPATCH: Is the patient still breathing?
CALLER: Uh-huh.
DISPATCH: What's your name, sir?
CALLER: Uh, Shane. Fuck, sorry.
DISPATCH: That's okay, Shane, you're doing great. I need you to take some deep breaths for me, but keep pressure on those towels.
CALLER [TEARFUL]: I don't want to hurt him. Ilya, can you— Hi, baby, fuck. God. It's okay, it's okay, you're okay. You need to keep your eyes open, asshole.
DISPATCH: I know, but it's better to hurt him a little now and keep him alive in the long run. I promise it's the right thing to do.
CALLER: I think he's passing out, fuck, what do I— Ilya. Wake the fuck up. Shit. You keep a stick out here but we need the salts, huh? I know, baby, I'm sorry. I need to keep my hand there, okay?
DISPATCH: Sir, are there drugs on the premises?
CALLER: Drugs, what— No, fuck, no, we're, uh, we're hockey players. Smelling salts, they… It's just a hockey thing.
DISPATCH: Alright, Shane, help is near. I want you to stay on the line with me until the EMTs are in your line of sight, okay?
CALLER: Okay.
[INDISTINCT MUMBLING]
CALLER: It's not Valentines day anymore, idiot, it's past midnight— Ilya. Hey. I know, I'm sorry, I know it hurts, I just— Oh, thank fuck, I think that’s them— Yeah, hi—
———————————————————————————
Eventually, they clear him of all suspicion. The phrasing of it almost makes Shane laugh, because they'd actually thought that he would try and kill Ilya Rozanov. That he couldn't handle playing against him, he couldn't handle the rivalry, he couldn't possibly handle loving him.
It's only then that Shane realises he's alone, in Boston, with no clue who to call. Maybe he should have expected that his mom would make the decision for him.
"We're on our way," She says, as soon as Shane picks up the phone. It's on 23% charge, and he doesn't have a charger with him. He doesn't have anything with him, except Ilya's necklace, stuffed in the pocket of his blood-stained sweats. The EMTS had cut it off him. "Shane, baby, what hospital are you at?"
"Boston General."
"Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Okay, sweetheart. Who are you with?"
Shane blinks. Maybe it's the safety of his mom's voice, or maybe it's the shock of the evening and the adrenaline wearing thin, but his vision is starting to tunnel.
"Ilya's in surgery," Shane says, which might answer her question. Probably not, by the noise of discontent she makes.
"Who are you with? Is anyone with you?"
He blinks again, tries to will himself to stay in the present moment. "No. No, mom, I'm in Boston."
It's only Ilya. He's the only person I want to see. He's the only person I know in Boston, because we're so fucking good at keeping our secret. It's still so new. It's still so fragile. Who else could know? Who could he introduce me to?
"His coach is on the way, I think," Shane says, "I think he's his emergency contact."
On the other end of the line, his mom makes a noise.
"What?"
"It's— I'm his emergenct contact," She says, and the line crackles slightly. He can hear his dad say something in the background, but it's muffled, the sound of the road and the car humming over him, "He didn't tell you?"
"No?"
"I suggested it, after that hit in LA. You were so scared, and… Well. He said it would make sense, with the charity, and all his family being in Russia. No-one would think twice, not really, because…"
She keeps talking, her voice a steady, comforting ebb-and-flow on the other end of the line, but Shane tunes it out. Ilya had changed his emergency contact from his coach to Shane's mother. He'd written the words Yuna Hollander on that stupid fucking form.
And why wouldn't he tell him? His mom had sounded confused, when she asked. But Shane knows. Ilya didn't tell him because he would have freaked out, called it reckless, told him to change it back. He would have made him remove his one link to Shane, would have taken away the only reason Shane is even allowed in the fucking hospital right now.
The guilt is heavy, and buries deep in Shane's unsettled stomach. All the hiding, the stupid, convoluted plans and expectations of keeping each other secret until they retire, it all feels so ridiculous. Anything can happen, didn't he know that, before? If Ilya hadn't been shot in a home invasion, they could've been in a car accident together. Shane's plane could have crashed on the way home from Boston. And then what?
It doesn't bear thinking about. His mom is still talking.
"Are you close?" Shane interrupts, feeling all of twelve years old again. He feels so fucking small, a far cry from the 200lb hockey player who bodied an intruder with a slapshot to the skull.
"Yeah, sweetheart. Twenty minutes, tops. Your dad is driving, we got on the first flight."
Twenty minutes. He can do twenty minutes.
———————————————————————————
A very kind nurse checks him over and gives him a clean bill of health, which Shane had expected; the guy had barely managed to land a hit on him before he was on the ground. Shane knows what they're going to say, but he approaches the nurse's station anyway.
"Is there—"
"Mr. Hollander," The head nurse, Diane, levels him with a stern look. "I cannot tell you anything about Mr. Rozanov's status at this time."
"I know, but—"
"No buts. I can only release medical information to family members."
It's not unkind, but it stings nonetheless. He is Ilya's family, why is that so hard to believe? Why does he feel like he's repeatedly slamming his head against a brick fucking wall? Surely Diane can see the words Yuna Hollander as his next of kin, surely she can put two and two together—
"Shane!"
He's not sure why he turns; Shane doesn't recognise the voice calling his name, but still, his body moves like a marionette, going where he's called. As soon as he moves, a short string of flashes bounce off the white walls of the ER.
"Shane, can you tell us why you were at Rozanov's apartment?"
Oh. Oh, it's a journalist. Maybe journalist is too generous of a title to give to this fucking sleazeball, this asshole who would interrupt the goings-on of a fucking hospital to get, what? A picture of Shane in fucking blood-stained sweatpants? A picture of him crying, and dishevelled, with flecks of blood still sticking stubbornly to his neck and his chin?
He's had enough violence for one night. The urge to lunge forward and rip the camera from the man's hands, smash it into his head and leave them both shattered on the ugly linoleum floor is strong. But the hospital's security guards are strnoger, and they leap into action, manhandling him out of the door as he continues to yell questions in Shane's direction.
———————————————————————————
OFFICIAL STATEMENT ON CAPTAIN ILYA ROZANOV - BOSTON BEARS
@NHLBears | 15th Febrary 2018 | by Jason Lasso, Head of Communications
THE BOSTON BEARS ARE SADDENED to confirm that our captain Ilya Rozanov, #81, was hospitalised in the early hours of this morning following a break-in at his home. The intruder has been apprehended and is being held on suspicion of breaking and entering; attempted murder.
The Bears organisation would like to extend their deepest thanks to Boston's emergency services for their swift and skilled actions, and ask that the fans and media grant the Rozanov family privacy during this difficult time.
More information will be provided as the case progresses. In the meantime, the Bears encourage any fans looking to help to make a donation to captain Rozanov's charity, The Irina Foundation. Information on donations can be found at TheIrinaFoundation.org/donations/how-to-donat…
Alternate captain Cliff Marlow will take on the captaincy in Rozanov's absence. For more information on roster changes see NHL.com/bears/roster/18-19-season-updates-a…
This is an ongoing story. Refresh your browser for updates. Press and media requests: NHL.com/bears/press-and-media-reque…
———————————————————————————
Shane often finds himself overwhelmed with gratitude for his mom, but this might just take the cake. Yuna Hollander hits Boston General like a fucking hurricane, and Shane know he’s safe in the eye of the storm.
"They didn't give you a change of clothes?" She asks, horrified and holding Shane by the shoulders. Her eyes rake over the dried blood on his shirt, cataloguing every fleck of deep red. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she's wearing one of his dad's McGill sweaters and a pair of crisp blue jeans. He doesn't want to get blood on her clothes, so Shane shrugs gently out of her grip.
"I don't know," He shrugs; his head feels like it's full of cotton wool. "The cops…"
Her eyebrows shoot up.
"Shane. Did you talk to the police?"
Shane nods. "Yeah, they thought I…"
"Without a lawyer?"
Now that his mom is saying it out loud, well, yeah. He should have had a lawyer. They should have offered him some kind of help, he thinks, but the police in America aren't known for being gracious and understanding, especially to people who aren't white.
He shakes his head.
"Sweetheart," His mom says, and suddenly Shane feels like his heart is breaking. Everything collapses in on itself, all at once; the fear, the anxiety, the panic, the deep, deep sadness. The guilt. The knowledge that, when all of the dust settles, everyone will know.
He isn't sure how it happens, but Shane blinks and his eyes are wet, his cheeks are wet, and his face is buried in his mom's shoulder.
"Oh, honey," She sighs, her hand resting gently on the back of his head, "Shaney. It'll be okay, honey, I promise."
Shane wants to let his mother's comfort wash over him, but all he can think about is how Ilya will never get the same privilige.
The next two hours consist of watching her handle things that Shane had only managed to stumble into. She dresses down the two officers who had interviewed him, demanding any footage of audio recordings be sent to his legal teams and making it clear that she'll be submitting a formal complaint to their superiors. She talks to the doctors and nurses, she gets Shane a change of clothes and somewhere private to sit and stew, she even calls Ilya's fucking coach.
"Yes, I work with him on the Foundation," She says, tone clipped and so professional that Shane is almost convinced, despite obviously knowing the truth of the matter, "Well, it's a sensitive matter right now, and I…"
The conversation descends into hockey talk, phrases like I wouldn't want to step on any agency toes and we'll know more when he's out of surgery, this is just a courtesy call, so Shane lets his head drop back against the plush couch of the VIP waiting room.
American hospitals are a trip.
The room, which his mom had managed to arrange within half an hour of getting there, is bathed in low-light from strategically placed lamps on the walls. There are a few luxurious couches, a wide coffee table with some magazines and art books, and a mini-fridge stocked with water and juice.
He can't sleep, but Shane does close his eyes, and tries to take some deep breaths. He knows he should be concerned about his career, about Ilya's career, about the entire world knowing he's gay when he could only admit it to himself a matter of months ago. But Shane just can't bring himself to worry about anything but Ilya.
The EMTs said the shot wasn't too bad, it didn't hit any bone or arteries, it didn't look like the bullet had gotten stuck or lost in the expanse of Ilya's body. The surgery is mostly just a precaution, checking for any further internal damage and making sure that his muscles and ligaments are intact.
I understand that you can't take any calls right now. I just wanted to express how happy I am that you're okay, and let you know that I'm here when you want to talk strategy. I've spoken briefly with Yuna, but wanted to keep you in the loop.
No word from the Voyageurs just yet, but considering how your coming out went, I don't have high hopes of a positive reception. I'll be keeping an eye on press and reporting, and we're doing our best to get any pictures of you in the emergency room taken down.
Take care,
Farah
———————————————————————————
It's all over social media, because of course it is.
Shane didn't expect anything less, not really, but now the sun is up, and his phone is fully charged, and Ilya is safe and well and sleeping. It all feels scarily real, in the light of day. He cycles between the same four apps: Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, and the scarily silent Voyageurs groupchat.
The first three are full of conspiracy theories that, yes, Shane had tried to kill his rival. Shane took a deal with Moscow to eliminate Ilya after consistently poor national tournament showings. Or Shane was the victim, lured to Ilya's apartment and forced to wrestle the gun from his hands. These disgust him, but they leave their careers salvageable.
Then the 911 call leaks, which blows any thoughts of salvageable or workable out of the water.
Ilya is a few inches away from him, sleeping peacefully in a well-outfitted hospital bed. He doesn't look grey, or even sick; just tired, deep circles beneath his eyes, a large graze starting to purple beneath the skin of his cheek where he hit the tiled kitchen floor. It's only under the layers of hospital blankets that they'll find any evidence of injury, aside from the thin cannula beneath his nose pumping oxygen, the matching wire in his wrist administering pain medication.
The call had leaked, initially, through TMZ, if he can even really call it a leak— Apparently, 911 calls are public record in America, and anyone good enough at lying or with enough money to bargain can get their hands on them.
He knows that no good can come from listening to it, but the curiosity is almost overwhelming. Shane was horrified to realise, initially, that he can't actually remember what he said on the call. He can't even remember the dispatcher's voice; Only how small Ilya had looked, curled on his kitchen floor, blood on his hands. The deep, piercing guilt he'd felt when he'd pressed down on the wound and Ilya had made a small, wounded noise.
Shane swallows, puts on earbud in, and presses play.
It's an instant punch in the gut. The dispatcher, calm and cool, and the immediate hollowed-out panic in his own voice. He almost doesn't recognise himself, breathing heavily, with Ilya's mumbles in the background. The first words he says are my boyfriend. And then, a little later, Ilya, baby, open your eyes.
Boyfriend, Ilya, baby. Shane signed his own death certificate, except, he didn't. He was doing what he had to do to keep Ilya alive, to keep him comforted. His boyfriend, the man he loves. Shane couldn't let him lay there bleeding and say It's okay, coworker, I'll hold you at arm's length until the ambulance arrives.
The Ilya on the call makes a wheezing, raspy sound at the same that Ilya in the flesh clamps his fingers down around Shane's wrist.
Shane startles so hard he loses an earbud, his phone clattering to the ground in his attempts to pause the recording.
"Oh, fuck," He spits, but he can't suppress the grin that splits his features. Ilya, awake, and smiling at him mischievously, sleep-soft around the edges. "Asshole. You scared the shit out of me."
"Me? Asshole?" Ilya's voice is only slightly hoarse around the edges; no worse off than Shane was after his police interview. "I scare you?"
"Really bad," Shane admits, and finds he isn't just talking about his wrist-grabbing. He leaves his phone and earbud abandoned on the floor, and instead shuffles the uncomfortable chair closer to the bed. Ilya keeps his hand wrapped around Shane's wrist, his touch warm and grounding as he settles beside him. "Don't ever go that again."
"It's okay," Shane confirms. He tries to smile confidently, but he can feel the expression wavering on his cheeks. Ilya is fine, physically, as fine as anyone can be with a bullet hole in them. "The doctor was telling my mom that they can discharge you tomorrow, as long as you have someone to go home with."
"Mm." Ilya narrows his eyes as he thinks this over. "I will have to hire sexy nurse, hm? For sponge baths?"
"You can shower like a normal person."
"Ah, are you offering?"
"We can go to the cottage," Shane offers, and tries to sound like he hasn't had this plan prepared since the words release him tomorrow were uttered by his doctor. "You'll be out for the rest of the season, probably, which is fine. It's February, so you have time to recover before pre-season. And your physio and stuff, we can get that transferred to a hospital closer in Ottawa, or even have, like, someone come to the cottage. And—"
"Hollander. Shane. Breathe, sweetheart."
Shane isn't quite sure how to confidently breathe on his own, yet. He can feel his face flushing with the combined embarrassment of just assuming that Ilya would want to recover with him at the cottage and the physical exertion of saying so many words with such little breath.
Instead of addressing any of this, he pulls Ilya's hand into his own and presses his lips lightly to his grazed knuckles.
"Sorry," Shane mutters against the broken skin, "You probably want to stay in Boston, and get, like, actual care from—"
"No, no. I want to go to the cottage. Is nice, quiet. And you are very good nurse, I think."
"But?" Shane asks, because he can sense it; the apprehension. Something is making Ilya hesitate. He lays Ilya's palm flat against his cheek, warm in his own hands.
"Sweetheart, season is over for me, I think," Ilya says, gentle, like Shane is the one laying injured in a hospital bed, "But not you."
For a second, the words don't land. Shane squints down at him, confused, before he remembers. Yes, technically, Shane should be in Montreal tonight. He has a game. He has a roadie coming up along the East coast.
He's shaking his head before the thought is even finished forming. "No, I don't— I'm not even thinking about hockey right now, Ilya. I'm not… That's not important. You're important."
Shane doesn't miss the way Ilya's eyes widen slightly, but it's so fast and he recovers so quickly that he doesn't have time to decipher whether or not it was disbelief, or worse.
"Hollander, you cannot say things like this when I am on drugs," Ilya moans, overdramatic and whiny. Still, it makes Shane smile. Everything about him makes Shane smile. "Is too romantic. Everyone will see that we are in love."
The smile drops from Shane's face immediately.
"Um," He says, because he doesn't know what else he can say. Ilya was kidding, obviously; he has no reason to believe that anyone knows anything more than what they've told people. It wouldn't be out of the ordinary for Shane to visit him in the hospital, not when they own a charity together, not when they have such a storied history.
How can he tell Ilya that he's ruined his life? You'll never go home because of me. The entire world knows our secret because I couldn't keep it together on the phone.
"You are mad," Ilya guesses, after a few seconds of Shane struggling with silence, "Because I put Yuna down as my emergency call."
"What? No. No, no, baby, I'm not fucking mad. Jesus, thank God you did, I mean… They wouldn't tell me anything. When we got here, they just— They acted like it didn't matter. Even when I told them, they wouldn't—"
For the hundredth time in the past 24-hours, Shane realises he's crying again, tears wetting his cheeks and pooling in the cupped palm of Ilya's hand.
"Fuck," He sniffs, "Sorry. I shouldn't be the one crying. I'm so fucking sorry, Ilya."
"Sorry?" Ilya frowns. There's a hint of apprehension in his tone, like somehow he already knows how badly Shane has fucked up. "Why?"
"Everyone knows. About us. I'm so fucking sorry, I just—"
"Shane, sweetheart, slow down, please."
"I…" For the first time since this entire fucking ordeal started, the words actually catch in Shane's throat. And isn't that ironic? The only person he can't seem to say it outright to is the only person who knew the whole time, and loved him through it anyway. "Um. The 911 call leaked, and I called you my boyfriend. And said your name. And, there are, I mean, I guess some people got pictures of me in the ER when you were in surgery, so… Yeah. Everyone knows."
Ilya is quiet for a few long, stretching seconds, and Shane is willing to bet that if he were the one hooked up to the heart monitor, it'd be just one, long beep. A flatline, his mind offers the term out of nowhere, making him cringe.
"Okay," Ilya says, after a few more seconds of silence. There's something unreadable in his expression, flat and calm like the cottage lake in the morning. "But you are okay? He didn't… You are not hurt?"
Shane frowns. "What? No, no, he didn't— He didn't even touch me."
Just like that, Ilya's expression resolves itself. He still seems shaken, but that's to be expected. This could have massive fucking consequences for him, for his visa, for the Russia of it all. As far as Shane knows, Ilya's agent and his manager are both Russian, and based in Moscow. This news breaking could, and likely will, change Ilya's entire life.
"Shane," Ilya says, and pulls him in closer. Shane goes willingly, draping himself over the bedrail and ignoring the uncomfortable press of the metal into his ribs. It's more important right now to settle his head on Ilya's chest, as well as he possibly can, and listen to his steady heartbeat. "I am okay, you are okay. The rest is very fucking scary, yes, but… I think, maybe not as scary as random guy trying to shoot you?"
He can hear the smile in Ilya's voice, so Shane lets himself huff out a breathy laugh. If you'd asked him a few months ago, he might have had a different answer, but it turns out that getting outed isn't actually as scary as a man in your home with a gun.
Maybe he'll feel differently again, when they're forced to re-enter the real world and aren't insulated by the lingering fear of losing each other and the too-bright hospital room. But right now Ilya's hand is warm and heavy on the crown of Shane's head, his heartbeat strong and steady in his chest.
"We'll figure it out." Shane agrees, with more conviction that he actually feels.
Following the recent news and police activity surrounding your alleged homosexual activity, you have been found in breach of your contract with Shadow Ice Representation (par. 34, sec. C4, Morality Clause For All Representatives).
While we have enjoyed our work together, myself and Leonora are no longer able to represent you as a client. In recognition of the situation you were put in, you will not be required to pay over the 2.5% earnings cap and your contract with us is now considered void.
We wish you the best in your future endeavours and request that any further communication be made through our legal team: [email protected]
Best wishes for your recovery,
Vasily & Leonora,
Shadow Ice Representation
—
[ The translation isn't perfect but I did my best. Show this to your mother, and see what she says.
Sveta ]
———————————————————————————
The doctor is more than happy to dischage Ilya into Shane's care. Ilya is less enthused.
"You need to play, Shane."
"I don't want to play!"
"I do. I wish I could fucking play."
"Oh," Shane scoffs, rolling his eyes, "Please. You'll be back on the ice by June, we both know it. Just let me take care of you until then."
Ilya's oceanwater eyes search Shane's face, but Shane has no clue what for. He's being as open and honest as he can be, feels flayed raw, exposed and vulnerable. Ilya is maybe the only person on earth who can pull this kind of honest from him.
Only, right now, it seems like it's not enough.
"You feel guilty?" Ilya asks, eventually, but it sounds more like a demand. "You think you owe me this? I can't play, you can't play?"
It's bad form to yell at your boyfriend when he's in a hospital bed; even in Shane's limited experience, he knows this. But he can't help the incredulous bark of a laugh that leaves him when he actually processes Ilya's words.
"No, you asshole! I want to take care of you because I fucking love you, Jesus. I'm not— I'm not trying to work off some fucking debt until I can play again. I don't want to be on the ice without you."
Ilya stares at him for a second, slack-jawed, before snapping his mouth shut. And, fuck, his eyes are watery, and Shane—
"I'm sorry," He says, immediately, "I didn't… I don't want to fight. Or yell. I just want you to be okay. I want to help you get there. Okay?"
He knows, deep down, that Ilya is right. Not about feeling obligated, or anything like that, but he does have to play. His contract has nothing in it about what to do when your secret boyfriend gets shot in front of you. He knows that his mom called the front office that morning, spoke to multiple Voyageurs reps about damage control and police presence and rumours.
She hasn't told him the full extent of what they talked about yet, but her jaw was tight when she left the tiny conference room she'd been borrowing from the hospital, and she wouldn't quite meet his eyes.
It's not important. He's the best player in the fucking league. If Montreal doesn't want him because he's fucking a man, or because he wants to take care of the man he loves after he almost fucking died, he'll find another team. Shane doesn't quite believe it, yet, but he hopes that if he repeats it enough it'll start to sound true.
"Please," Shane adds, when Ilya stays quiet. "Just… I'll stay with you in Boston, if you don't want the cottage, I only suggested that because of the privacy."
"The cottage is not the issue," Ilya sniffs, which sends a wave of unexpected relief over Shane. He knows that Ilya loves it there, so much so that it only took two weeks to cement it into Shane's mind as their place. It's nice to hear it from him, though. "This is your nightmare, Shane. I do not want to be the reason it gets worse. I can look after myself until the season is over."
"This was my nightmare," Shane admits, sitting down on the edge of the thin mattress. Ilya reaches out immediately, tangling their hands together. "But then, I mean— I watched you get shot, Ilya. I was so fucking scared. All I could think about was if… If the worst happened, and no-one knew, and I would… It would kill me, too. I didn't even think about hockey. I was only thinking about you. Hockey doesn't fucking matter."
Ilya raises an eyebrow, drawing a wet laugh from Shane.
"Okay, hockey matters," He concedes, tightening his grip around Ilya's broad, strong hands. "It matters a whole fucking lot. But you matter more. Okay? If it's a choice between playing the rest of the season and making sure you're okay, helping you get to whatever okay is, then it's not a fucking choice. It's you. We'll figure the rest out."
Ilya's nose twitches in the way it does when he's trying not to cry; a movement that Shane is thrilled to notice, and that makes him want to lurch forward and kiss him until he forgets what crying even is.
He shouldn't, though, while his abdomen is still tender. That can wait. They have all of spring, and summer, too. An unprecedented amount of time in the palm of their hands, if Ilya will only hold his hand out for it.
"Okay," He says, after a few more seconds of silence. His voice is thick and shaky, pale eyelashes darkened and clumped together from unshed tears, "Fuck, Hollander. You are romantic hero now, da? My knight in ugly Voyageurs jersey?"
Shane rolls his eyes, but when the doctor comes back with Yuna in tow, Ilya signs all the discharge papers presented to him.
——————————————
tag list: @wannabetonthat @ilyasmole @sofa-king-lame @hollanovscuckchair hope yall enjoyed part one <3 more angst to come hehe
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
For the bookish ask game!
6. what books have you read in the last month?
10. do you have a guilty favourite?
15. recommend and review a book!
Thanks for the ask my friend 🥰
6.
June Reads!
*Unfix Me by Emory Weste
*Hat Trick by EM Lindsey
*Last Minute Walk-in by EM Lindsey
*Level Up by Max Walker
*Deal breaker by Maia Kinley
*Pumped by KM Neuhold
*Until Him by Cora Rose
*The Reality of Wanting my Husband by Lexi Amber and Bec Benson
*Finding Home by Lizzie C. Koz
*Stealing Forever by Lizzie C. Coz
*Until We Meet Again by Christina Lee
*Like Real People Do by EL Massey
10.
All the pleasure none of the guilt lol...perfectly secure in the fact that most of what I read is not considered high brow literature! It makes me happy and that's what matters!
15.
One of my favorite books, We Burn Beautiful by Lance Lansdale is getting an audiobook and I'm so stoked. The book is absolutely beautiful and heartwrenching but also hilarious. I cried and laughed in equal measure. God tier read IMO!
Mother's Day has always been difficult for Ilya but this year he finds comfort from someone unexpected.
Read below or on Ao3!
****
Ilya was drunk.
It took a lot to get a buzz going for a Russian who had been drinking vodka since he was fourteen, but Ilya had passed buzzed three drinks ago. He was sitting alone at some shitty bar in New York. They had lost 3-2 to the Admirals in overtime, which sucked, but that wasn't why he was drinking.
He was drinking because his heart ached.
Fuck Hollander's Instagram post with his stupid beautiful mother. Fuck the video they'd shown at the game of the players with their moms. Fuck this whole stupid holiday.
And fuck his Mama for leaving him.
He bit back a sob.
"Rozanov? You ok?"
Ilya groaned into his glass. Of course. Scott fucking Hunter.
"Go away, old man. Is past your bedtime," Ilya slurred.
"Yeah, I'm not leaving you like this."
"Is not your problem."
"No," Scott said, sliding onto the stool next to him. "But I am curious why you're alone and crying in a bar."
"Was not crying. I got vodka in my eye," Ilya lied.
"Sure you did."
Ilya scowled and lifted his glass, ready to tell Hunter exactly where he could shove his concern, but then Scott let out a long breath and scrubbed a hand down his face.
"God, I hate today."
Ilya gave him a strange look.
"Mother's Day," Scott said quietly. "Everyone always makes it such a big deal and it hurts. I lost my parents when I was twelve and it still hurts every day."
Ilya froze. The glass stilled in his hand.
"I lost my Mamochka when I was twelve."
Scott smiled at him sadly. "It's the shittiest club to be in, isn't it? The dead parents club."
Ilya let out a wet, broken laugh and sniffled. "Sometimes I am angry at her. I know this is not fair, but I miss her so much."
"I think it's okay to be angry. The anger comes from pain and loneliness." Scott said thoughtfully. "It's always there, like a dull ache. But on days like today..."
"Is a gaping wound," Ilya finished quietly.
Scott nodded.
"I am usually not like this," Ilya said, "but everything was so in your face this year. This whole big tribute, and I just sat there. Tried to hold it together. My teammates were all smiling and..."
He shook his head, unable to finish.
"It's hard," Scott said. "You don't want to bring everyone down, but it's just too much. I almost asked my coach to healthy scratch me, but it's the playoffs."
"Yes, I thought the same. Usually hockey makes me feel better." Ilya stared down into his glass. "I don't know why I am so sad. She has been gone longer than she was with me. I feel like she has missed so much."
He swallowed hard.
"I wonder if she would like the person I've become."
"What was your mom's name?" Scott asked.
"Irina," Ilya said quietly.
"Mine was Mary." Scott was quiet for a moment. "I don't know where she is today. I'm not a religious person. But I know she'd be proud of me."
He nudged Ilya's shoulder gently with his own.
"And I think Irina would be proud of you too."
"Why are you being so nice to me, Hunter?" Ilya asked.
"Because motherless lost boys stick together." Scott shrugged. "We don't have to like each other to understand each other."
"I like you," Ilya said softly.
Scott raised his eyebrows.
"Do not get smug. I will probably not remember saying this tomorrow, and if I do, I will deny. But I like you, Hunter. You are good person. Good captain."
He paused, then added, quieter:
"Good...friend."
"Thanks, Rozanov. That means a lot," Scott said.
"No, no more sappy. Have a drink and we...what is the phrase...trauma bond," Ilya said.
Scott laughed.
Ilya raised his glass. "To the shittiest club in the world."
"The shittiest club in the world," Scott echoed.
"For Mary," Ilya said.
"For Irina," Scott replied, and they clinked glasses.
They sat in silence for a while, but eventually Scott set down his empty glass and clapped a hand on Ilya's shoulder.
"Come on, Rozanov. Let's get you back to your hotel before you get more vodka in your eye."
Ilya muttered something in Russian as he stood and pulled out his phone to order an Uber.
"Hunter."
"Yeah?"
"If you tell anyone about this, I will kill you."
Scott grinned. "Wouldn't dream of it. See you around, Rozanov."
"Bye, Hunter."
Ilya opened the gallery on his phone and scrolled to the picture he was looking for. His Mamochka grinning, blue eyes shining, her arms wrapped around him as she kissed his cheek.
"I miss you," he whispered. "I love you."
And even though his heart was still broken, he suddenly felt less alone.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
It would have been easier if Alexei had just hated him. Hate is cold, impersonal. But what Alexei felt for Ilya ran deeper than hatred. It was resentment.
Alexei hadn't been blind to it. The way his father treated his mother. She was young and beautiful, and he was a dark cloud, powerful and suffocating. Even at five, Alexei felt the shift in Irina when his father entered the room. She tried to protect him from it, but he saw how Grigori would yell at her, mock her, call her terrible names. Stupid gold digger, trying to leech onto a man with a future. Irina would accept it, brush it off, tell Alexei that his father was stressed, that it was hard being such an important man.
Then Irina started talking to Alexei about where she had grown up, away from the city. About his grandparents. About the freedom of being away from all of it. He watched her pack a suitcase and hide it away, and she told him that one day they would go visit, that he had to be ready whenever she said. It would be an adventure, just the two of them.
But a few days later, his mother started feeling sick. She and Alexei went to the doctor's office, and he watched her nod, watched her eyes dull as the doctor handed her pamphlets. Then they walked home hand in hand, and when they arrived, he watched her unpack the suitcase and kiss him on the forehead.
Nine months later, Ilya arrived and sealed their fate.
I love the way you write Buck and Eddie’s friendship. I’d love to read something from around the time when Buck came out. 🥹
thank you frienddddd for sending this to me. i love love love love love the coming out scenes, and the one with eddie is so soft and loving. so this is a similar vibe, if you will. post-hospital kiss.
we'll call this one "peace after pain."
[wc: 1427]
By the time Eddie gets a slice of cake and sneaks into the hallway, Chris already back at the house with Abuela, headache receding from all the tequila and worry, it’s quiet.
The lights are dull, hospital visiting hours passed by an hour before, only the 118 and a few stragglers remain tucked into chairs lining the waiting room. They sit stacked together offering final congratulations to the happy couple before drifting apart before reuniting for their next shift.
There’s something about the ‘after’ – the way an emergency always heightens adrenaline, carries worry like wildfire, rampant and unending across harried terrain – that softens everything slowly.
Eddie’s used to the chaos – knocked up his girlfriend as a teenager and got carted off to war two times over. Lost his team in a helicopter crash that only brought their bodies home but left their minds back out in the desert. Every day the klaxon rings and every day he prays he makes it home to Christopher, waiting for the day his luck runs out.
But in the aftermath of pain is always peace.
And even if the pain carries on for hours, days – years, even – it always finds its way to peace eventually.
Today was a lucky one, one where his prayers were answered not just for his safety but for everyone he cares about. Chim survived, relatively unscathed, and found his words enough to promise forever with Maddie.
So, today, the peace soothes quickly, brings a barrage of beauty and, with it, Eddie finally feels like he can exhale.
When his eyes scan the narrow hallway, they eventually land on Buck, tucked in a corner on a bench at the end of it, Tommy slumped on his shoulder in sleep. He offers a little wave to Eddie with his free hand, the other holding a plate with cake of his own.
Eddie smiles, warmth filling the last little bits of his chest, love from Chim and Maddie blooming beside moments shared with Chris and Abula already settled there. But it’s not lost on Eddie how big this day was for Buck, too.
How hard it was for him to admit he was on a date with Tommy that night at the loft. The way he’d been so quiet, worry pinched between his eyes until Eddie finally realized he was focused on the wrong thing. Eddie hadn’t experienced something like that, himself, but he knew his job was easy.
Buck let go, and Eddie just had to catch.
When Buck disappeared after the ‘I Do’s and came back with Tommy, dragged along by his hand through the sea of people at the door, Eddie was already grinning. When he looked up and saw the soot lining Buck’s mouth, the giddy smile across his cheeks, he knew Buck made a choice that was so completely him, Eddie couldn’t be prouder.
“Hey,” he murmurs now, sinking onto the bench beside Buck. He leans over to make sure he hasn’t disrupted Tommy, but when he does Buck tosses a dismissive wave at him.
“He’s dead to the world,” Buck laughs. “Was at that wildfire the last day and a half. I don’t think you’d wake him up i-if you slapped him.”
Eddie raises his brows and teases “Or sprained his ankle?”
Buck shakes his head, rolls his eyes, and takes another bite of vanilla and buttercream. He looks happy in a way Eddie doesn’t quite remember seeing him before. Like he finally feels calm.
Peaceful.
“How’s the hangover?” Eddie asks, digging into his own slice.
Buck closes his eyes and takes a breath. “I’m gonna sleep for a day…or five.”
Eddie takes out a bottle of water he’d shoved into his pocket and cracks the seal, handing it over to Buck.
“Thank you,” Buck says before inhaling half the bottle. He offers it back to Eddie with a grimace, “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Eddie shrugs. “There’s more. You keep it.”
They eat a few more bites in quiet company, the occasional door swinging shut nearby, Maddie’s laughter drifting from across the hall. Bobby and Athena duck out and wave goodbye to the pair before heading out themselves.
When they finish, Eddie takes Buck’s plate and stacks it with his own, tossing it in a garbage nearby before settling back beside Buck.
“I’m glad he could come,” Eddie says, gesturing to Tommy.
Buck looks up at him, eyes shimmering with surprise and that alone makes Eddie’s chest ache.
Proving people care in a way Buck doesn’t think anyone does is like fighting the devil himself sometimes, thoughts so ingrained they’re burned into Buck’s bones.
“R-Really?” Buck asks. “I-I mean–”
“Well, I had a question for him about the Cheville,” Eddie says, crossing his arms over his chest.
He cares, but he is still Buck’s best friend, after all – he can’t resist the teasing.
It works and Buck chuckles, the tension in his shoulders dropping slightly, his elbow playfully jabbing into Eddie’s ribs.
Eddie turns toward him, catching his eyes so he knows Buck hears him.
“Really,” Eddie says. “I’m proud of you, man. You didn’t let all this,” he gestures to the hospital halls, rooms lined with crash carts and nurses in scrubs, “trip you up.”
“Yeah,” Buck says, the weight of everything slipping away as he sinks against the wall, Tommy going with him. “Easier to do it a-all at once.”
“I’m sure it’s not easy, but…” Eddie says, leaning against the wall beside Buck. “You seem really happy.”
Buck turns and his smile widens, tears shining in his eyes, the brightness in them dimming the last of the worry. The ache in Eddie’s chest softens at the sight.
“I am,” he says.
Eddie glances between Buck and Tommy and it’s hard to stop the smile spreading up his own cheeks. Buck’s hand is laced lightly with Tommy’s, thumb brushing absentmindedly over his knuckles.
Tommy’s a good guy – and Buck’s the best guy Eddie knows – seeing them together like this makes so much sense, Eddie’s shocked he didn’t realize it sooner himself.
“And,” he nudges Buck, “Now everyone knows. You can bitch about him leaving towels on the ground at work like you always do.”
Buck elbows him a little harder this time. “I don’t always bitch at work.”
Eddie smirks and puts his hands up, “Then how do I know everything about the way your exes left their towels around?”
“It’s not…that’s–”
“Taylor uses three towels for one shower, Eddie. And then she gets another one to wash her face!” Eddie says in his best impersonation of Buck. “I got this fancy new apartment and there’s three places to hang towels in my bathroom, Eddie. Three! And Ali just–”
“Okay,” Buck concedes, laughing himself now. “Okay, yes. Fine. I like towels to be dry, sue me.”
“It’s a thing, Buck,” Eddie says.
“It’s not a thing, it’s normal!” Buck replies without pause.
“It’s definitely a thing,” Tommy mumbles from beside Buck, pinching Buck’s ribs and sinking deeper into his shoulder. “You already yelled at me for using the wrong hook the other–”
“It was the one farthest one from the shower, Tommy!” Buck scoffs, looking to Eddie for support.
Eddie offers none, just laughs and leans over Buck to tell Tommy. “It’s his weirdest thing. That and the other thing – with gum.”
Tommy cracks one eye open and furrows his brow. “What about gum?”
Before Eddie has a chance to explain, pain spikes up his shin and he hisses, glancing to see Buck’s foot collide with it again. “Ow, jeez Buck.”
“Shut up,” Buck grits out. “I have no things.”
“Well,” Tommy smirks, “You have one thing.”
Eddie can’t let it pass by, seizing the moment and saying, “Yeah, the towel thing.”
“I’m leaving,” Buck says and starts to shove Tommy off him and slip from between them. Tommy wraps his arms around him and holds him in place with a playful whine.
“No, no, no,” he says, “We were kidding. Come back, Evan. Please, you’re so warm.”
“You were just surrounded by fire for twenty-four hours, how could you possibly want to be warm?”
Eddie inhales and takes the opportunity, standing and turning toward the couple. “I’m gonna take off. I gotta relieve Abuela so she can sleep in her own bed.”
Tommy offers a tired wave and Buck knocks fists with Eddie before he heads back toward the room to bid the happy couple farewell. The peaceful warmth that slotted into place seeing his best friend so happy carries him all the way home.
Heated Rivalry edit makers! I am desperate for someone to make a Hollanov edit to "Lie to Me" by Shane Mack. It gets me in the feels every time and I am not talented enough to do it myself 🙏🙏🙏
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
