I Am Lying In Wait

So when Shane heard that strange, soft noise, like his ears had popped on an airplane but it had happened outside of his body somehow, when he turned to see a toddler standing there where there definitely hadn’t been one before, he didn’t do any of the things he was supposed to do. He didn’t yell, he didn’t run, he didn’t question why the world he knew had suddenly pulled off a trick it shouldn’t have been able to do. 

He just blinked in understandable surprise and said, “Hello…”

Because what was one more impossible thing?

The toddler, a little blonde haired boy, was having a much more normal reaction. His sharply angled face was pale with sheer panic, his chest heaving under the thin shirt he wore, his grey eyes filling with tears. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights of a truck, trembling far too fast for it to be the chill of an early summer morning that hadn’t gotten around to warming up yet. He looked like he’d been plucked straight out of his bed, dropped next to Shane at the lake shore in his pajamas and his fluffy bedhead. 

Even if Shane had it in him to be scared right now, it would all have melted away in a moment. The kid just looked so scared, so desperately in need of someone to protect him. 

“Hey…” Shane shifted onto his knees, he’d been sitting on the little ledge where the grass gave way to smooth, grey pebbles, “It’s okay…”

The kid jerked, like it was an unpleasant shock to realise anything around him was real enough to speak. His huge eyes locked on Shane, simultaneously pleading and terrified. 

“Mama... gde moya mama…” 

Shane didn’t speak Russian, though he’d spent some of last night looking at teachers who could work over video call and who wouldn’t mind fitting into the demanding schedule of a pro hockey player. But he had gotten very, very used to hearing it, to shivering slightly at the sound of it, to replaying it over in his mind as he fell asleep. 

And he had heard that phrase before. He wasn’t about to forget them, he’d never seen Ilya so panicked. He’d bolted awake from a fitful nap he hadn’t meant to slip into, back in the tense, stressful time Shane now realised were his father’s last days. All he’d known back then was that Ilya was irritable, anxious, constantly checking his phone but his mouth twisting unhappily when it rang, so he’d been happy to let him catch up on some sleep he clearly needed. 

Shane had been making sure there would be a snack ready for when he woke up when Ilya had jerked upright, eyes wide and chest heaving. He’d stammered those Russian words over and over, only able to stop when Shane had put his hands on either side of his head and forced him to meet his eye, snapping him back into the present. 

Just a bad dream, that was all Ilya had said, just a bad dream he’d already forgotten, no reason for Shane to worry. But he’d never said what those words had meant, though of course one stuck out, enough that Shane could guess what the nightmare had been about. 

And now Shane heard those words again. Not just the same words but the same in a way that meant they’d come from the same mouth. From the same terrified child. 

Suddenly, he saw it. He saw how those wispy, baby chick curls would tighten and darken into something more like gold. He saw how those skinny arms would take on muscle and hours of skating would turn those legs from twigs into tree trunks. He saw how the shoulders would broaden and the proportions would start to come together and those eyes would learn how to hide the emotions behind them. Everything clicked and Shane could see it, he could see him.

“Ilya…” he breathed. 

The boy blinked, realising Shane knew his name but clearly not sure how to feel about that. His bare feet shifted anxiously in the damp grass, tremors running through his scrawny body. He needed to be indoors, he needed to be wrapped up warm and comforted. 

Shane swallowed, edging a little closer, tapping his own chest, “Shane. I’m Shane.”

“Shane…” God, he said it just like Ilya used to when they first met, back when his mouth wasn’t used to forming the letters, “Gde moya mama?”

“I…I don’t know where she is,” he wished he could give him an answer, that they weren’t dealing with a cosmic level impossibility that was too much for his own brain, let alone a little boy who could be no more than five years old. 

All he could give him was a hand stretched out into the space between them, a space that should have covered about twenty three years and five thousand miles, but some miracle had shrunk down to less than a meter. And he could give him the words that he’d been dying to say to Ilya for far too long, to any version of him he could from this scared little boy to the man asleep in his bed right now. The words he could say freely and, god, that knowledge would never stop staggering him. 

“It’s going to be okay, Ilya,” Shane promised with his whole heart, “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Ilya, this Ilya, had no reason to trust him. Shane had the vaguest sketch of the life he was living back home, his complete lack of that grown up little kids were supposed to have, the one who would fight for them and protect them and always be there. There was no reason for him to believe he’d found that person here, somewhere so unfamiliar, so far outside the city or country or even time he belonged in. 

But maybe Shane just had a soft, open face now he was in love. Maybe all the time he’d spent with Hayden’s kids had paid off. Maybe this was an Ilya who hadn’t been hurt quite so many times. Maybe soulmates really were real and, even without all the growing and changing they’d done in the years since that gray, snowy day in Saskatchewan, something in Ilya leaned towards something in Shane. 

Maybe today was just the day where impossible things happened. 

Whatever the reason, the younger version of Ilya only hesitated for a moment before rushing into Shane’s arms. He clung to him with a desperation that was far too big and hungry for someone so small, stifling a sob against Shane’s Metros shirt. 

“It’s okay,” Shane said again, wrapping his arms tightly around him, rocking him gently the way his mom would always do for him, “I promise, it’s all okay. You’re safe.”

Shane didn’t know how this had happened. He had no idea what to do about it. But he would make those words true. 

-

Shane was really bad at guessing the ages of little kids, no matter how long he spent around his teammates’ families. They all just went in the same mental box of ‘small’ and it wasn’t like he could ask this little Ilya how old he was. But as he carried him up to the cottage, he felt around the same weight as Arthur had last time, before he’d decided he was too big to be carried around by Uncle Shane. So two maybe? Three?

Except baby Ilya clung to Shane like he was never going to let go, enough that it was a bit of a struggle to set him down on the counter. Shane had to stay within sight or the toddler would make the most heartwrenching noise, like he was stifling a sob, devastated but trying to hide it. Like something inside him believed he wasn’t allowed to cry, even when he was so scared and so far from home.

“Juice? Would you like some of that?” Shane showed baby Ilya the carton of orange juice, wracking his brain for any time the grown up Ilya had said the word in Russian. 

The toddler scrubbed a little fist against his eyes, shaking his head, “Mne ne nravitsya apel'sin. Mne nravitsya yabloko.”

“Apple? You want apple juice instead?” Shane eagerly grasped the few familiar sounds, swapping out the cartons and being rewarded with a watery little smile and a nod.

Even while he desperately wished he’d paid more attention to how Jackie and Hayden acted around their kids, Shane couldn’t help feeling a little burst of pride once Ilya was sipping on a glass of apple juice clasped in his hands, skinny legs swinging over the edge of the kitchen counter. That smile felt like something more precious than the two Stanley cups he’d held up above his head. He wanted to give this kid the world, if he could, but he supposed a nice cool glass of juice was a good start. 

“Are you cold, Ilya?” he asked, pantomiming shivering and rubbing his arms, “You need a blanket?”

A little frown creased his brow, the beginnings of what would one day be the scowl that stopped rinkside reporters in their tracks, “Ilyusha.”

“Oh. Ilyusha. That’s your name?”

His nod was so insistent it sent his fluffy curls bouncing and made him look even more like a dandelion, terrifyingly close to blowing away in a breeze, “Mama nazyvayet menya Ilyushey.”

“I gotcha,” Shane felt his heart clench at that other familiar word, hoping it didn’t show in his smile, “Ilyusha.”

“Da?”

The same voice answered him but deeper, older, thick with sleep. Shane and Ilyusha both jumped, heads whipping around to where Ilya stood, slumped in the doorway and clearly less than one foot in consciousness. His eyes were bleary, mouth stretched in a jaw aching yawn so he matched the bear roaring on his chest, curls stiff and sticking up wildly. He looked peaceful, unwound. Very unaware that the whole world had shifted, splintered and a piece of his own past had fallen through the crack. 

Shane opened his mouth quickly, hoping that a perfect explanation for what was going on would just tumble out, something that would keep Ilya from having the reaction any normal person would have and scaring the life out of Ilyusha. 

But a soft noise and the feeling of a tiny body pressing against his own made Shane realise it was too late. Ilyusha was already terrified. 

“Net, papa, net, prosti menya…” his voice wavered like a note played on a string about to snap, scrubbing his face against the back of Shane’s shirt like he was trying to burrow into his skin. 

“I…what?” Shane wrapped his arms around Ilyusha instinctively, his body shifting to protect him even if he didn’t know what from, “Hey, it’s okay, what's wrong?”

“He thinks I am my father.”

Ilya’s voice was flat, like it was being crushed flat under the weight of the sorrow it carried. Shane flinched, suddenly torn between which version to rush too and comfort, frozen helplessly in the middle. Any half formed explanation he’d managed to pull together turned into a sour pang on his tongue. 

“Ilya…”

“What is happening, Shanya?” 

Ilya didn’t sound angry or panicked or on the verge of a breakdown. He just sounded desperately sad. Like he’d been reminded of a very old grief, one he thought he’d left behind but realised now it could still rip him wide open. Again, Shane felt like he was going to rip down the seams of himself, one half pulled towards Ilyusha’s muffled sobs and one half to Ilya’s cold, constricted misery. 

He hated this. He hated that both ends of his lover’s timeline were like this, that they were both lost and scared and alone. Shane didn’t know why this was happening, he didn’t have an answer. He didn’t know how he’d ended up with two versions of Ilya Rozanov standing in front of him. 

But he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. 

Shane shifted, easing Ilyusha into his arms so he could close the distance between the three of them and ignore the little voice in the back of his head that wondered if the universe might collapse. 

“Ilyusha? Look again, this isn’t your papa. It’s you. It’s my Ilya.”

There was a pause, a hesitation, but the little boy slowly pulled his face out of Shane’s collar and glanced furtively over at Ilya. As wary grey eyes darted up and down, his body gradually relaxed in Shane’s arms, his sobs becoming steadier sniffles. 

“I know that doesn’t make any sense,” Shane looked over at Ilya too, his own eyes pleading, begging for a crack in the wall his love had thrown up between them, “But I don’t think it’s a bad thing. It’s weird and impossible but…but not bad.”

Ilya’s mouth twisted a little. Clearly he’d always thought of his past as firmly bad, something to push away and bury until it couldn’t reach him anymore. Not to look in the eyes and welcome into his here and now, to his and Shane’s long, golden summer now they were finally in love.

“I just want to take care of him until we figure out whatever the fuck is going on,” Shane hugged Ilyusha closer, “He’s scared and I just…I want to help him.”

Something in Ilya shifted at that, the fissure Shane had been hoping for, that little crack for light to shine through. 

“Of course you do,” Ilya sighed softly, his shoulders dropping and mouth twitching into a tight, tired smile like he was wondering when this freckled Canadian was going to stop surprising him, “Of course you do, Shane.”

Pride thudded through Shane’s chest so hard it hurt. He kissed him, hard and quick, hoping it felt like a promise. 

“Always will,” he smiled, “Um…can you ask him if he’s hungry? I don’t know how.”

Ilya snorted, “Ah, what, you want me to hold him so you can go Duolingo real quick? Become fluent in ten minutes?”

“I mean, I’ve got a pretty good streak going. I think I could do it in five.”

“Of course you do. Asshole.”

The two of them glanced at Ilyusha with the sudden, wincing panic of adults who’ve just sworn around tiny, sensitive ears they forgot were in the room. But Ilyusha just looked back at them, eyes wide and a little awed. His pudgy little hand stayed bunched in Shane’s shirt, like he was fascinated by what was in front of him but didn’t want to lean too close. 

Shane felt another painful squeeze in his chest. How many times had Ilyusha seen the adults in his life laughing together, kissing, touching gently? Not enough that it wasn’t a novelty. 

Ilya sighed gently and spoke in soft, fluid Russian, the same way he spoke to Svetlana on the phone. It came naturally, without effort, not choppy and considered like his English had to be. Shane’s resolve perked up. It would take him longer than five minutes but, god damn it, he would be able to hold a conversation with Ilya by this time next year.

Ilyusha relaxed even more, the soft tone chasing away any lingering worries that this was his father. He nodded, curls bouncing, his mouth quivering into a hopeful smile. 

“Give him some grapes,” Ilya chuckled, folding his arms, “Much sweeter than the ones he gets back home, they will blow his mind.”

“Got it,” Shane smiled. 

-

Twenty minutes later Shane was sitting on the edge of the lake again. But he wasn’t alone this time. 

Ilyusha sat in the hollow of his folded legs, munching his way through a bowl of quartered grapes. He was delighted by the loons that were now gathering on the water, hooting back to them whenever their calls would echo over. Ilya rolled his eyes at the significant look Shane gave him, shoving his own grapes into his mouth so he wouldn’t have to justify why his toddler self found them funny instead of scary. 

Ilyusha asked a question, his tenth in as many minutes. Now he wasn’t scared any more, he’d become quite the chatterbox. Ilya answered patiently, smiling a little. 

“He asked if we live here. You and me,” he translated, nudging Shane’s shoulder as they side side by side, “I said no…but I’d like to. Maybe one day.”

Shane felt a happy flutter in his chest, picturing that. A future where this was their cottage, not just his. Where they spent every off season as a real, proper couple, not just snatching a few secret weeks. Where he woke up to Ilya beside him every morning and didn’t have to wonder when they’d get to be this close again. 

Where they had a kid sat with them that wasn’t a perfect copy of Ilya but was pretty damn close. Just a touch of Shane’s genetics too. At least in the hockey department. 

“Maybe,” he murmured, tucking his smile into Ilyusha’s curls, hugging him close. 

“Maybe,” Ilyusha repeated, sounding out the word carefully, his whole face lighting up when Shane grinned and applauded. 

“Show off,” Ilya muttered but he was smiling too, eyes softer now when they looked at his younger self. 

Hopefully he was seeing a little of what Shane saw. 

“This might be a stupid question,” he hummed as Ilyusha snuggled into his arms and gave a huge, jaw cracking yawn, “But you don’t have a memory of being randomly teleported to Ottawa when you were five, do you?”

Ilya cocked his head, “No, Shane. I would have mentioned that at some point. Probably when I first saw in you Saschetchawan, I would not have said ‘okay’, I would have said ‘holy shit, you are the cute freckled man who fed me grapes, funny seeing you here.’” 

Shane nudged him back, as hard as he could without jostling Ilyusha, who was clearly falling asleep in his arms. Understandable, he had been plucked out of bed after all.

“Alright, alright, fair. Just thought it was worth asking.”

Ilya nodded, his eyes drifting back to his younger face, “I know. I do not understand any of this, Shane.”

“Me neither,” he admitted, “And I know I should be panicking, I mean, I lose my goodman mind if I’m wearing the wrong socks. But…I guess this never struck me as wrong?” 

Ilya leaned in close, until his head was resting on Shane’s shoulder and one arm could slip through his, “I think you are right. This is a gift. A very, very weird gift…and if anyone needs it, it’s that kid.”

Shane felt that familiar urge to ask questions, to take the things he loved and crack them open so he could examine every inch and know everything there was to know. But Ilya wasn’t hockey or architecture or exercise regimens, he was a person and Shane had learned not to pry. He would tell him when he was ready to, like he’d told him about his mother the night before. 

All Shane had to do was be there, by his side. And that was something he would do happily. 

There was that same popping sound, the sound of pressure equalising, of the world turning itself right again. The weight against Shane’s chest suddenly disappeared, making him jump. 

“Wait…what…” he blinked rapidly, staring in shock at his own empty arms, embracing nothing. 

Ilya sat up, “Oh…I guess he went home?”

“Do you think?” Shane’s voice came out tight and strangled, “What if he went somewhere else? What if he ended up somewhere alone and he’s scared…”

Ilya made a soft, soothing noise, pulling Shane against him and filling the gap left between his shaking arms. 

“I am here, yes? I am safe? So Iyusha must be safe too,” he murmured, his voice a soothing rumble against Shane’s ear, “He will be in Moscow, tucked up in bed with his stuffed dog.”

“You’re right,” Shane felt the reality of those words sink in, easing the panicky itching in his chest, “...a stuffed dog, huh?”

“Mm. I called her Laika.” 

“That’s adorable…” Shane sat back on his heels, rubbing at the tears building in his eyes, “I just want him to be okay.”

Ilya grimaced a little, “He will not always be okay. But everything is leading him here. To you. To being happy. I am grateful for that.”

Shane smiled at that, even as fresh tears trickled down his face, “Me too…”

He didn’t know what lay ahead of him and Ilya either. He was sure some of it wouldn’t be okay, a lot of it was probably going to be very hard. After all, the hockey world still saw them as rivals who hated each other to the bone, convincing them otherwise felt like something impossible. When he thought about everything they were facing, the promises they’d made here felt so small.

But Shane was sure, however long it took, whatever it cost, this would lead somewhere good.