“is there anything so undoing as a daughter”

Not often. Maybe only a couple of times. Maybe only once.

Some brutal fucking game where Shane cracked his fucking head on the ice hard enough that Ilya swore he felt it through the ice. The visor on his fucking helmet snapped off. His ears rang and his head swam but he didn't lose consciousness, his eyes were dilating fine. The trainers kept him back for half a period but eventually had to let him back out on the ice because someone complaining that much and talking that lucidly was probably alright. And he is, he is actually alright, but by the time the adrenalin of the game is gone and by the time he's done self-flagellating for the fact that, after all of that shit, Boston won by one point--by the time that's done, he's tired. His head aches. And this is the last time he gets to see Ilya, maybe, before playoffs ramp up and they don't speak for awhile. So of course he still goes to Ilya's place and of course he lets Ilya kiss him hard in the doorway, though he can't help the slight Ah, ah that comes out of his mouth when Ilya does his normal thing and fists a hand in his hair.

"Oh, oh, your head." Ilya says this far too gently and far too sweetly, like one might to an animal or child. Because Ilya is a little like the Big Bad Wolf and at times speaks with a voice not his own. Sometimes he opens his mouth but what comes out isn't his normal voice, deep and sexy and sometimes crude. At times he speaks with a different voice enirely--soft, higher. Call it loving, if it wasn't Ilya fucking Rozanov.

(This is because Ilya Rozanov is a loverboy at heart, always has been. Shane doesn't know this yet.)

"It's fine," Shane mutters, already searching for Ilya's mouth again. "Come on. Come on."

And Ilya obliges him, slots their mouths back together and slots his hands behind Shane's thighs to lift, and Shane loves that. He always does. He would never ever tell Rozanov, but he fucking loves submitting to him in that way--giving over his entire body as something to be picked up, moved around. This instrument of his that he keeps so finely tuned, and when he's with Ilya it doesn't belong to him anymore. It feels so fucking good, every time.

It feels especially good tonight, when all he's heard for hours is Fuck Hollander that one was bad. Careful with that head man we're gonna need it. That one was nasty, you sure you're good. Gotta be careful man.

Ilya says absolutely none of this. Ilya hauls him to the bedroom and tilts onto the bed, landing on it widthwise with Shane under him. He kisses Shane's stomach and hips as he takes off his pants for him and then he rests his chin in Shane's bush as he smiles and says, "You have headache, hm? I see you squint."

"A little. It's fine."

"You know what's good for headache?" Ilya kisses him twice, once in the hip, once on the stomach, low enough that Shane feels the suction of the kiss at the base of his dick.

"What?" Shane whispers, arms over his head and knees dropped onto the bedspread.

"Orgasm," Ilya says simply. "Releases chemicals, makes you feel good. I'll make you feel good, okay? See if that headache goes away."

And Ilya, as always, makes him feel good. But only after he puts a pillow behind Shane's head and a pillow under his hips and asks him if he's comfortable. And Shane would roll his eyes and accuse him of patronizing him, making fun of him for taking the hit, if there wasn't something different in Rozanov's eyes tonight. He kneels between Shane's legs and looks down at him, hands massaging Shane's thighs, and he looks unbearably handsome. Shane tells him so.

"Are you gonna fuck me?" Shane murmurs, when the staring and the touching has gone on for a very long time.

"Mm-hm. Yes." Ilya kisses his belly again, presses his forehead there. Says something that might be So beautiful or Pretty boy or even My baby. Shane decides it's not for his ears and doesn't listen, and then makes himself forget he ever heard it.

Ilya fucks him for absolute ages and says things like Feel good? Nice for you? Nice full feeling in your tummy? How is your head, baby, feel better? And Shane doesn't know why it doesn't feel condescending, why it feels so fucking good to let Ilya handle him this way when they normally snarl and bite at each other after games like the one tonight and like it that way. He doesn't know why this version of Ilya's control over him feels so right and fucking special.

Shane comes twice. Once with Ilya's hand around his cock, hand fisted in Ilya's perfect hair, Ilya grunting into his neck, the beautiful sensation of Ilya's thick cock twitching inside him, ideal in almost every way. Once a little later, in Ilya's mouth after he'd come and tied off the condom and got back in bed and kissed his way slowly down Shane's body from his shoulder to his hip. A gentle, soundless orgasm that Ilya swallowed down without comment before he rested his cheek on Shane's hip and dozed for a little while.

Shane taps his chin because it's getting late and he's going to miss curfew.

"I will pay your fine," Ilya mutters next to Shane's balls.

"Bad idea," Shane mumbles. There's a beat of silence, and then he says, "We probably shouldn't...do it like that again."

Ilya, after a moment, only nods.

It's the closest they come to talking about it. The way that it gets just a bit too real sometimes. The way that they let it keep happening, each of them making eye contact with it and then plucking their own eyes out just to forget its shape.

At the door, Ilya says, "Your head feels better, yes?"

And Shane says, "Yeah, you took good care of me."

And Ilya puffs up, proud of himself, then kisses the side of Shane's head while Shane resists the urge to say Fuck, Rozanov, what did I just say, because he wants it. Goddamn it, he fucking wants it and he's tired of denying himself.

Troy: Say it. Out loud. Say it.

and when shane finally does get a girlfriend when they're like eighteen, ilya seduces and fucks her. he thinks about shane the entire time and is absolutely furious with himself about it. he casually tells shane about it like a week later because as angry as he is at himself for doing something so terrible, he's equally angry at shane for making him feel this way and it makes him want to be cruel.

hang it in the louvre

I might translate this article later today. This one was the most complete one, even in Italian news it's not talked about that much.

@yearnalisms requested to bring this beautiful text post by @honeyybrii to gif form! all inspo credit to op of the text post! 💜 this tag is especially a good sum up of the set:

not because he's a baby a la classic man cold

but because he will AGGRESSIVELY try to pretend he is not sick

he is trying to gaslight others but ALSO himself

he has a gold medal immune system thank you he did NOT get taken down by ill pikeling spreading Elementary School Plague to him

not happening

as an itty bitty he lied so he wouldn't have to skip hockey, and that has NOT changed as an adult

his true toxic trait is that he WILL be typhoid mary in that locker room if it means he doesn't have to stay home and miss playing

like. no one else on the team understands Hollander Illness Behavior yet, so they're teasing ilya about being overprotective because shane is SO underplaying it and meanwhile ilya is just, "no, i am so fucking serious. get a medic and then call an ambulance."

and shane who is barely on this realm of existence and about 0.2 seconds from having Involuntary Floor Time is just, "don't worry :) i'll just take an advil or something :)"

"okay," shane says, after their plan has taken crude shape. the details will come later, after they put their phones down. "okay," he repeats, firmer. then soft again, "I'll see you soon."

ilya feels his strings get cut. he leans against a wall. "see you soon, shane."

svetlana is back in the living room when ilya returns. she whips around on the couch, phone in hand, says, "what the fuck did scott hunter do when I left the room? for five minutes?"

it's a rhetorical question. the tv broadcast has—for now—moved onto highlights of the actual game, but she has her social media open on her phone. ilya makes a vague, loose gesture with his shoulder. "kissed his pretty boyfriend on the ice."

she swears quietly, engrossed again in her feed. "unbelievable. it's your fault I missed it, ilya. your niece's gift is in your suitcase," she adds distractedly. it is. the whale plushie sitting atop the stack of kids' novels sitting atop his serviceably folded clothes. not as neat as hollander's always are. ilya runs his thumb over the edge of his phone case.

"svetlana."

"mm."

"I will not be going to russia."

she breaks from her phone. frowns at him. "what do you mean?"

"I have to be somewhere else."

"where?"

"ottawa."

blinking green eyes. svetlana knows him better than anyone on this planet. he sees her gears turning. there is nothing on the surface of his life that would take him to a place like ottawa, nothing even on the deeper layers svetlana has almost exclusive access to. but there are few things about him that she is completely unaware of. what he has refused to lay bare for her she's deduced the shape of anyway, purely from the nature of his refusals. he sees her eyes flick to the tv. an ad for beer is playing. that's not what she's thinking of.

"is it for a person."

she says more than asks it. either way ilya responds, "yes."

"jane."

"yes."

she lifts her chin, slowly. "montreal jane who is from ottawa." they look at each other, ilya doesn't speak. eventually she shakes her head. "shane hollander, ilya? really?"