#finished fic

Anyways, I like adding peices of dialog that the characters have said before, it's fun little Easter eggs, plus it makes them feel more in character to me.

I've added a lot of details that Markiplier explained in his Wilford 'Motherlovin' Warfstache explanation as well.

Like how Wilford doesn't do any of his reality warping intentionally, he doesn't even realize he's doing it.

The other characters realize that things shift unnaturally, but Wilford never acknowledges it. (If he does in my fic, ignore it it's a mistake)

And if you pay attention, I didn't add any exact time frames, like how In writing they'd be like "a few minutes later" or "after about an hour".

I only added rough estimates like "after a little" and "they spent some time." Because in the world Wilford is in, time doesn't work like normal, so I just kept exact times out of it.

Anyways, that's enough yapping outta me

He figured it would be a little weird. He’d be sluggish from his awful night, but the moment Shane looked to his right, found Ilya there, and smiled at him, it was like Ilya found a hidden trove of energy. He was zipping down the ice, all exhaustion exercised from his body. Shane’s smile was laced in exhilaration. Any hesitation or fear was replaced by the euphoria of it just being them and the ice, their sticks, and the puck as they kept up with each other, racing toward the net.

Ilya always knew that Shane could keep up with him. They were always fighting for the puck when they were against one another, but now that they were on the same side, they were playing a completely separate game where it was just the two of them against the world.

Shane was right where Ilya needed him. He didn’t have to slow down or change up his method. Shane was where he was supposed to be. And Ilya was right beside him.

They had been at the top together for such a long time, battling it out for awards, for first draft, for first place, but maybe they were always supposed to be there together. Making their way up to the very peak of the tallest point of the mountain and building something everlasting. Something that was entirely their own – a dynasty that would be talked about for decades.

Shane slid the puck toward Ilya for the first shot of the game. The shot he took was at an odd angle and was easily blocked by the goalie, the Finnish one Shane had been talking to at breakfast and who Ilya had talked to once about Canada’s drinking water of all things.

When they skated down to the other end of the ice to switch lines, Shane said, “Nice try.” There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm or disdain. There wasn’t the hatred Ilya thought he fully deserved.

He even flashed Ilya a gentle smile. Just a hint of his lips upturned into something private and only for Ilya.

Shane grabbed his water bottle before they were due back on the ice and sat down at the far end of the bench, chugging it.

Ilya followed him, forgetting about his own water bottle despite the sweat pouring from him. There were a few guys around them, but they were focused on the game. The cheering from the stands echoed all around them. He thought he heard a few people throw out his name, but he only had eyes for Shane.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya muttered, hoping Shane could hear him over the loud cheering.

Shane’s eyes found his before turning back to the ice. “It was just a missed shot. No big deal.”

Ilya sat down heavily beside him and lowered his voice even more. Mike Brophy was sitting almost right behind him, although he was watching the game intently and Eddie Muran sat a little ways down the bench alternating between chugging a Gatorade and a water.

“I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve—”

“Ilya, I get it. You don’t—”

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Ilya admitted. “About what—”

“Hey man, it’s just a missed goal,” Brophy said putting his hands on both of their shoulders. He was giving them an encouraging smile. Shane ducked his head on the pretense of taking another sip of water, but Ilya noticed the nervous darting of his eyes. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Rozanov. There will be another chance.”

Ilya shook Brophy off and hoped that the heat blossoming on his cheeks was assumed to be from the exertion of the game.

“Did you have any water?” Shane asked once Brophy had knocked their helmets together and hurried over the boards as the third line went out.

“No.”

Shane pressed his water bottle into Ilya’s thigh and offered up an encouraging smile. He had been so caring during Ilya’s rut and not just in a sexual way. He’d tidied, and cleaned up the mess Ilya left behind, especially with the picture Ilya had knocked from the wall. He’d cuddled with Ilya and brought him electrolytes to stay hydrated. It was the most caring anyone had been to him in a very long time. And Ilya wanted it to last forever. Now he was offering him water and a gentle smile as if to say, ‘it’s okay, I got you.’

Why was Ilya willing to give Shane up?

Why wasn’t he trying harder to keep this fragile beautiful thing alive between them?

There were a million reasons to push Shane away, to let him go, but there was just one reason to say ‘yes’ and fight for what he wanted. To choose who he wanted.

Ilya smiled back and took the offered water bottle. When Shane passed it over, Ilya made sure to touch his gloved fingers over Shane’s. He looked away, his cheeks brighter than ripe cherries and Ilya knew it wasn’t from the game.

All those years ago when they were in the hotel gym after the draft and Ilya had handed his own water bottle to Shane, he had almost the same exact look on his face.

How could Ilya have ever thought he was done with Shane Hollander? How could he have thought that he was going to move on? Shane was his future. He was his past. And he was his present.

Shane really had ruined Ilya, and he’d ruined him years and years ago. Ilya was just too slow to realize it. Until now.

“First line, get ready,” Coach called out.

“You good?” Shane asked popping in his mouthguard. It shouldn’t have been as sexy as Ilya found it, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the way Shane’s teeth found the grooves in the protective plastic. Ilya carefully set the water bottle down and followed him. He was always going to follow him, wasn’t he?

“Yes,” Ilya said, and he meant it in more ways than one.

Part one

Part two