#luna.writing

Ilya smiles again, tight and anxious, and all of Shane's impulse control flies out of the window.

"Mom, why don't you and dad just book flights for yourselves?" He says, hoping that she'll get the message. Ilya is tired, and hurting, and probably wants nothing less than spending seven hours cramped in a car with his boyfriend's parents. "I'm on dad's insurance. I'll leave my car in Ilya's garage and drive yours back up, meet you guys at the house?"

They're getting increasingly desperate in their plans to get out of Boston, but they don't need to say it for it to be true: Ilya can't go home. It's a crime scene, to start with, still covered in police tape and flocked in reporters and news vans. Something horrible happened to him there, and Shane doubts either of them will be able to sleep in Ilya's bed knowing his blood was still staining the kitchen tiles.

He knows he made the right choice when Ilya squeezes his hand on the comforter.

———————

NHL STAR ILYA ROZANOV RELEASED FROM HOSPITAL AFTER HORROR SHOOTING WITH BOYTOY IN TOW

by TMZ staff | February 16th 2018 | Sports & Entertainment | More like this

[IMAGE DESCRIPTION: Ilya Rozanov leaves the front entrance of Boston General Hospital wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. He's followed closely by Shane Hollander and his parents, David and Yuna Hollander.]

[IMAGE DESCRIPTION: Shane Hollander holds open the door of a green Audi as Ilya Rozanov climbs inside.]

ILYA ROZANOV WAS SPOTTED this morning leaving Boston General after the horror shooting that almost killed him. The hockey star, 26, is a Russian national and star player for the Boston Bears, although our sources inside the hospital have thrown his future career prospects into debate.

"The shooting was bad," Said one anonymous source, "It's possible he'll never play again. You only see these kinds of wounds in mafia cases, organised crime, that kind of thing. It was intended to ruin his career, in my opinion."

Another source close to the Rozanov family expressed concern about his older brother's gambling problems. "He's got a bookie on every continent. It wouldn't surprise me if this had something to do with him. Ilya tends to find trouble wherever he goes."

Trouble indeed, as he was followed out of the hospital by his alleged boyfriend and sports rival Shane Hollander. This is the news that has everyone talking, even moreso than the shooting and the potential end of Rozanov's career. Not only is he gay, but he's gay for… His rival?

It's the stuff of soap operas. An unnamed Voyageurs contact let us know that to them, this isn't news.

"Everyone knows that Hollander is gay. He came out to his team a few months ago, and the guys weren't happy. You don't want to share a locker room, share a shower, with a guy who might be jerking off to it later."

[IMAGE DESCRIPTION: A grainy paparazzi shot of Yuna Hollander ruffling Ilya Rozanov's hair through the open car door as he settles in the back seat.]

As for his romance with ra-ra-Rozanov, our Montreal source told us: "Yeah, it's f**** weird, but I guess it makes sense. He probably lets the ********** win if he promises to f*** him after the game, or something."

Strong words from the Montreal camp, and radio silence from Rozanov's Russia-based team. Is this the end of the ice hockey captain's career? Is he chasing trouble across the border to the Great White North? Time will tell!

TMZ reached out to Rozanov and Hollander's teams and received no response.

—————-

The drive is uncomfortable, but it passes fairly quickly. Traffic isn't too bad, and Ilya sleeps for most of it, startling awake every hour when Shane jostles him awake. They'd said goodbye to Shane's parents a few blocks away from Ilya's apartment building; Shane had paid for their cab to the airport, and they'd embraced the both of them tightly, insisting that they call if they need anything.

Getting Ilya's stuff was a little more difficult, with the reporters staking the place out, but Shane managed to get in and out without having to hit anyone. Ilya had written him a list on his phone; clothes, documents, his passport and visa. A startingly small collection of things, but Ilya had never seemed to keep much close, anyway.

One of the officers posted up outside the apartment let him through, and Shane all but sprinted past the kitchen and up the stairs to Ilya's room, stomach in knots.

Everything was easy enough to locate, his clothes and underwear and the folder full of his documents and contracts. Shane filled the duffel bag quickly and preciesly, and threw in a few extra pairs of pyajamas, workout clothes, sneakers. Some PlayStation games, a framed picture of Ilya and his mother. And, at the last minute, he snagged a pillow from the bed.

The pillow still had an indent from where he'd slept on it a few nights ago. Had it only been two days? How was that possible? Well, it didn't matter. The next stop was the bathroom; Shane swept Ilya's array of hair products and skincare and fancy lotions and bodywashes into a seperate bag, dropping his toothbrush in for good measure. Finally, Shane grabbed his own suitcase from the hallway, and made his exit.

A few journalists caught him on the way out, but Shane had nothing to say to the vultures intent on blowing their lives up. Sunglasses on, head down, he pushed through the crowd until he was back at the car.

Now, as Shane pulls up into the dark driveway of the cottage, he can't help but feel like they got away with something. With what, he doesn't quite know.

"Ilya," he jostles him gently, hand on Ilya's shoulder, "Baby. Wake up."

"No, Shane. I do not have blood clot, just keep driving."

"Driving where?" Shane teases, and presses a kiss to his jaw because he can, "No, we're here. C'mon."

"Home already?" Ilya mumbes, and Shane's heart clenches in his chest. It's almost certainly just a combination of the painkillers and heavy sleep, but still. Hearing Ilya call the cottage home makes his stomach flip, because it's been home to him, too, since he built it.

"Yeah. I'm gonna take the bags in, I'll be back in a sec, okay?"

Ilya doesn't even take his seatbelt off; just nods into the pillow and closes his eyes again.

Shane jogs up to the front door, unlocking it quickly and speedwalking through the entryway and living room, flipping lights on as he goes. It makes him nervous in a way that coming to the cottage never has, walking into each dark room and turning on the light, like he expects to see someone there already. A space filled where it should be empty.

It's not something he's ready to look too deep into, yet.

It takes two trips to get all of their bags into the hallway, and on the third he shuts the trunk as gently as possible and moves around to the passenger side. It's not hard to get Ilya unbuckled, and from there it's just an arm around Shane's shoulder, and he's carrying all 200lbs of his big, beautiful boyfriend.

"Silly," Ilya mutters, still only half-conscious. Shane doesn't feel silly. Ilya needs to rest, and he's sore, and Shane can carry him. He'd carry him around for the rest of their lives, if he had to, if Ilya asked him to. It's a privilige, and it's not one that Shane takes lightly.

"I love you," Shane says sternly, arranging him carefully on the couch and dropping down heavily beside him. "It's not silly to me."

——————

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]

Good Afternoon,

This is a courtesy email to confirm that all contact regarding Mr. Rozanov's NHL career (including his IR status, media, and any other obligations covered under his contract) are to be forwarded to myself as his interim manager.

Regards,

Yuna Hollander, MBA

—————

The morning is lazy, as time spent at the cottage often is. The adrenaline has left Shane's system, and he crashes hard immediately. They sleep for near ten hours in each other's arms, bundled up in bed, Shane being careful not to jostle Ilya's stitches.

They only wake when Shane's chirping alarm demands that Ilya take his pharmacy's worth of pills, and Ilya dutifully swallows down the antibiotics and painkillers ant anti-inflammatory medications as directed. They fall back into bed immediately, and when they wake up again, the sun is hanging heavy at the top of the sky.

At the cottage, the peace they find always feels earned. It's no different now, but when Shane sits down beside Ilya at the kitchen counter, freshly showered, there's a new kind of tension in the air.

"They won't do it," Ilya says, staring down at the granite of the counter. He's so still that Shane is scared to touch him, like there's a marble statue sitting where his boyfriend should be. "I mean, it just… They won't. They wouldn't."

"Has Svetlana said anything else?"

Ilya shakes his head. His phone sits between them, face-down; they've both had the good sense to avoid social media since they left the hospital, but Shane's already been ignoring calls from his coach, and Svetlana had texted Ilya earlier that morning in a panic. Or as close to panic as Svetlana ever gets, which was enough to shake Ilya.

Apparently her father, an ex-soviet goaltender turned minister in the Kremlin, had warned her that the news wasn't being well-received in Moscow. There was talk of revoking Ilya's passport, with a committee coming together that afternoon to discuss whether it would be worth trying to have a national hero deported and charged for "spreading propaganda."

Shane didn't really understand, at first, but Ilya had been kind and patient, if uncharacteristically somber, when he explained it all. In Russia, he'd said, it's not illegal to be gay. But it is illegal to promote "non-traditional sexual dispostions," and with Ilya's fame and status amplified tenfold in his home country, well. They might want to keep their enemies closer.

"Shane," Ilya says, and the cut of his voice through the silent kitchen makes him jump. "I really want a fucking cigarette."

"You can't."

"I know. But I want one."

"Well, you can't. Nicotine is, like, really fucking bad for you after surgery. The doctor said I can't let you—"

"I know, sweetheart."

Shane slumps forwards as if the pet name alone had sucked all the life out of him; the counter is cool beneath his forearms.

"What do we do?" He asks, eyes on the individual grains splitting through the counter. It's polished granite, slate gray with lighter, marble-like streaks. His decorator said it was timeless. All Shane knows is that it's a fucking pain to clean.

It feels wrong to be asking Ilya what to do, like he's failing at some important part of being a boyfriend

"Svetlana says I should go back to Boston. Is better for my visa if Immigration does not think I am… Dangerous, ah, going to run?"

"A flight risk."

"Yes, this. If Russia revoke my passport, then it could void my visa. I do not think they would deport me, but…"

"Anything can happen," Shane finishes for him. If there's anything he's learned over the past fucking decade, it's that anything can happen. You could be drafted into the NHL, start fucking your rival, fall in love with him, watch him get shot right in front of you.

"They won't do it," Ilya repeats, but he sounds more like he's trying to convince himself than he is Shane.

They lapse into silence again, sitting shoulder to shoulder at the counter.

Ilya remains half-convinced and half-hopeful that nothing will actually happen, but Shane isn't willing to take the chance.

Technically, there's no problem, not really— Svetlana has already offered her empty penthouse apartment to them, since she's still in Russia and Ilya's apartment is still a fucking crime scene.

Ilya still can't fly, so they have to make the near 5-hour drive back to where they started. Initially, the plan is to stay another night at the cottage and then drive back, but Shane was so obviously nervous that Ilya caved almost instantly, and by midnight they're back in the fucking States.

——————

ROSE INTERACTED x3 @rosieposiess

okay i finally listened to the 911 call and i actually feel sick. like that's so fucking scary, he sounds terrified. to think that could've been rosie….

⤷ angela @golesbiansgo

??? in what world would rose landry be in ilya rozanov's boston apartment??

HOCKEY NEWS TODAY @hntoday

SHANE HOLLANDER GAY? Rumours that male voice identified as 'Shane' in Rozanov shooting call are apparently being taken seriously by NHL upper management, according to anonymous sources.

⤷ DREWSKI @bardownboy

There are literally pictures of them leaving the fucking hospital together bro who cares if he sucks dick montreal need the cup this year

evie <3 @puckeruphollzy

like obviously its shane on the call u can hear that its him NOT TO MENTION THE HOSPITAL PAP PICS (he looks so good in protective mode ugh) but??? jesus fucking christ his boyfriend almost died can we hve some tact please

⤷ Johno123 @bigjohn1976

We don't need more homos in the league its Bad enough with scott hunter shoving it down everyones thoats every fucking game hockey used to be about sport

⤷ evie <3 @puckeruphollzy

????? THIS IS A TWEET ABT ROZANOV ALMOST DYING?? TIME AND PLACE?? (never & in hell)

Ilya Rozanov Official @rozanov81

Big thank you to boston emergency services and boston general for not letting me die :)) big fuck you to guy breaking into apartments to steal shit and shooting nhl captains before playoffs :(((

⤷ shayden is real @shaydensdaughter

is this not proof enough lol NO mention of hollander here…..pretty fucking obvous it was just a different shane. probably smth psychosexual re: the rivalry but not actualy hollander

⤷ beep beep gay! coming through @shaynetopphat

literally no matter what fucking happens there will always be a fuckin shayden standing there with a fucking microphone

shayden is real @shaydensdaughter

ILYA ROZANOV FUCKING BLOCKED ME????

—————

The next week passes uneventfully, painfully slow; time turns to syrup, trapped in Svetlana's addmittedly trendy apartment. Ilya's follow-up appointments with the visiting doctor go well, and by the 24th, his stitches are removed.

"Look," He grins, all bravado, holding up the hem of his t-shirt. "Do I look very rugged, Hollander?"

Shane resists the urge to do something stupid, like lick his lips at the sight of Ilya's Adonis belt and the smattering of thick, golden-brown hair leading into the waistband of his shorts.

They've gone longer without sex, but for the past eight days the most Shane has given is a lazy, unhurried handjob in the shower. Not for lack of wanting; he can't comprehend a situation in which he wouldn't want Ilya. But he doesn't want to hurt him, and the stitches were delicate. No strenuous activity, the doctor had said.

Now, the scar sits puckered and pink, marring the skin just above Ilya's hip. It's a miracle the bullet didn't hit anything important, like his liver or his kidneys or some other anatomical junk.

"You look like an idiot," Shane says, looking up at him over his book. It's still February, and even if Boston wasn't a mess of snow and slush, the reporters outside would only hound them back into the building. Shane has resorted to reading one of the books from Svetlana's shelf, a visual history of hockey.

"No, I look sexy?" Ilya argues back, but it lacks the flirty teasing it usually does. He sounds… Unsure. Like there's a question in it. Shane raises an eyebrow.

"Fishing for compliments, Rozanov?"

"From NHL's Sexiest Player? Always."

The stitches were delicate. Ilya isn't. It takes about ten seconds for Shane to parse the uncertainty behind Ilya's bravado, close the book on the couch, and slide down to his knees.

"Stay still," Shane chides, when Ilya instinctively steps forward, "Get your mind out of the gutter. I'm just looking."

"Just looking, hm?"

With the stitches gone, the scar sits raised and pink and fresh against Ilya's tan skin. It's smaller than Shane expected it to be, what with all the blood, but in the light of day it's no bigger than a penny.

Shane presses a gentle kiss to the iritated skin just below the scar, resting his forehead against Ilya's hip bone. He takes a deep inhale as Ilya winds a strong hand into Shane's hair; he smells like antiseptic and the pine and bergamot shower gel he likes.

The awful combination of his position, Ilya's hand in his hair, and the smell of his bodywash has a Pavlovian effect on him, and Shane wills himself not to get hard while looking at his boyfriend's fucking gunshot scar. Or at least to get hard in a way that Ilya won't notice.

Wishful thinking, because when he tilts his face back up, he notices immediately that Ilya is in very much the same position as him. The bulge in his low-slung basketball shorts is noticeable, and Ilya is grinning down at him like a wolf.

"Needy boy," Ilya teases, and the words send a shudder down Shane's spine. "You want it?"

Shane wants. The sheer scale of how much he wants confuses him, because it's not like it's their first time, but still, every nerve ending in his body is suddenly on fire. He tries to nose forward, essentially face-planting into the synethetic fabric of Ilya's shorts, but the fingers tightening in his hair stop him.

"Words, please, Shane."

Shane groans. "Yes, asshole. I want it."

"Want… A million dollars? Want a new pair of sneakers? Be more specific."

"I want to suck you off," Shane says, almost too far gone to hear the whine in his own voice, "Please."

Ilya's smile grows, gets sharper at the edges, and fuck, Shane wants.

"Well," He grins, "Since you asked so nicely."

Shane is so close to that lovely, fuzzy, floaty pace that Ilya is so good at sending him to that the clatter from the kitchen startles him doubly. He winces out of Ilya's grip, leaving him standing with a few dark hairs still clasped between his fingers.

"What— Shane," Ilya intones, surprised and horrified and shaking his hand rapidly, letting the few hairs float slowly to Svetlana's gaudy purple carpet.

"Shh, sh."

Ilya feezes, frowning at Shane in obvious concern. He knows he must look crazy; standing in what could be a mock warrior pose, one hand held up at Ilya in a plea to be quiet; the other held towards the kitchen.

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what? My fucking heartbeat in my dick?"

"Ilya."

"Shane."

Shane makes a small, frustrated noise, straightening up and levelling Ilya with a stern look.

"Stay here," He says, and stalks off towards Svetlana's kitchen, heart hammering in his chest. It's not smart, and he's not prepared, but Svetlana's apartment is relatively open-plan, and—

And the kichen is empty. The tiles are freezing cold beneath Shane's bare feet, chilled by the open window. Ilya had opened it when they arrived, along with the bedrooms and the living room, to let some air in.

Shane's heart doesn't get the message, and continues to try and beat its way out of his chest. His eyes scan the empty kitchen once, twice, catching both times on the spotless floor.

Svetlana's taste in interior decoration is interesting, to say the least. The floor is tiled in a way that's reminiscent of an old-timey American diner, red and white tiles in a checkerboard pattern.

It's a severely unfortunate choice, because Shane looks at the open window and the red tiles and can only see a puddle of blood on a different floor, in a different part of the city.

There's an assortment of wooden and metal utensils scattered across the tiles beside an empty metal container; clearly the source of the clatter, pushed from Svetlana’s messy countertop by a strong wind.

Shane blinks once, blinks twice, tries to take a long, deep breath. The air doesn't come, his chest rising and falling of it's own accord and with no care to what Shane wants his lungs to do.

And it makes no sense, no fucking sense, because the kitchen is empty. There's no-one there. Svetlana's security system is high-end, a requirement from her father if she was going to move to the States. If someone else were in the apartment, they would know.

All of the air leaves Shane's body when an arm wraps tight around his chest.

He moves on instinct, as well as he can when he can't fucking breathe, lashing out with an elbow and kicking back with his left leg. It does absolutely nothing; another arm wraps around him, holding him still.

"No, malysh, no," Ilya says, and it doedn't make any fucking sense, because he's right behind him, and— "Shane. Sweetheart, please. You need to breathe, okay? Like this, like me."

The chest pressed tight to Shane's back expands in a long, slow breath; Shane can feel his heart hammering against his ribs. Ilya must be able to feel it, too, because that is Ilya holding him fast in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Good, Shane, good," Ilya praises, when Shane drags a ragged breath in. He realises maybe a second too late that his cheeks are wet, eyes stinging.

"Fuck."

The gravity of the situation only really hits when Ilya doesn't make any teasing comment about how yes, they were going to fuck. He just kisses Shane's shoulder and loosens his grip, sliding his hands up Shane's arms and turning him around by the shoulders.

"No-one is here, Shane."

"I— Yeah. I know that. I do."

Ilya's eyes search his face, brows furrowed, and Shane feels as though his entire soul is being evaluated. Like Ilya has some kind of Shane-centric X-ray vision, and can tell when he's lying, when he's holding something back, when he's freaking out.

"Shane," Ilya says, slower this time, serious, "Is only us here. We are safe, yes?"

"Fucking— obviously," Shane scowls, shaking free of Ilya's grip and taking an awkward, shaky step to the side. For some reason, Ilya's pity, his concern, only makes it feel worse. "I know that. I just— I don't know. I'm overtired, maybe."

Ilya makes a quiet, non-commital noise, and the fight drains out of him as quickly as it had appeared. He sags forwards in Ilya's arms, forehead pressed against his shoulder.

"You're not safe, though," Shane says. Speaking the words into Ilya's t-shirt doesn't make them hurt any less. "I just— What would happen? If Russia, like, if… If they did revoke your passport—"

"—They won't—"

"But they could," Shane pushes. His hands land on Ilya's hips, keeping a careful distance from the tender skin and fresh scar. Instead, he runs his thumbs in small circles on Ilya's warm skin. "Svetlana wouldn't have told you if it wasn't… If it wasn't at least a possibility."

Finally, Ilya pulls back. He studies Shane's face carefully; he's sure he must look a mess. Red-faced, cheeks still wet. Shane is so tired he doesn't even have it in him to be embarrassed about whatever just happened, because there's so much that could still go wrong.

"If it happened, which I still think no, it won't," Ilya starts, "Then there is a chance that my visa—"

"I know that already. You know what I mean, Ilya."

"I— Fine. Okay, whatever, Hollander. Is not a big deal, okay? Maybe a fine, maybe prison. I have a lot of money and good connections, so, you know."

"Prison?"

"Worst case," Ilya shakes his head, but he doesn't look convinced. "I am not an activist, you know, I don't…"

Shane can feel the blood leaving his face. "You do, though. You always wear the pride jerseys, you go to fucking gay clubs, Ilya, there are pictures of you—"

"It has never been a problem before!"

"Because everyone though you were straight before!"

"Fuck, Shane, I know that!"

For a second the kitchen is silent, save from their heavy breathing and the howl of the wind outside. It's all so fucking ridiculous, and Ilya looks so fucking scared, it turns Shane's stomach. For a long, wild second, Shane thinks he might throw up; but then Ilya's nose twitches, and his head turns, and Shane has more pressing issues right in front of him.

Not for the first time, Shane finds himself wishing he spoke Russian. Any fucking Russian, other than the few novelty phrases Ilya had taught him on request— Harder, please, yes sir. They felt like a good idea in the moment, but now Shane wishes he'd asked for literally anything else.

There's so much he wishes he could say to Ilya in his first language, the tongue he grew up in and around. They've really faced a significant language barrier, not with each other, but Shane still wonders how it could be if they'd both grown up in Russia, or if Ilya had grown up in Ottawa. If they thought and cried and dreamed in the same language.

Ilya sniffs again. "Is not such a big fucking deal, Shane. My father—"

Just like that, Ilya cuts himself off, brow furrowing. It's easy enough to follow his train of thought, from the bits and pieces Ilya has been willing to share about his childhood and teenage years.

His father was awful, and angry, cold and cruel. But he was also well-connected, especially after Ilya's star began to rise. Well-respected in the police, the military, the government. Enough to make sure that anyone that mattered turned a blind eye to Ilya's vices, with the promise of his failings being dealt with at home; a family matter.

But Ilya's father is dead, and their family's reputation has been run into the ground by Alexei's gambling and drugs. Patience for the Rozanovs is growing thin, Svetlana said, voice thin and tinny over the phone. Ilya had translated for Shane with a wry smile, amused by the downfall of his father's name.

Maybe he'd forgotten that he shared it.

It doesn't matter, now; Ilya snaps his mouth closed. It breaks Shane's heart all over again, to watch the man he loves realise, not for the first time, that he is entirely unprotected.

Well. Not entirely.

"It doesn't matter," Shane decides, contradicting himself almost instantly. Because it doesn't matter, not really. If the Russian government revoke Ilya's passport, it changes nothing. They'll have to get through Shane and his entire, expansive fucking legal team to get anywhere near deporting Ilya, and even then Shane is more than willing to hide out with him in the Canadian wilderness until the storm passes.

He's getting hysterical again. He can't help it. Ilya unlocks that part of him that keeps his emotions so well hidden, has the unique talent of breaking the dam so gently that Shane doesn't even realise until the water is spilling out.

"It doesn't matter. I have so many lawyers, I don't— This is really bad, actually, I don't even know most of their names," Shane frowns, and squeezes Ilya's hips gently. "But they're really fucking good. Like, really good."

"Mm. No-one can come for me," Ilya agrees, "I have seen what you can do with a hockey stick. Very heroic, my Hollander."

"Shut up. Too soon."

"Fine. Your LTIR is staying as-is, management say you can take the rest of the season, if you want."

"That's… nice of them?"

Ilya doesn't mean for it to be a question, but there's a small crease between Shane's brows that doesn't quite match the information he's giving him.

"I can have two weeks," Shane says, after a moment of hesitation, "But they want me back before New York."

Oh. Ilya can feel his own brows drawing together, a mirror image of his husband; two weeks isn't much. He knew they wouldn't be able to spare the both of them for long— Fuck, Bood got three days when Cassie gave birth before he had to be on a plane to Ohio. And Ilya didn't even give birth, so.

So it makes sense, he supposes. He swallows thickly, tries desperately not to start crying, because he doesn't fucking mean it— It's just hormones. The doctor told him to expect it for the next few weeks, amongst other symptoms.

"I'll call them back," Shane says, resolute in that way of his, the Shane Hollander voice. "Two weeks isn't enough, and—"

"No, no," Ilya interrupts, wrapping his hand around Shane's wrist. "Is fine. You know the team cannot last this run without at least one of us, and Terry will not clear me to play for at least two more weeks, maybe four."

"The run doesn't matter, the playoffs don't—"

"You shut your mouth right now. The team does not deserve you speaking a bad run into existence."

He's trying to sound lighthearted, but he misses the mark by about a hundred miles. Shane snaps his mouth shut anyway.

"How are you feeling?" Shane asks, clearly deciding that a pivot is needed. His thumb rubs soft circles on the high of Ilya's cheekbone.

"Fine," And then, because he promised not to lie and he can't take any more broken promises, "A little sore, maybe."

"Do you want a pill?"

The hospital had sent them off with a little bottle of pain pills— Ilya can't remember the name of the prescription, but it's something strong. He'd taken two that evening and they'd worked a little too well, so he shakes his head.

"Maybe later."

Shane makes a little hum of assent, but he gets up anyway; Ilya watches him, half-curious, as he wanders into their en-suite and returns with a glass of water and a pill.

"It's just Tylenol," He says, before Ilya can protest, "I know you don't like the strong stuff, but you shouldn't… Y'know, if you're in pain, you should take something."

Ilya looks between Shane's hand, the little white pill sitting square in the center of his palm, and the glass of water. How can he explain to Shane that he wants to feel it? It's not a self-punishment thing, as much as Shane might think it is. Or maybe it is partially self-punishment, but not entirely.

If this pain is the last he's going to feel of her, he wants to feel it. He'll cling to the last vestiges of proof that she existed, that she was there, until they're all gone. The cramps, and the tenderness, and the awful, lingering headache; all of it are scraps of evidence that he's snatching from the floor and holding close to his chest, for better or for worse.

Shane would probably understand, if he voiced this. Or, if he didn't understand, he'd try to be supportive. But Ilya can't take anymore sadness, today, and Shane's brown eyes are wide and pleading. He plucks the pill from his husband's hand and swallows it easily, washing it down with a gulp of water.

"Thank you," Shane says, relief lacing his voice so heavily that Ilya knows he did the right thing.

They sleep for a little while, or Ilya does, and Shane just lays with his arms wrapped around him. When he wakes up again, the sun has set.

Ilya lets the moment breathe for a few seconds; Shane's strong arm wrapped around his chest, his breath tickling the hairs at the back of Ilya's neck. It's nice to be held. It doesn't fill the awful, cavernous emptiness inside of him, but it soothes the ache a little.

"I don't want to do this again."

It feels blasphemous to say it, even as quietly as he does, the words leaking out into the quiet darkness surrounding them. Ilya braces himself for the pushback, for the classic well meaning but annoying Hollander attitude; just give it time, you need to get back on the horse, if you fail at first just try and try again!

Well, maybe not those exact words, not in this situation. It doesn't matter anyway, because it never comes; for a second he thinks maybe Shane didn't hear him, but then he shifts slightly behind him, and presses a kiss to Ilya's shoulder.

"Okay," He says, voice so soft that Ilya can feel his eyes welling again, "That's okay. There are other options, y'know. Surrogacy, or… Or we could adopt. If it's still something you want, I mean."

"I want," Ilya says, voice cracking, and fuck.

Shane is so gentle, his strong, broad hands guiding him as he turns over, shuffling closer so he can cradle Ilya's head against his chest. The tears are flowing freely, now, and Ilya feels like he's been broken in two, because yes, he wants— but he wanted her. He'll love any children they have, if they have them, but he wanted her.

The few people he's spoken to about the miscarriage have framed it as an almost; Something like missing out on a big job promotion you thought you might get, or big plans falling through. None of them had been so dismissive, of course, but the general idea was the same.

But there was no almost, not to Ilya. She was there, she was real, he could feel her. Their daughter, with a heartbeat, and Ilya had already imagined her to have Shane's deep brown eyes and dark hair, but maybe with Ilya's curls. His mama's nose, because everyone always told him growing up how much he looked like Irina, especially his long, straight nose.

"Sorry," Ilya sniffs, because he's ruining Shane's sleep tank with his tears and snot. "I am okay, is just hormones, I think."

"It's okay if it's not. Hormones, I mean," Ilya can feel the rumble of Shane's voice through his chest when he speaks, lets the familiarity of it comfort him. "It's… Fuck, Ilya. I'm a fucking mess. I can't imagine how…"

He doesn't finish the sentence, and Ilya's glad for it. He doesn't want it to be a competetion. He just wants them to feel like shit together, in this objectively shitty fucking situation, and for Shane to keep reminding him that one day he might feel okay again.

Still, Ilya pushes on. The plan had been to announce his retirement during the third trimester, when he was officially in the throes of paternity leave, but he doesn't want that. Not anymore. The ferocity with which he wants to get back onto the ice scares him a little, but hockey has always been his constant, even when Shane was out of reach. Hockey can center him, can bring him back to some baseline of normal. Ilya has to believe that, or he might lose his mind completely.

"I want to go back," He says, when he can trust himself to speak without breaking down into sobs. "When Terry says is okay. Maybe next month, maybe the month after."

"Ilya. Management said you could take—"

"I know. I don't want to. I won't do anything before I get the all-clear, but I want to keep playing."

"Well, yeah, I mean… I want you to keep playing, too. But I want you to be ready, y'know?"

"Are you fucking ready?" Ilya demands, pushing himself up on his elbow to look at Shane. All of his edges are smoothed by the darkness around them, his hair still clinging to the hairtie holding it back. "You have to go back in two weeks, yes? Are you ready?"

It's bait. Ilya knows it, and Shane probably knows it, too. He's picking a fight, for reasons unknown, for reasons that only his stupid, fucked-up brain could comprehend. But Shane just presses his lips into a line, and exhales slowly.

"No," He admits, "I'm not ready. And it feels like shit. And I don't want you to feel like this any more than you have to. I know it probably sounds like I'm just being an asshole, I don't— It's not that I think you're fucking, delicate, or some shit. I just love you. And I don't want you to hurt if you don't have to."

"I'm trying to fight with you," Ilya mutters, letting his head fall back down onto Shane's chest. They've been together far too long to pretend like it's anything else, and Shane is being so fucking patient with him, he deserves the reward of being right. "Asshole."

"Yeah, yeah, Shane Hollander is an asshole."

"Thank you for saying I am not delicate," Ilya says, as a peace offering, "And thank you for saying you are not ready."

Shane hums into Ilya's hair, ghosts a kiss over the crown of his head. It's as easy as breathing, now, but if Ilya closes his eyes he could imagine it was their first summer all over again. So much has happened, since then. They've been dragged out of the closet, kicking and screaming. He almost died in what could have been a plane crash. Shane's third career concussion last year was almost a lot worse than it was.

Each time, Ilya reminds himself, things got better. They levelled out. He has survived the loss of both his parents, his home country, his team, his privacy. And each time Shane Hollander found a way to put him back together again.

Ilya knows that if he voiced this, Shane would disagree; he's of the stark opinion that Ilya put himself back together, and Shane just held the glue. It sounds suspiciously like something some pseudo-therapist on Instagram Reels would say, but it was so sweet and so sincere the first time Shane said it that Ilya couldn't bring himself to call him out.

He's not quite ready to step into that sunlight-drenched future, not yet. He wants these two precious weeks with Shane, where they can wrap themselves around each other and cry for the future they could have had and the daughter they couldn't hold. Maybe more than two weeks, if Ilya is being really, truly honest with himself.

He knows what grief feels like, and how it moulds itself into him, and he knows already that he'll carry this with him for the rest of his life. Their daughter will take her place there, right next to his mother, protected by the shelter of his ribs.

But still, he knows it's there. He won't be able to draw back the curtain, not yet, not for a while, but he knows that the lake will still be there when he does. The sunrise will still be there, when he's ready for it; Shane, sleep-worn and happy, holding out a mug of something warm. Anya barking at his heels, and maybe a second dog, by then. He doesn't dare imagine anything else behind the curtain, not while everything is so raw, but that picture alone is pretty fucking good.

Still, the sneer on Ilya’s face tells Shane that the lack of an invite isn’t really the issue. And that just— It’s unfair. It’s so fucking unfair, because he has to know that Shane wouldn’t choose this. He has to know that. And Rose wouldn’t choose it, either; in their six months of marriage, Shane has been a wretched husband. Sullen, and distant, and longing, but not for her. He’ll be a wretched king one day, too. But even on the worst nights, pacing around on the cobbles in the courtyard, he could justify it, because marrying Rose would stop the war. It would bring Ilya home.

Rage swells up through Shane’s chest before he can stop it, and suddenly he’s furious, scoffing and throwing his arms out.

“The war had to end!” He scoffs, gesturing vaguely towards the walls of the castle. “It was a fucking— It was a political move, Ilya, the war had to end.”

Ilya tosses the rag to the side so forcefully it almost makes Shane jump. His chiselled features are overtaken with fury, snarling like a wounded animal.

“Tell me, your highness, what do you know of the war?”

Shane blinks. He thinks of the two days he spent on the front lines, the short glimpse of Ilya half-stripped of his armour and laughing with his comrades while the royal procession moved through. It’s important they don’t feel abandoned, Shane had argued, when his mother tried to forbid it. If every other young man in the country is being called to fight, why shouldn’t I?

ROZANOV: You are having breakfast late today, no?

HOLLANDER: Fucking— Say good morning to the Hollywood set in our kitchen, asshole.

Hollander lightly slaps Rozanov’s hands away from various sliced fruits waiting on the chopping board, all of which had avoided the same fate as his vegetables. Rozanov looks towards them with a grin.

ROZANOV: Good morning, nation of Canada and Hollywood transplants. I am sorry your first impression is Hollander’s boring fucking breakfast.

PRODUCER: We really need you guys to try and swear less.

HOLLANDER (Laughing): This guy? Good luck with that. Do you guys want anything to eat?

The last line is targeted towards the camera and, presumably, the crew behind them. Rozanov looks incredibly fond, and drops a kiss to Hollander’s head.

HOLLANDER: Not in front of the cameras, jackass, Jesus.

ROZANOV: Is the whole point they are here. Keep up.

HOLLANDER (Thoughtful, uncomfortable): Oh. Yeah. I guess.

Hollander pushes the sliced fruits onto a plate, retrieves a second smoothie from their large, chrome refrigerator , and places both on the kitchen island in front of Rozanov.

ROZANOV: Spasibo, moy benzopila.

HOLLANDER: My… Chainsaw?

ROZANOV: Yes!

HOLLANDER: He’s trying to teach me Russian. I’m trying to teach him French, but, it’s less important—

ROZANOV: Is very important!

HOLLANDER: —It’s less important, obviously, because French isn’t my first language. We both speak English, which is my first language, so it’s only fair I try and learn Russian.

ROZANOV: He is good student. What? Why are you looking at me like this? I am being nice.

HOLLANDER: It just— It sounds, like, dirty when you say it.

ROZANOV (Grinning): Is just my natural sexual charisma.

HOLLANDER: Jesus fucking Christ. I am so sorry. I wish I could say he isn’t usually like this.

CUT TO a short montage of Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov throughout their NHL careers, almost exclusively shots of them standing side-by-side at press conferences, or facing off at center ice. A few shots of them hosting the NHL awards, or standing together at events, and later of them together at events hosted by the Irina Foundation.

TITLE CARD: ALL’S FAIR IN LOVE AND HOCKEY

The workshop wasn’t quiet. In the basement underneath the small cabin, sitting at his desk, only one lamp light turned on, Tubbo worked away. Hunched over his project he fiddled with circuitry, sketches of a prosthetic arm and papers of instructions from Sam sat in the lamp light. Tubbo wasn’t immediately knowledgeable about how to make an entire arm, she had only ever done her two missing fingers. But she didn’t want to turn down the offer.

Creeak

Tubbo jumped and cursed at the noise, when she turned around she saw nothing amiss. Brushing it off as nothing more than the house above him settling in the winter winds, he went back to his work.

Click! Creaak

Tubbo jumped again and set down his tools, that was undoubtedly the sound of a chest opening. Looking around he could make out what could’ve been an open chest in the corner.

Shuffle shuffle

He stood frozen in front of her desk, waiting for what felt like ages for something to happen again. Some minutes later her lamp flickered, she spun around to face it. It began to glow brighter and brighter, buzzing louder and louder until-

PZZT-PEW!

The light burst off and Tubbo had a feeling it wasn’t going to turn back on again. Shrouded in darkness Tubbo scrambled to grab his sword, with shaky hands he held it out in front of him.

Jingle jingle

The faint sound of bells jingling echoed around the room. This has to be fake, it has to be, I’m just hallucinating. Tubbo thought to himself. For a minute she thought her eyes were playing more tricks on her, dark lines began to configure on the floor, though they were hard to make out in the dark. Some time later they stopped forming followed by the familiar sound of redstone activating. The lines glowed red and now a word could be made out from them.

Hello

Tubbo fell before he ran, stumbling back and hitting the back of his head on his desk. He sprinted as fast as he could to the ladder and clambered out of the basement, he didn’t stop running. Bursting out of his house’s front door and running through the empty Snowchester streets, the street lamps lit up following him. They came to the same fate as her desk lamp, shattering behind her.

Soon enough she’d reached the ocean and had nowhere to go, she slipped on the ice and fell back into the snow-covered pebble beach. The night waves crashed against the shore, lashing up against the stone dock and falling back down on itself. Cold ocean breeze washed against him, biting at his fingertips.

Tubbo cried out in agony at a hand, long and lanky with sharp fingers reaching out at him from the icy waters below. The sea around it seemed to be staining red, the hand lashed around and came closer and closer to him. It was ghostly white with all too familiar black freckles, it reached out for her in desperation and in her frazzlement she reached back. But before she could attempt to pull the hand to the surface it dragged her down effortlessly. He took one last gulp of air before submerging under the freezing Snowchester waters.

He couldn’t open his eyes under the water and a part of him thought that was for the better. Panicked and blinded Tubbo scrambled to swim back up but something was swimming beside him, something big. It swam around him so fast turning him over and around he lost whatever sense of direction he might’ve had. Still she frantically attempted to right herself and get out.

Hands reached for her arms and legs, trying to grab her and drag her deeper and deeper. Tubbo restrained and kept swimming, it was getting harder and harder to breathe, the freezing waters causing her body to begin shutting down. Just then, he broke free, the hands let go and his head broke the surface. He was up against the stone brick dock, desperately gasping for air and doing his best to return to land.

Shivering and soaking wet, he clambered back up onto the wet pebble shore and fell onto his side. His breath formed before him in white puffs in the cold winter night. A dark shadow loomed just under the water, waiting for him to come back under. It took all his might but Tubbo crawled back slowly to his house, eventually he got himself standing and walking but he constantly thought he heard a second pair of footsteps behind him.

Somehow, she made it home alive, shakily making her way to the bathroom. Now in it’s light she saw her bloodied skin on her wrists and ankles, those hands had a harder grip than she thought. She felt lightheaded but tried her best to tend to her wounds, good enough for now. She splashed her face with the water in the sink, she rubbed her face and looked back up into the mirror.

He’d come here for something, maybe in search of materials to build, but soon enough this puppy had run up to him all alone. No collar, no sign of a previous owner it’d run away from, he’d looked around the area but there were no other dogs nearby. Whoever this puppy had been with before they were long gone now. Jack’s best guess was that it’d been left behind with no knowledge of where the others had gone, no one coming to look for it. Jack saw a glimpse of himself in that, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the poor pup.

Now he’d given himself the responsibility to care for it, but he didn’t know a damn thing about taking care of dogs. What breed was it? What kind of meat do you feed them? Was any kind okay? How do you keep them happy? How do you clean them? He felt that it probably wasn’t as hard as he was making it out to be, but the more he thought about it the more he worried he’d fuck it up.

Out of the forest, he found a library and searched high and low for books on taking care of a dog. Eventually he found a guide, and in it he figured out what Daisy was(that’s the name he’d decided to give her), she was a brown pitbull. After finding this out he was very tempted to start calling her Mr. Worldwide but he restrained. Needless to say brought the book home and started making it Daisy’s home too.

He made her a bed(although she’d much rather sleep on his) and made her some toys, he thought they were shitty but she seemed to love them. He’d lay in bed not wanting to get up but Daisy needed feeding, he’d realize how hungry he was too, might as well grab an apple while he’s up. He wouldn’t want to leave the house but Daisy needed to go out for a walk, so he’d get his shoes and coat and walk under the sun. They’d play together, nap together, and learned about each other. Jack learned early on that she hated the smell of alcohol, so he put the crate away in the cupboard.