Viva La Pluto, Fuck This

Of course, it doesn't work. Even for a second.

It's more luck than anything that secures them a spot in the playoffs. His play is awful. He can't focus. Can't sleep. Can't go for a run. Can't do anything he'd usually do because there's just this constant weight around his neck, choking him. At one point, he saw the team doctor because he lost his voice, only to be told there was nothing physically wrong. The doc said something about grief. That sometimes, because you had nothing to say after someone died, your voice could die with them, for a little while. Ilya crawled into bed straight after and didn't get up until Sveta came and dragged him out.

After every game, he checks the playoffs schedule, as if he hasn't got it memorised. If they get through to round three, they're facing Montreal. Facing him. The idea alone makes him feel actually physically sick.

He needn't have worried. The pressure gets to the team and, without him holding them together, they're eliminated shortly after. Sitting in the empty locker room afterwards, he waits to feel something. Anything. Relief, disappointment, annoyance. But he just feels tired. So. Fucking. Tired.

He doesn't watch the next few games. Can't bring himself to see Shane looking perfectly fine whilst he wastes away, being eaten from the inside out. Or worse, can't face Shane looking as awful as he feels, knowing he caused that.

But of course, it's impossible to avoid Shane Hollander. The man is everywhere. Cliff drags him to the cinema after too many weeks days of festering in his own shit, and while he's taking a pre-movie slash, a group of teenage girls start discussing an interview with Mr Hollander, then playing the clip.

For some reason, Shane's being asked about his love life. Questions like if he's ever been in love, if he has anyone special, what he'd want in a partner. The kind of stuff Shane would never usually do. Even through the shitty phone speaker, Ilya can hear how uncomfortable he is. It makes Ilya want to scream. Run away. Stamp on the phone until it shatters into a million pieces. But he just stands there, frozen, hooked on every word as his throat gets tighter and tighter because Eбать has he missed his voice. And-- and Shane's saying things like it's not fair for the interviewer to know if he's been in love before he told the person themselves. Things like he'd thought he had someone special. Once. Maybe. Things like he'd want someone that challenges him, and is snarky, and a bit of a menace, but is secretly the sweetest person ever. Someone that he can just be himself with, instead of having to be The Shane Hollander all the time. Someone with the most beautiful eyes, and thick curls. Someone who... (Shane pauses, clears his throat like there's something lodged in it. Ilya's heart races). Someone who isn't too scared to be his, even when everything seems stacked against them.

The girls all start cooing and giggling and comparing who's hair is curlier and therefore more likely to have a chance with him, and Ilya's moving. Striding away, sweet and salted popcorn still in hand, because he just. He has to go. He can't breathe. He can't see through the tears in his eyes. But he has to. Now. Because otherwise he's going to collapse into a sobbing, heaving mess right there in front of everyone. Because--- because it sounds like Shane is talking about him. Like he wants him. Even though he shouldn't. Even though Ilya screwed everything up. Even though Ilya always screws everything up. He might still want him. And after weeks of choking on the pain of missing him and pretending it will get better, he knows he's not going to be able to breathe until he sees him.

He books a flight there and then, choosing to trust his gut over the horrid voice that keeps whispering Shane could never still want him. Choosing to believe that he can figure something out. They can figure something out. As long as Shane doesn't slam the door in his face.

He doesn't actually know where Shane lives. Just that it's close enough to the rink that he's happy. But he makes it work. Uses his charm. Until he's parked in front of a beautiful building with a scrap of paper with an apartment number scrawled on it. He takes the stairs two at a time, thinking the building itself is unremarkable. Much to normal for a beautiful man like Shane Hollander to live in. And then he's standing outside a door. Hopefully Shane's door. Heart pummeling in his chest. Breath choppy. Stomach clenching.

There's an entire age between Ilya's knock and the sound of the lock turning, but he's still not ready when the door opens to reveal a soft, tired, sweatshirt-clad Shane Hollander.

The rings around Shane's eyes are too big. Too purple. His hair ruffled, like he keeps running his hand through it. And his skin is too pale. Like he's not been getting enough sun, or sleep, or vitamins. It makes his freckles too light.

Each detail is a punch to Ilya's chest, and he all but crumples.

'I'm sorry,' he tries to say, but it comes out garbled. Too strangled by the sobs that force their way out. Still, he can't stop. 'I'm so sorry. I thought I could do it. I thought it would be better. But is worse. Is so much worse Hollander. I- fuck, I-'

He chokes on a sob right before the words 'love you' can burst out of him, but he almost wants to say them anyway. Nothing can make him feel worse than he already does.

'You didn't text,' Shane murmurs, tone flat. No, tone heartbroken. Eбать, apparently he could.

'I- I did not want to make it harder.'

Shane's mouth presses into a thin line. 'For you?'

He lets out a pained sound. 'For both of us.'

Slowly, Shane nods. 'So... what do you want, Rozanov?'

It's not said in a mean way, but still, Ilya's heart breaks a little more with the almost detached tone. With the way Shane's avoiding his eyes. With the tightness in Shane's whole body, screaming how uncomfortable he is. Ilya flounders for an answer, too many things he wants fighting to be said first.

'To... to see you. No, wait-' he says quickly, when Shane's face twists and he steps back, like he could close the door on them. Forever this time. 'To try. Hollander - Shane. Please. I... I want to try and be- be yours, even if everything is stacked against us... If is what you want, too'

'Holy shit,' Shane breathes. When Ilya chances a glance at his face, he finds Shane staring at him, open mouthed, eyes too bright, body frozen. And then he's being pulled inside and engulfed by warm, strong arms as the door slams behind them, locking them in together.

It's everything he's wanted for weeks, but still Ilya reels, disbelief clutching at him for a terrible moment. His arms come up to hold Shane, but only instinctively. Every whiff of his shampoo throws him for a loop. He's surprised he can smell it at all, he's barely breathing. But somehow, his mind whispers that Shane's there, hugging him. He didn't lose him.

It's that thought that finally breaks through, and then he's clinging to him. Burying his face in Shane's neck, squeezing his shoulders, his waist, shoving his hands in his hair all the while apologising over and over and over.

And Shane's just as desperate. He squeezes him tight, cradles his cheek, presses firmly into the centre of his back, just how he likes. Still, Ilya screams out for more.

He's still trying to find a way to crush him close enough to stop the ache in his chest when he feels Shane start to pull away. Whimpering, he clings tighter, scenes of Shane changing his mind or yelling at him flashing through his mind. But Shane just hushes him gently, caressing his cheek and saying he's not going anywhere, just trying to get them over to the couch. And he can do that. He can. So he nods, let's Shane pull back a bit, and sniffs hard, trying to force the tears to stop. It doesn't work.

He's suddenly too aware of the fact that he's never been to Hollander's actual apartment. The couch he's being led to is unfamiliar, the route foreign, and it hurts far more than he wants it too. Hollander never wanted him here before. Can things really change so quickly? But then he's being pushed gently down onto the cushions, and Shane's straddling his lap. Shane's knees press into his thighs on either side, and his chest pushes against Ilya's as he re-wraps his arms around him, bringing Ilya's head back to tuck under Shane's chin. Like he's a small, precious thing, instead of a huge hockey player who just caused them both so much pain.

'God, I missed you so much,' Shane murmurs, a few moments later. And all Ilya can do is whine, because fuck, he missed him too. And fuck, he needs to kiss him. Right now. If- If Shane lets him.

He swallows hard, starting slow by pressing a kiss to Shane's neck. Just on the collar of his sweatshirt. Light enough that he can pass it off, if needed. But Shane just sighs, melting a little more, and all Ilya has to do is tip his head slightly before Shane's meeting him hungrily.

It's chaste, for them. Every press of their lips lingering, and firm. Their tongues only lightly swiping the inside of their lips. But it's everything. Ilya hopes he's not the only one thinking they're making each other a promise.

'Tell me again,' Shane murmurs eventually, pressing their foreheads together. 'Tell me why you're here. What you want.'

To have you, always. To be able to tell the world that you're mine. To find out if you really do love me, like the interview hinted. To never, ever let you out of my sight again.

'To try. And be... more. Yours. Even if everything is stacked against us.' He swallows hard. 'If is what you wa-.'

Shane cuts him off, devouring his mouth.

'I do want,' he says between kisses. 'I told you. I don't think I can keep pretending I don't like you anymore, Rozanov - Ilya. I want. So much.'

His hands are slipping under Shane's sweatshirt, grasping his warm, soft skin, tugging him closer. Still, he has to know -

'Even now? After I...'

'Even now,' he says without hesitation. 'I'm still mad at you. You made me wait a long time. And you're never allowed to do that again,' he pauses, staring into Ilya's eyes. Ilya nods, wishing he could kiss away the pain he sees in them. He tries anyway, heart fluttering at the small quirk to Shane's lips as he does before Shane pulls back again. 'But I'd always rather be mad with you, than without you, Ilya.'

I love you, Ilya thinks as Shane caresses his cheek again. I love you so much. It's always been you. I would die for you.

'Okay,' he nods. Takes a deep breath. 'I will not run again.'

'Good,' Shane sighs, closing the distance between them again. And finally, finally, as the kiss deepens, as Shane pushes him back into the sofa and starts tenderly rubbing circles on his hip, the ache begins to settle. He's here. In Shane's apartment. Shane wants him. Wants to be mad with him. And is still holding him close. They can figure something out.

A crescent Earth setting behind the Moon’s horizon.

Earth setting behind the Moon as seen by the Artemis II crew. Over half the left side of the image is filled by the gray lunar surface, pocked with craters.

A close view of the Moon. Jagged circles of craters dot the gray surface, fading to dark on the left side of the image.

A close view of the edge of the Moon. Jagged circles of craters dot the dark gray lunar surface, which arcs across the image.

A close-up view of the Moon, filling most of the frame. Along the left side of the image, the terminator divides the illuminated and darkened sides of the Moon.

A close-up view of the Moon, filling most of the frame. Along the left side of the image, the terminator divides the illuminated and darkened sides of the Moon.

Earth just as it set behind the Moon, as seen by the Artemis II crew. The dark gray surface of the Moon, pocked with craters, arcs from the bottom left corner of the image to the top right.

Check out more photos from the lunar flyby, including astronaut selfies and the solar eclipse only they experienced.