Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

There were several things Ilya enjoyed about Ibiza. Some were obvious. Of course he enjoyed the dancing, the clubbing, the sun. Of course he enjoyed showing off his sexy husband—except for when people actually started looking at his sexy husband. He did not like that part so much. But he enjoyed the filthy, egregiously loud sex they had after, and the slow, cuddle-filled mornings after that. He liked that Shane is not bothered by the possessive way Ilya wanted to handle him sometimes. That he liked it. Ilya especially liked that no one gave a fuck about hockey in Ibiza. He liked how tanned and freckled Shane became during their weeklong honeymoon. 

"Solnyshko," Ilya would hum, just so he could watch Shane's cheeks redden under the pad of his thumb. Left, right, left, right, across those beautiful freckles. The skin so soft under his calluses. It was insane that he could touch Shane like this. It made him laugh. Then it almost made him feel guilty, which was perhaps something he should mention to Galina....

"Ilya?" Shane said, his huge, dephless eyes locked on him from beneath his lashes, "Can you...keep doing that?" 

Ilya blinked, letting his thoughts about therapy drift away. Without realizing it, he'd paused, staring at a spot just over Shane's shoulder. He shook his head a little. The warmth of Shane's skin against his palm was grounding enough that he could smile, "Keep doing what, malysh?" he teased.

Shane's blush deepened, but he smiled softly, "You know. Touching me." 

Yes. Yes. Yes. Always. I'll never stop. 

Ilya did not tell Shane this, but there was another reason he liked Ibiza for their honeymoon. It was silly, but it made him think of his mom. Irina. She had never been to Ibiza, obviously. She had never even left Russia, as far as Ilya knew. But sometimes she would say suddenly, in the middle of even the most serious conversation, "Well, in Ibiza, brothers who cannot stop beating each other are forced to have their hands tied together for a whole year. Would you like this?" or "Ilyushka, you know this is not allowed. Not even in Ibiza." or "If it snows another inch I will go to Ibiza, where no one has ever heard of snow. I am serious Ilyusha, they do not know what snow is. What? No, no one has told them about it either. The word "snow" is banned in Ibiza." His mother had a gift for saying ridiculous things with such an air of importance that he would blink once or twice before realizing she was joking and dissolve into giggles. Only then would she crack a smile too. 

Ibiza. Ibiza. He'd liked how it felt to say that word. In a landlocked, brutally cold place like Moscow, it seemed completely bizarre to imagine an island, never mind a perpetually warm one. It was fantastical. They might as well be talking about Narnia. They could apply absolutely anything, no matter how ridiculous, to Ibiza. Silly. So silly. Even sillier that when Shane had casually suggested it for their honeymoon, Ilya's eyes had burned. 

"Ibiza." Ilya repeated. Shane didn't look up from his laptop. They were sprawled next to each other on the couch in the cottage. Behind his glasses, Shane's dark eyes were scanning over one of three spreadsheets he'd created in the week since their wedding, all of them related to their honeymoon. No matter how spontaneous it all had been—the engagement, the wedding, the honeymoon—Shane could not help but try to insert a bit of boring into it. 

"Yeah. What about Ibiza?" 

Ilya opened his mouth and then closed it. He had never been one of those people who felt like his mother was with him or something. A spirit, or a force, whatever. Sending him convoluted messages from wherever she was. As if his mother had never left but was standing just out of reach. No. His mother was distinctly gone. Her existence completely wiped from the Earth. His father had made sure of that. She existed in Ilya's memory, and his brother's too, he supposed. Somehow, the thought of his mother haunting him was worse. She was supposed to be somewhere better. Not tethered to him. Stuck, like she had been in life. 

But now, for the first time in a very long time, Ilya had the distinct impression of her laugh. He didn't hear it, of course. He wasn't insane. But he sort of.....felt it. 

The silence had stretched on long enough that Shane finally looked up at him, "Ilya? We don't have to—"

"What made you think of this?" Ilya said suddenly, maybe too suddenly. Shane's brow furrowed like he was trying to figure something out. Ilya didn't want to be figured out right now. He quickly tried to school his voice and his face into casual interest, "I mean, it seems maybe the last place you would want to go to. For our honeymoon." 

"Oh," Shane said, nodding, "I don't really know why I thought of it. But...I want to make sure we go somewhere you would like. And there's more than just the clubbing scene, obviously. Plus, I mean, sure, it's an island, but it's close to Europe. We could go see other things while we're there, and the beaches look great—"

Ilya turned toward Shane, leaned over his laptop, and kissed him. Hard. Shane made a surprised noise into his mouth that quickly turned into that breathy, needy hum that drove Ilya insane. The warmth of Shane's mouth, of his body, of his hands in his curls, quieted Ilya's unease. Physical things brought Ilya back to his body and out of his head, Ilya had found. Or, Galina had pointed out, really. It didn't have to be sex, or kissing, obviously. But the kissing was nice.

Ilya drew back. Shane's glasses were crooked, the lenses a little smudged. He was flushed and panting into the small space between their lips. His fingers scratching idly across Ilya's scalp. Ilya bit his lip to keep from moaning, but Shane saw. He knew how much Ilya liked hands in his hair, how he liked it pulled. Shane's plush lips twitched up into a smirk. God. God. 

"Yes. Is perfect. Let's go to Ibiza." Ilya all but groaned. 

Shane blinked, "Oh, wow. Are you sure?"

"Yes. Beach for my sexy husband to lay on. Clubs for him to dance in maybe. If he wants." 

"Don't talk about me in the third person." Shane laughed as Ilya moved his laptop out of way, shutting it with a snap. 

Ilya wiggled his eyebrows a bit, "Third person? Wow, you want to get real crazy on our honeymoon, ah?" 

"Oh my god, shut up." Shane said, but he was laughing and pushing Ilya back into the couch so he could straddle him.

It was perfect. Shane even managed to let go of the perpetual anxiety that seemed to follow him like a shadow. He smiled easily—they both did. Shane made a show of acting like he didn't want to go out dancing, but Ilya was certain it was just because he wanted Ilya to push him, just a bit. His, "I don't know Ilya..." was more teasing and shy than anything else. When they got back to their AirBnB he even admitted, drunkenly, between kisses, that he'd had fun. When they returned to the cottage a week later, tanned and sated and excited for another few weeks of bliss before the foundation hockey camps started, they were happy. Maybe happier than they ever had been, minus their wedding day. 

For the record, Ilya did not regret Ibiza. Of course he didn't. Not completely.

But he couldn't help but feel like he'd opened a can of worms, as the English expression went (what worms? why were they in a can?). When Shane suggested Ibiza, seemingly out of nowhere, Ilya thought, maybe it would be sweet. To actually go to this place that had been a joke of his childhood. The sudden reminder of his mother's laugh had made his chest ache, made him want to not think about her at all, and then, of course, he felt guilty for that. Galina said that was normal. It was healthy to let himself feel, even if the feeling was sad or bittersweet. Even if he was afraid that thinking of his mother at all would somehow undo all the work he'd done with Galina. The hours of therapy, the medications, the long, sometimes painful conversations with Shane. What if letting his thoughts linger for too long on his mother would somehow fuck it all up? 

He was so afraid. 

But no matter how determined he became to focus on the present, extremely happy moments of his life, his mother seemed...determined to appear. Which was not what was happening, obviously. Because his mother was dead and not haunting him. 

Except, he'd started seeing her everywhere. 

Not her. But, blond women. Why were there so many women with long, wavy blond hair? Their first night in Ibiza, Ilya had gone outside while Shane was asleep to smoke (it was his honeymoon, okay?) when he'd spotted his mom on the beach. It was dark, but he could see the back of her blonde head, her pale dress flowing around her feet. A hat in her hand. Why did she have a sun hat at night? Why was she alone?

His cigarette hung limply in his hand, "Mama?" he said stupidly from the wooden railing. He thought she might have turned, but he couldn't see her face. It was so dark, and she was so far away. Ilya found himself walking down the sunbleached steps, his bare feet suddenly digging into the cool sand. Mama?

But when he reached the water, no one was there. 

"Идиот," Ilya cursed as he trudged back to the house, "Идиот, Идиот."

Idiot, idiot, idiot. 

What the fuck was he thinking? Of course his mother wasn't on a beach in Ibiza waving at him. His mother was dead. What if Shane woke up and he wasn't there? What would Ilya say? Oh, sorry sweetheart, I was chasing blonde women on the beach in the middle of the night. Fucking idiot. 

It didn't matter though. When he got back, Shane was dead to the world, his arms wrapped around a pillow, his black hair mussed and falling across his closed eyes. Still naked from their earlier activities. Self-loathing and guilt hit Ilya so hard that he nearly doubled over. He felt like he'd done something terrible. Something unforgiveable. 

He made sure there was no lingering sand on his feet and then slid under the covers. He wrapped his arms around Shane and pulled him close, letting his head fall between Shane's shoulder blades. He inhaled a shaky breath. He felt Shane hum sleepily and settle against him. Ilya whispered into Shane's warm skin an apology, but he wasn't exactly sure what for. He promised to put this from his mind. 

But the blonde women kept appearing. It became easier to ignore after a few days, I mean, there are blonde women all over Ibiza. There are blonde women everywhere for fucks sake. Sure, the first few times his stomach dropped, and Shane had to poke him in the side and ask if he was listening, and then if he was feeling well, and then— Ilya, are you sure you're okay? You look like you've seen a ghost. 

It's not like Ilya lied, or pretended. He really was having a good time. He really was okay. He was on medication for his depression, but there was no medication to cure you of missing your mom. He would just have to deal with this. And if Shane had given him that particular look that said something like, okay, I'll let you get away with this one. Ilya was grateful. 

Their first day back at the cottage after Ibiza, Ilya went to the grocery store while Shane unpacked. He was humming that god-awful French music Shane always played in the car when he nearly ran into a woman looking at the bread selection. Her long, blonde waves nearly hitting him in the face. 

"Blyat," he gasped, his heart jumping in his chest. The woman turned and raised a single arched brow at him, and the look was so—just so Irina that Ilya had to choke out an "excuse me" and run out to the car to breathe. When he finally caught his breath, he felt his cheeks heat with shame. What the fuck? Was he developing a fear of blondes? Fucking idiot. He rolled his shoulders, reentered the store, and dutifully got everything on Shane's list. He kept his eyes laser-focused on the shelves, the smudged linoleum floor, his text thread with Shane. He didn't see any blonde hair. He didn't see the funny look the cashier gave him. 

That night they had dinner with Shane's parents. David was acting strange. He kept smiling to himself in that shy way that was identical to Shane. He would look over Yuna's shoulder at Ilya and look away, laughing a little bit. Was there something on his face? Ilya excused himself to the bathroom to check, but as far as he could tell, he looked completely normal. Was David playing a joke on him? When he got the chance, Ilya poked Shane gently with his elbow and looked at David, then back at him, his face questioning. Shane glanced at David, but just shrugged. His look said something like, I don't know. He's dad. He's just...a little weird, you know?  Ilya knew David was a little weird by now. He used to be a goalie after all. It was also entirely possible, Ilya thought, that Shane had no idea what he was talking about. Ilya smiled and carded his hand through Shane's hair fondly. 

Ilya had almost convinced himself he was imagining things by the end of dinner. He was starting to gather up the plates when David reached out a callused hand to Ilya's wrist. He was smiling again. 

"Hold off a second, Ilya," David said, and Ilya dutifully set the plates back down. As David got up and went into the kitchen, Ilya shot what must have been a panicked look at Yuna and Shane, but they were discussing Toronto's new rookie. They didn't notice. They didn't seem nervous in the slightest. Ilya couldn't shake the feeling that something terrible was about to happen to him. He'd never felt this way in Yuna and David's house. He tried to think about what Galina would tell him—

"Ilya?" Shane asked quietly. His hand slipped over Ilya's thigh. Squeezed.

Ilya had been staring at an undetermined point ahead of him, his jaw so tight it was suddenly sore when he peeled his teeth apart and said, surprisingly steady, "Yes, moya lyubov?" He stole a glance at Yuna and Shane. They were looking at him with concern. Love, probably. It made Ilya want to crawl inside his skin. 

Shane frowned, "Are you—"

A plate thunked down in front of Ilya. Not in the middle of the table, not for everyone, but directly in front of Ilya. He tried to hide his flinch, but maybe David saw because he said very gently, "Surprise, son." 

Pryaniki. A dozen of them, carefully arranged on one of Yuna Hollander's desert plates—one of the nice ones, from Yuna's grandmother in Japan. They were cookies, basically. Spiced. Sweet. Sometimes very painstakingly decorated, but these were covered simply—glazed, he thought. 

"Pryaniki," Ilya said stupidly, to the plate in front of him. David and Yuna huffed out a laugh, but Shane didn't. Ilya could feel him watching. 

"Yes," David said, sitting back down across from Ilya, "I did try to make the pretty version—"

"He really did. Used all of my good nutmeg." Yuna nodded. 

David scoffed, "Your nutmeg? When have you ever touched nutmeg?"

"Oh, whatever. Maybe I was going to. I guess we'll never know now, hm? Since we're out." Yuna rolled her eyes, but she was smirking at David. Is that what he and Shane would be like one day? Bickering over silly things like a six-dollar jar of spice?

"You didn't have to," Ilya said thickly, fighting desperately against the sting in his eyes. He focused on Shane's hand on his thigh. Warm. Rough. Steady. His thumb rubbing slow circles. 

Yuna opened her mouth, maybe to try to comfort him or something, but David beat her to it. Ilya was glad. He wasn't sure he could handle being comforted right now. 

"Oh, I wanted to. I just hope I haven't...overstepped?" 

Ilya felt suddenly shocked back into his body. "No," he said instantly, "No. I—thank you." He turned to Shane before he could see the look on David's face, "Shane. You will try, yes? Even though it has sugar?" 

Shane rolled his eyes, "Da. Yes. Of course." He'd been working on that, on his food thing. Ilya was so proud and relieved. He didn't even make Ilya argue about it. It calmed Ilya a bit to watch Shane take a bite, to poke his cheek, to laugh at his thinking face as he determined, very seriously a moment later, "Mm. Yeah. Good." 

It took some of the pressure off Ilya when he took his bite. Yuna and Shane were arguing about hockey again. David was smiling fondly at them both and clearly trying not to watch Ilya too closely. Ilya thought, maybe, now that his heart had stopped racing and he'd laughed with his family, he could be normal about this. It was just cookies. 

But, oh. He felt her now. God, did he feel her now. 

His mother hated to cook. She was bad at it. Any borscht or blini he had as a child was from Olga, the cook and housekeeper his father employed. He'd never had the experience of longing for his mother's cooking, not the way Shane sometimes longed for David's. He wanted Russian food sometimes, sure. It was what he grew up eating. But there was a Russian restaurant in Ottawa. Galina had told him about it. There had been one in Boston too. These places filled an occasional emptiness in him. It was nothing more than that. 

Irina had a sweet tooth. It was where Ilya got his, he suspected. Ice cream at the zoo in the summer. Pastries after church. Multicolored candies left under his pillow after his father had been....

And pryaniki. Maybe the only thing his mother could make without burning, or overmixing, or generally destroying the kitchen. They made them together, just the two of them. Laughing in the quiet of the kitchen, late at night, after Olga had gone home. Alexei had been too old to bake cookies with his Mama. All the better. It was Ilya's special time with her, where his father would never go (that area of the house was for women and for servants), and nobody would ever suspect Irina of being in a kitchen anyway. For a time, they could be safe. Their cheeks red from laughing, their tongues warm from the spices, flour smudges on his mother's nose. 

Ilya could not feel Shane's hand on his anymore. 

"Do they have pryaniki in Ibiza, Mama?" 

"Da, Ilyusha. They have only sweet things. Well, sweet things and kvas." 

"That is not what you said yesterday." 

"No? What did I say?" 

"You said Ibiza has only vegetables. And that I'll have to go there if I don't eat—"

"No, I think this is not true." 

"It is! Mama!" 

Irina dug her fingers into his sides, smiling as Ilya shrieked with laughter. 

"Ilya?" 

It was Shane. His voice very far away, Ilya thought. He looked down and realized he'd finished his pryaniki. His sides hurt, as if his mother had been tickling him until he cried with laughter just a few minutes ago. Like she was standing in Yuna and David Hollander's dining room, leaning against the back of Ilya's chair, her finger twisting through his curls. 

No. No, that was Shane's hand tugging a little bit at the back of his head, in that way Ilya liked. Ilya's chest felt too warm. Shane was trying to bring him back, trying to show he was right here, safe. Trying to ask, maybe, if he was okay—without really asking. He was probably scaring Shane. 

"My dad asked if they're okay," Shane said into the silence, which Ilya realized had probably stretched far too long. 

Ilya hummed and lifted his head. Made himself meet David's concerned eyes and smile, even if it felt stiff, "Yes. Very good. Very, ah, accurate." 

He didn't remember much after that. He remembered Shane, with great effort, carrying the conversation while Ilya sat quietly. A rare occurrence. He remembered going to the bathroom and pressing his forehead to the cool, light blue walls. He remembered being handed a plastic container with the rest of the pryaniki inside. 

He did not remember the car ride back to the cottage, or the way Shane kept looking sideways at him. 

Ilya came back to himself as Shane unlocked the door. Ilya knew his husband very well. He knew as soon as they were inside, their shoes off, and the lights on, there would be questions. Gentle ones, spoken quietly, like Ilya was a scared child. Loving touches. The intense effect of Shane's eye contact, which he only seemed to give when Ilya was the least prepared to be looked at. 

Which is why Ilya grabbed Shane's hips and all but shoved him through the front door. Shane made a surprised noise, almost a laugh, and turned in Ilya's arms. Shane opened his mouth, but Ilya swallowed whatever he might've said. Firmly, insistent, maybe a little frantic against Shane's lips. Ilya wrapped one arm around his waist, pressing them flush, feeling their hip bones collide. He gripped Shane's jaw with his other hand, moving it just the way he wanted. Shane let him. He used Shane's body to shut the door, pressing so hard against it that Shane might as well be pinned. Ilya felt the moment that Shane realized that because he moaned, suddenly and probably without meaning to. 

Yes. Yes. This. Shane's leg hooked around his hip. Shane's tongue in his mouth. Shane's hands trying to reach into the nonexistent space between them, but Ilya just kept pressing, pressing, pressing, like he was trying to make their bodies occupy the same space. Shane gave up trying to reach Ilya's shirt or his dick or whatever he had planned to do. Instead, he dug his hands into Ilya's hair and pulled. Hard. 

Ilya groaned, low and deep into Shane's mouth. He liked it when Shane hurt him. Right then, he wanted him to do it more. What would Shane say if he asked him to slap him? He'd probably act horrified, but then he'd go on his computer and put on his glasses and google, how do I safely hit my boyfriend during sex?

Shane wrenched Ilya back by his hair, a long rope of spit hanging between their lips. Ilya chased the kiss, but Shane's grip on his hair was unforgiving. He made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat and squeezed Shane's waist a bit. He liked it when Shane took control sometimes, but he was a little afraid that this time he was going to—

"Are you—" Shane panted, his mouth alarmingly red, "Are you sure you're okay?"

Ilya pressed into him again, as far as he could while Shane held his head back by his curls, "No talking. Let me have you." It was meant to sound commanding, but it came across as if Ilya were begging for it. He wasn't necessarily above that. 

Shane shuddered. His dark eyes were blown impossibly black. He wanted to give in—Ilya could feel it. Literally feel it against his leg, but Shane wouldn't let him get away that easily. 

"Are you sure—"

"Yes. Yes, am fine. Please just—just—"

"Okay, okay," Shane said soothingly, "Just hold on, okay? I kind of couldn't breathe." Shane loosened his grip on Ilya's hair, ran his fingers soothingly over his scalp.

"Oh," Ilya said, suddenly cold. Had Shane wanted to stop and Ilya didn't notice? Greedy, selfish, his mind supplied. He tried to take a step back, "Sorry—"

"No!" Shane said suddenly, his arms flying around Ilya, wrapping him up and keeping him close, pressed up against him. At the look on Ilya's face, Shane turned sheepish. He blushed as he admitted, "I...I like this." He nodded between them. 

Ilya looked down, then back up at Shane. He thought he knew what Shane meant, but he wasn't completely sure, "This?" 

"You...um..." Shane bit his lip, "...Crushing me?" 

Ilya tried. He really did, but he could feel his face splitting open and a laugh tumbling out. Shane rolled his eyes and let his head drop back against the door, "Fuck you." 

"No, no, is—" Ilya's shoulders shook, he used the arm not locked around Shane to wipe his eyes, "You like big strong man crushing you. Is not new. I know this." 

Shane was just looking at him, smiling softly. He wanted Shane to look at him—of course he did—but also....it was a lot. Too much, maybe, to have the whole of Shane Hollander's love and attention placed on him at once. He felt raw. Antsy. Ilya was shifting from foot to foot. He needed the frantic touching and heat from thirty seconds ago. 

Ilya leaned into the side of Shane's neck, let his lips ghost over the overheated skin as he said lowly, in that register that made Shane's toes curl, "I like it too. Crushing my sweet, pretty boy." He dropped a hand to the meat of Shane's ass and dug his fingers in. 

In response, Shane made a noise which could only be described as a purr. He was lax, malleable in Ilya's arms as he kissed up and down the column of his throat. 

Shane was dragging his fingers up and down the thin material of Ilya's shirt when he said suddenly, "I'm sorry about the cookies." 

Ilya went still for just a second before he continued his ministrations against Shane's neck. Hurried, wetter. "Stop. Is just cookies." 

Please. Please don't. 

Warm hands gripped the sides of Ilya's face. Pulled him back. Made him look. 

"They made you sad." 

"I am not sad." 

Thumbs brushed over his cheeks, "Ilya." 

"Your dad makes me cookies. They are good. I am grateful."

Shane's eyes were sad now, worried. Maybe a little scared when he said, "Did they...did they make you think of your mom?"

Shane and his questions. So direct. He doesn't know any other way to be. He doesn't know how to let Ilya hide. It's right on the tip of his tongue. A lie. A reassurance. But it's like, now that someone has said it out loud, it settled in Ilya's chest like a ten-ton weight. He couldn't breathe. He felt stupid. Crazy, even. Eyes filling with tears over fucking cookies. He couldn't bear to stand in this house, which was just starting to feel like his and not something Shane only allowed him to have, and think about the immense Irina-shaped hole in his life. She had been gone so long now. He thought that the ache was supposed to get better. Instead, it felt like it was eating him alive. 

Ilya squeezed his eyes shut to keep the tears from falling, "Please," he said desperately, hating himself for sounding so weak, "Please—just—I can't—"

"Ilya—"

He was gasping now, "Please. I can't. Please do not make me." What was he asking for? He didn't really know. He couldn't think. Couldn't suck down a full breath. Couldn't do anything right. 

"Woah, hey, hey," Shane said, hauling Ilya into him, pressing his face to the crook of his neck. Holding him up, "Okay. It's okay. I have you."

Ilyusha. 

His mother's voice. Clear as a bell. He cried harder into Shane. Held onto him like he might float away if he didn't. Shane must be scared, but Ilya couldn't stop. 

He realized distantly that Shane was squeezing Ilya into him, forcing him to feel each steady inhale through their clothes. Shane stroked his hair. Breathed calmly. He'd learned, by now, the distinct shape of his husband's panic. It was almost funny, Ilya thought. Shane was a perpetually panicked and anxious person, but he was never calmer, never more level-headed than when Ilya lost it. 

After some time, Ilya's breath slowed. He'd created a wet patch on Shane's shoulder. He must hate that. 

"Sorry," Ilya said. 

"No," Shane replied, wrapping his hand around the back of Ilya's neck, grounding him, "No more talking. We're gonna go to bed, and you're gonna let me hold you. Okay?" 

Ilya drew back. His smile was shaky, but real. He knew he must look like a mess, but Shane's expression didn't change. Only love. 

"Mm. Bossy. Yes sir." 

Shane gave him an indulgent smile, bright and lopsided. It made Ilya's chest ache in a different way. He let himself be led through the dark of the cottage to the bedroom. Their bedroom. He let Shane peel off his jacket, his dark jeans. It wasn't sexual—it was just intimate. 

He let himself fall asleep held, his face salty and dry. 

------ 

It wasn't that Shane let it go, Ilya thought. It was just that, he understood. He didn't need Ilya to say it for once. He knew. 

However, the universe was not going to let it slide. 

They were in the kitchen. It was raining, and would continue to do so all day, or so Shane had said. Fat raindrops hit the (numerous) windows of the cottage. They would play video games today, probably. Watch a movie that Shane would fall asleep during. Fuck. Work out. Eat disgusting, nutrient-dense smoothies. Fuck again. Maybe Shane could be convinced to order in for dinner. Maybe he could carefully broach the subject of Shane slapping him during sex. So much opportunity. 

Ilya stood over the oven, scrambling eggs to the perfect, hockey puck-like consistency Shane preferred. Ilya was shirtless, Shane's sweatpants low on his hips. Shane kept walking by and brushing his hands over Ilya's bare skin. At the cottage, it seemed impossible for them not to touch or be near each other at all times. Shane sat on the counter next to Ilya, a mug of tea steaming between his hands. Hair mussed. Ilya's Centaur hoodie on. Their team now. 

Ilya's phone rang. 

He wouldn't have even heard it, but it was on the kitchen island, the vibration loud against granite. 

"Your phone," Shane said unnecessarily, taking a sip of his tea. Lemon grass. He liked how it made Shane's mouth taste after. 

Ilya didn't turn from the stove. "Let it go to voicemail,” he shrugged. 

"It's Svetlana," Shane said, glancing at the picture lighting up Ilya's screen. Brown curls. A bright smile. Her middle finger taking up most of the screen. 

That was odd. They hadn't talked about it, but Svetlana knew that this time with Shane at the cottage was when he disappeared from the world and ignored every attempt at contact that did not come from Shane or maybe Shane's parents. They hadn't spoken since he texted to tell her he landed in Ibiza. Ilya frowned. He supposed it was reasonable to tell her he was alive and back in Canada. 

"Okay. Will you put it on speaker?" 

Shane slid off the counter gracefully, not spilling a drop of his tea, "Da."

Ilya smirked, reached behind him and pinched Shane's haunch. 

"Stop it," Shane hissed before answering. He held the phone up to Ilya with an expression that said, no misbehaving.

"Hi," Ilya said in English, "You are on speaker. Shane is here." This was necessary because sometimes Svetlana would launch into a sudden and graphic description of her sexual and romantic escapades as soon as Ilya answered the phone. She wouldn't care that Shane heard, but Shane would probably be alarmed. He was always alarmed when it came to sex, but especially sex and women. 

There's a silent pause and then a flat, "Oh, so he lives." 

Ah, so she had probably been trying to contact Ilya for a while. If he had bothered to check his phone, he probably would’ve seen a few texts. He felt just a little guilty. Sveta was family after all.

”Hey, I am very busy man. Busy married man. Very busy with my husband-“ 

“Ilya.”

Ilya snorts.

“So you are both well? You had fun? I saw the pictures. You looked good, Shane.” Sveta said.

Shane blinked and said very politely, “Oh. Uh, thank you, Svetlana.”

“Ah, what about me? What? I am ugly now?”

The line was silent. He expected a laugh, or at least a faux groan of annoyance. His tone was teasing after all. 

Ilya frowned. He looked up from the eggs to see Shane wearing a similar expression, that delicious little furrow between his brows. Shane tapped the darkened phone screen between them. The call was still going. 

“Sveta?” Ilya asked into the silence. 

“Yes,” she said suddenly, “Yes. Sorry. So you are both well? You are at the cottage?”

Something prickled the back of Ilya’s neck then. A sixth sense he probably learned in his father’s house, where it was important to know when something bad was headed his way. It made him stand up straighter. It made his vision sharpen and his mind suddenly scream, get ready get ready get ready. 

“...Yes we are at the cottage. We are good.” When there was another bout of silence, Ilya said, a little sternly, “Svetlana.” 

Sveta’s next words were in Russian, “I need to talk to you, Ilya.”

Shane frowned. Ilya could see him parsing through the words, trying to translate them. He shouldn’t have to do that, Ilya thought. He shouldn’t be excluded from a simple conversation. 

It wasn’t like Sveta to dance around something like this. Ilya found it annoying him a little bit. If he could trust nothing else in life, he had always been able to trust Sveta to be honest and direct with him. Ilya stirred the eggs a little aggressively, “We are talking right now. What do you want?”

Silence again. Shane stared intently at the phone. Ilya was seconds away from hanging up and telling her to call back when she finally decided what to say, his mind counting up the time he and Shane had left together before they had to return to the real world. 

Suddenly, there was the unmistakable sound of sniffling, wet and gasping, over the phone.

Shane and Ilya's heads swung up with twin expressions of horror. Svetlana Vetrova was on the other side of the phone crying. 

"Sveta..." Ilya breathed, at a loss. Svetlana did not cry. Well, of course she did, but she grew up like Ilya. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen her cry, and when she had, the tears had been furiously wiped away so fast he wondered if that even counted as crying. 

"Ilyushka," Svetlana said wetly, her voice warbling in English, "I—I need to talk to you about something. Please." 

Ilya was struck dumb. She had not called him that since his mother died. He felt cold all the way through imagining Sveta in Russia or New York or wherever she was, curled in on herself, crying, alone with snappy, ungrateful Ilya on the phone. Had something happened to her father? Her mother? Had someone hurt her? 

"Here," Shane said, and Ilya realized he was taking the spatula out of Ilya's hand and offering him the phone, his eyes wide but steady, "I got it. Go." 

Ilya nodded and took the phone numbly. His legs felt tingly and unsteady as he walked himself out the front door of the cottage and onto the covered front porch. The concrete was damp, cold against his bare feet. It grounded him a bit. 

He began in Russian, in a voice much steadier than he felt, "I am alone. Tell me right now, are you okay? Do you need help?" 

She huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh, "Yes. Yes, I'm fine. I'm sorry." She made another noise that Ilya knew meant she was annoyed with herself. He could picture her now, drying her face roughly, sitting up straighter, "This isn't about me. I am fine. I just—I'm sorry to bother you with this now. I know you want to be alone, with Shane." 

Ilya bit his lip, paced the small length of the front porch, "You know...you know you can always bother me, Sveta, yes? Always. Even if I am bitchy about it please bother me anyway." It's important, for some reason, that he told her this now. That he made sure she knew. 

She laughed a little. It soothed something in Ilya's chest. "Yes. I know." 

Ilya chewed on the inside of his cheek, "So...." 

Please just say whatever the fuck you are trying to say. You are freaking me out.

She seemed to understand, "I don't know what way to say this that would be right. I have been thinking about it and I just don't know, so, I will just say the facts." 

Svetlana took a fortifying breath. 

"Your brother decided to sell the house. Your father's house. But he is too much of a fucking idiot to know how to do anything right and too prideful to ask his wife to help him." 

Ilya can't help but snort, "These are the facts?" 

"Yes. Anyway, he asks my mother for help. Of course. Easy to look stupid in front of her, right? She is black and American. Fucking prick. I told her not to help him. She said it did not bother her what fucking Alexei Rozanov thought of her. I said, don't help him anyway! And my mother...well...she said she could not turn down one of your mother's boys. That it wasn't for him at all, but for...Irina." 

Ilya sucked in a breath. His mother, his mother, his mother, always his mother. "Why are you telling me this?" 

"I know. Just listen," Sveta said gently, "My mother hired some people to get it ready. It's an old house, you know? They had to rip some things out. And they—well, they found some...things." 

"Some things." Ilya repeated, his heart beating out of his chest, though he couldn't possibly say why. What did any of this have to do with him? His relationship with Russia had ended the minute he fell in love with Shane. Hell, probably before that. Probably when his mother died. 

"Diaries," Svetlana blurted, "They found diaries. Your mother's diaries, Ilya." 

The rain had started up again, at an angle, so that it still managed to hit Ilya under the covered porch. His left side was drenched, the water hitting his phone but he couldn't feel it. Well, that wasn't exactly right. He was feeling so much in his body that the sharp, industrial lines of the cottage began to sway, dancing in his vision like he was having a bad high. Shane had often tried to explain what his moments of overstimulation felt like, especially the ones that led to shutting down. It had been hard for Ilya to understand, he who craved stimulation like nothing else. He thought he might understand now. 

Ilya realized, at some distance from his body, that he was on the ground. His tailbone hurt as if he'd gone down hard on the ice, but he didn't recall getting there. He was sitting up at least, so he must not have hit his head. Maybe. Probably? But, his ears were ringing. The rain, the wind in the evergreens, Sveta's frantic voice, all of it garbled, like the radio static of his mother's stereo. He was distinctly aware of his heartbeat radiating out of the strangest places. His left thumb. His forehead. He looked down at his fingers and expected to see the frantic thumpthumpthumpthump of blood. Instead, they were only shaking. 

"Ilya!"

Sveta was screaming over the phone. Loud enough that her voice went funny at the end, like her microphone couldn't quite keep up. 

"Where did they find them?" Ilya found himself saying. It felt like someone else was operating his mouth, forming words and sending them out so his brain didn't even have to participate. A machine made for saying the right thing and taking hits. Over. And over. And over. 

"For fucks sake—Christ Ilya! Do not do that again. Fuck," she said, sniffling again, "They were in the kitchen. Under a loose floorboard."

Of course. The one place they could hide. Even more so than Ilya thought, apparently. 

"I have them with me right now, Ilyusha. I'm bringing them to you. I'm in Dubai on layover, but tomorrow—"

"No." 

Sveta made a pained noise, "Just listen to me—"

"No, no, no—I—I—Sveta—" Ilya was gasping. What was he trying to say, exactly? That he didn't want what was very likely the last words of his mother? That wasn't right. And it wasn't true either. But also, he couldn't fucking do this. Not even a little bit. For the first time in a while, Ilya wished to drop off the face of the planet. Not to die, exactly. But to not exist, so he didn't have to—

"Stop it. Stop it right now and listen to me," Sveta snapped. He found himself closing his eyes and leaning into the harsh sound of her voice, "Alexei wanted to destroy them. The diaries. He and my mother fought about it. She couldn't believe that he would receive this gift and just—just—"

Ilya could. Oh, he could believe it completely. 

"Fuck Ilya! I couldn't bear it, okay? Maybe you do not want them. Maybe I travel across the fucking planet and you throw them in the trash anyway. What the fuck ever. But I could not bear the thought of you not getting to choose. I couldn't allow that piece of shit to take anything else from you. Be angry at me if you want. Don't let me into Shane Hollander's mansion in the woods. Fine. But do not think for a second I regret it. I stole these diaries from your brother and I am bringing them to you now. That is final." 

After this breathless and, frankly, angry monologue, Sveta let out a string of curses. If Ilya were in his right mind, there was a lot he might have said to Sveta. Thank you. I love you. Please don't lose them. Don't let them go for a second. Throw them out of the moving plane. Burn them. Burn me with them. How could you do this to me? Thank you for doing this for me. 

As it was, tears streaming silently down his face, his sweatpants sopping wet and cold, Ilya only said, "Okay." 

"...Okay?"

"Okay." 

"Are you—" Sveta seemed to think better of this question, "Where are you? Where is Shane?" 

"Um....I....I don't...." 

"Stay right where you are. Do not move. I will see you tomorrow, late probably, so please answer me when I text you. Or have Shane do it. I thought you would want to hear this news alone, but I think you need him now, yes?" 

"Yes." 

"Okay." 

The line went dead. 

-----

Shane had been pacing inside for a while. The eggs were long since done. Now they were cold. Maybe Svetlana was having boy problems. Or family problems. Or any sort of problem that you called your best friend for. It was absolutely none of his business. Completely normal. Ilya was well within his rights to have a private conversation with a friend.

And if Shane told Ilya everything that Rose or Hayden told him, that was his choice. Ilya did not have to do the same thing. Even though Shane was sort of under the impression that that's what partners did. Hayden joked that any secret or piece of gossip that made it his way would reach Jackie 30 seconds later. He knew for a fact that anything he told his mom would be heard by his dad too. But he and Ilya hadn't talked about that. They'd been married for less than a month. The last thing Shane wanted to do was impose rules on what Ilya was and wasn't allowed to keep to himself. Especially after the last year. That was basically all Shane had done for their entire relationship. 

But also. Also. He was nauseous. He was chewing on the skin around his nails, which he hadn't done in weeks. He was looking anywhere but the front door. For privacy. Which Ilya was allowed. Which he could be totally and completely normal about. 

His phone rang. 

It was still in their bedroom. Shane was grateful for the distraction but also a little worried that whoever was calling would be able to tell that something was wrong. And then he would have to lie. Right? He couldn't say to Hayden or his mom or Rose that Ilya's best friend, whom he used to fuck casually for years, and also might've married if it weren't for Shane, called him crying, and now Shane was freaking out. That made Ilya look bad—or, no. Maybe that just made Shane seem insane. He just knew how Hayden, especially, would react. 

Except the name across his screen read Svetlana. 

"Uh, hello? This is Shane." 

There was a brief silence on the other side, "Yes Shanya. I know. This is Svetlana."

"Right." 

"I just told Ilya some difficult news and I think maybe he is not taking it well. Will you go check on him, please?" 

Difficult news? 

"Oh. Okay, I'll do that." Shane was already walking toward the front door, but his mind was stuck on difficult news. Had the brother died? It seemed possible. How long do coke addicts live anyway? Would Ilya care? He must care a little bit. 

"Do you know where he is?" Sveta said over the phone, a little nervously. Did she think that he would.....? Shane couldn't let that thought form, but jesus fuck what had she told him?

"Yeah, he went outside, but he didn't bring his shoes," Shane said, eyeing the slides, opening the front door, "I don't think he went far—"

Things were very wrong. Ilya was on the ground. He hadn't been wearing a shirt that morning, and his sweatpants were soaked through. No shoes either, like Shane thought. His curls were starting to stick to his forehead from the blowing, drifting rain. Droplets collected on his shoulders. Every time he shivered, they fell and ran down his chest and back. His phone hung limply in his hand. He stared out, unseeing, at the driveway. He was completely and utterly still. Like he wasn't breathing at all. 

He did not react to Shane. 

Shane, historically, was not great with emotions and equally useless in times of crisis. But this was Ilya. His husband. And even though he was completely fucking terrified Shane knew it was up to him to help Ilya right now. It was not a burden. It was not something he took lightly. It was a gift, to be allowed to help. It was something Ilya had not let him do for so long. The details of whatever the fuck was going on could be figured out later. Shane's mind dutifully separated everything into later and what Ilya needed now. 

Ilya needed to be warm. He needed to be dry. He needed to be held. 

"I have him. I'll call you back when I can." Shane hung up before she could answer. He stuffed his phone into his pocket and walked over to Ilya. He crouched in front of him, slowly. He'd seen Ilya dissociate before. He'd also seen Ilya flinch if someone moved too fast when he was like this. He didn't react now, though. Not as Shane took Ilya's phone out of his hand and stuffed it in his other pocket. Not as Shane spoke lowly and calmly to him. 

"I'm going to help you up, okay?" 

Ilya must have heard him, though, because as Shane slipped an arm around Ilya's waist and pulled, Ilya's limbs swung jerkily into action. He wasn't dead weight, but he let Shane steer him into the house. He was shaking all over, his teeth chattering as Shane pulled him into their bathroom. He dropped Ilya's gently onto the toilet lid and moved to turn the hot water on—

Ilya's hand shot out, fisting in Shane's shirt, "Stay. Please." 

Fuck. Shane swallowed. Now was not the time to start crying. He took Ilya's clammy hand in his, tried to rub some warmth into it, "I'm not leaving. I'm right here with you. In the cottage. We're safe." 

Ilya blinked rapidly at the floor. If Shane didn't know any better, he'd say he looked ashamed, "I know where I am, Shane." 

"Okay. Good." He didn't let go of Ilya's hand, "I'm just going to turn the water on. We're going to get warm, okay?" 

"Okay." 

And if Ilya held onto the back of Shane's shirt while he did it, Shane would never, ever say a word about it. 

While the bath filled Shane stripped, then pulled Ilya's—or his, actually—sweatpants off. He didn't even wait to stuff it all in the hamper. Not while Ilya was standing there, naked and shivering, his eyes wide and blank. He stepped into the hot water first, then directed Ilya in with him. He might have grumbled something in Russian, something about not needing help. Shane only guided them down, settling behind Ilya. Shane cocooned him, wrapping his arms around Ilya's broad chest. 

They'd done this before. Dozens of times, actually. But there had always been an undercurrent of sex, or romance. It had never been like this. A necessity. A matter of survival. 

Not that Ilya was going to die. It might be Canada, but it was summertime, and he hadn't been outside for that long, objectively. But there was a big difference between simply being warm and needing to be warmed. 

"I am okay." Ilya said. 

Shane kissed his wet curls. They were cold, "I know. I'm making sure of that." 

"I am sorry." 

"No." Shane said simply. There was no other response. He cupped water in his palms. Poured it over Ilya's scalp. Careful of his eyes. 

Ilya shivered again. He was still so tense. Locked up in Shane's arms. 

"I am scaring you," Ilya said. 

"I'm not scared of you." 

"But I am being scary." Ilya replied stubbornly, his accent thick over the English vowels. 

Shane reached for the shampoo, he poured a little in his hand. He felt Ilya tense again, lean a little away from him. Shane followed him, pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. Another to his shoulder. Ilya shuddered.

"Yes, is scary," Shane parroted in a spectacularly bad Russian accent, "But you are brave." 

Ilya let out a breath. Almost a laugh. It felt like a goal scored late in the period, unlikely and painstakingly earned, so Shane kept going, "You're brave for me. Let me be brave for you, okay? Let me do this." The shampoo waited in his palm. 

Shane could see Ilya's fingers digging into his thighs beneath the water. He waited, shampoo suspended between them. He would wait as long as Ilya needed. His knees stiff from holding a 200 pound man between them. His back curved against porcelain. It didn't matter. It was more important that Ilya let Shane take care of him. He thought the intimacy of this was scarier for Ilya than any of the crazy sex they'd had. 

Finally, Ilya nodded jerkily, "Okay." 

He started methodically scrubbing his fingers through Ilya's hair. Slowly, so slowly, until he went lax. Shane pressed his cheek against Ilya's damp head and whispered, "Thank you, baby." 

"Fuck," Ilya shuddered, cursed some more under his breath in Russian. Shane smirked. 

Definitely a good shudder. 

-----

Later, they curled up in bed facing each other. Shane's leg thrown over Ilya. Ilya's arm squeezing possessively around Shane's waist. It was only early afternoon but Shane had drawn the curtains and set the lamps low as if it were late at night. He figured they should indulge in a nap. There was still a tiredness that hung across Ilya, making him sink into the mattress, his puffy eyes fluttering with sleep, but he was warm to the touch, his cheeks pleasantly flushed. He smiled softly when Shane brushed his curls back. They were getting so long now. 

"I need to tell you," Ilya said into the fuzzy quiet. 

Shane shook his head against the pillows, "You don't have to yet. We can sleep first." 

"I can. I want. Just—English feels so hard." 

"It's okay. Go slow. I'm listening." 

It was stilted and full of tears that Ilya kept apologizing for, but Shane got the gist of it. Ilya's reaction certainly made sense now, Shane thought. But wasn't this sort of exciting too? Svetlana had said diaries, plural. Multiple notebooks of writing from a parent Ilya hadn't seen since he was twelve. It seemed like a gift. 

Then Shane bit his lip. What would the diaries of a depressed woman who killed herself look like? A very small, scared part of Shane wanted to ask Ilya not to read them. 

"I see you thinking," Ilya whispered, his voice gravely. 

Shane shook off those thoughts. This wasn't about him or his fear. It was about what Ilya needed, and Shane really had to work on trusting Ilya to make decisions. "So, Svetlana will be here tomorrow?" 

"I think so. Yes."

"And she's bringing them with her? The journals?" 

"Yes." Ilya said. He was watching Shane very carefully. 

After a while Shane hummed, "I'm glad. I think it would be a really bad idea to ship them. This is smarter. Practical....Oh. I should make up the guest room. It's probably dusty." 

Ilya barked out a laugh. It sounded a little painful, "This is what you say? Practical? Dust?" 

"Well, yeah."

Ilya laughed at this. Shane was being completely serious but it made him smile to see Ilya laugh. He'd started to drift off, his eyes fluttering closed when Ilya said, "What if I can't read them?" 

His first thought was, oh no, did Ilya forget how to read Cyrillic? But then Shane figured that might not be exactly what he meant, "That's okay. We'll figure it out. Whatever you want to do, we'll do it. I'll help you." 

Ilya swallowed thickly. He opened and closed his mouth a few times. Shane waited. Eventually, he settled on saying simply, "Ya tebya lyublyu." 

Shane closed his eyes again, a sleepy, dopey smile on his face, "Ya tebya lyublyu." 

He was proud of himself for staying calm. For helping Ilya. It was the best feeling in the world, he thought, loving Ilya correctly. Better, even, than hockey.