Work Text:
Ottawa in April was gray, wet, and moody as a teenager in puberty, but on this rare day off before the start of the playoffs, the sun suddenly decided to show mercy.
Shane and Ilya were enjoying the silence. No practices, no calls from Wiebe, no tactical schemes. Only coffee, a deep sofa, and Anya curled up in a warm fur ball at their feet. Shane was reading a book on modern architecture (bought back in 2020, judging by the receipt inside, and unopened until now), enjoying order and peace.
The idyll was murdered.
The doorbell rang.
The ring was insistent. Not a polite courier’s “ding-dong and I left the package.” This one rang long, with a claim, and, not receiving an answer in three seconds, turned into loud, demanding pounding with a fist.
“Are we expecting someone?” Shane took off his glasses and looked at Ilya.
“No,” Ilya frowned without looking up from his phone. “Probably neighbors. Don’t open it. We’re not home. We died.”
But the door was drummed on again – so furiously that Anya jumped up, hackles raised, and burst into booming, bass barking.
“Open up, Hollander!” came from behind the door. The voice was female. Ringing. And very angry. “I see your car! I know you’re hiding in there! Don’t make me pick this damn door with a hairpin!”
Shane exhaled heavily, stood up, adjusted his loose home sweater, and went to the hallway, feeling the calm morning crumble into dust.
He opened the door – and was hit by a wave.
It was a sensory attack.
First – the smell. Sharp, expensive, complex scent of niche perfume (leather, rose, something metallic) that instantly displaced the smell of homemade coffee. Then – sound. The clatter of stilettos on parquet sounded like machine-gun fire to Shane’s sensitive ears.
A fury stood on the threshold. A petite, dazzlingly beautiful woman in huge sunglasses, a perfect beige Burberry trench coat, and holding a cardboard coffee cup like a grenade with the pin pulled.
She didn’t wait for an invitation. She simply moved forward, and Shane instinctively recoiled, pressing his back against the wall, unable to cope with this rush of energy.
Anya, seeing her, for some reason immediately stopped barking and wagged her tail. Traitor.
“What the hell?!” the guest blurted out, turning sharply and throwing her hands up theatrically. “Three weeks, Shane! THREE! I text you, call, send voice notes, send cat memes! are you in a bunker? Or did your Russian dictator decide again that I’m a bad influence and blocked me?”
Shane felt his back go cold.
It wasn’t a dictator. It was an algorithm.
In the very first week after discharge, when his phone was exploding with hundreds of messages from unfamiliar numbers and unfamiliar names, Shane panicked. To keep his sanity, he introduced a strict digital protocol. A “Whitelist.” He methodically entered into allowed contacts only those who were part of his new, verified reality and those he remembered: Ilya, parents, Hayden, Harris, Coach Wiebe... Those he was told about. All other numbers – unknown, unidentified, unverified – the iOS system automatically sent to silent mode and the “Spam” folder.
Whoever this woman was, her number wasn’t on the trusted list. Which meant for Shane’s phone she was just digital noise the system silenced on approach.
She ripped off her glasses – and Shane froze. He knew that face. He had seen it on posters in movie theaters. In perfume commercials. In Oscar clips he watched while studying the pop culture of the last decade.
It was Rose Landry. Real. Alive. In his hallway.
“Uh…” he squeezed out, feeling his brain glitch from overload. “Are you… Ms. Rose Landry?”
Her perfectly defined eyebrows flew up to her hairline. She froze, looking at him like he was insane.
At that moment, Ilya came out of the living room. In sweatpants and a t-shirt, he looked like the complete opposite of this glossy storm.
“Landry,” he drawled in a tone usually used to announce the start of a nuclear war or a gastritis flare-up. “You, as always. Loud, brazen, and uninvited.”
“Rozanov!” Rose instantly switched to a new target. “Did you block me? Admit it! I know you can’t stand me, but this is too much even for your Siberian jealousy!”
Ilya scoffed and leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, demonstrating disdain with his whole appearance:
“Like I care enough to block you. Too much honor. Shane was just… busy.”
“Busy with what? Ignoring his best friend?!” she stared at Shane again, hands on hips.
Shane cast a desperate look at his husband.
“I…” he began, feeling the ground slip from under his feet. “I’m gonna… uh… make coffee. Ilya, help me. Now.”
He grabbed Ilya by the elbow and literally dragged him into the kitchen. As soon as they were in the saving shadow of the refrigerator, Shane pinned Ilya to the door and whispered furiously:
“What the hell, Rozanov?!”
“What?” Ilya feigned innocence worthy of an award Rose had surely received.
“Why didn’t you say I know Rose Landry?!” Shane hissed, waving his hands. “She just called herself my best friend! That’s, motherfucking, ROSE LANDRY! I fanboyed over her in 2015! I had a poster in my locker!”
Ilya’s face froze. A shadow of a very old, very deep and painful resentment flickered in his eyes.
“That’s why,” he said evenly, “I didn’t say.”
“Meaning?”
“Literally,” Ilya crossed his arms over his chest, closing off. “You didn’t just ‘fanboy,’ Shane. You dated her.”
Shane felt his breath hitch.
“WHAT?!”
“Montreal. Winter of 2016-2017. That period when you decided to play ‘normal guy’ to prove to yourself you weren’t in love with the rival captain. You picked her up in a bar, you slept together for a couple of weeks, you dragged her to every red carpet, and I…” he clenched his jaw, muscles working. “And I was going crazy with jealousy, reading in newspapers what a beautiful couple you were.”
Shane leaned heavily back against the fridge door as if it were the only thing keeping him upright.
“I slept with Rose Landry? With a Hollywood star?”
“Uh-huh. And then dumped her in the middle of a nightclub when you saw me at the bar with some blonde.”
“Hey!” a ringing voice sounded behind their backs.
Shane and Ilya jumped.
Rose stood in the doorway, leaning her shoulder against the jamb. She squinted like a cat ready to pounce.
“You boys are acting suspicious,” she said, scanning them with her gaze. “Shane, why are you looking at me like I’m your grandmother’s ghost? And why did you call me ‘Ms.’? We drank tequila out of each other’s belly buttons, in case you forgot.”
Shane swallowed. Lying here was useless. She was too smart.
“Rose…” he began, peeling himself off the fridge. “Sorry. I didn’t block you. I have… amnesia.”
Rose blinked. Once. Twice. Then laughed – shortly, disbelievingly:
“Great. Wonderful. What’s next, Hollander? Alien abduction? Secret CIA mission?”
“Concussion,” Ilya said harshly, stepping forward and shielding Shane with himself. “In October. Severe. He lost his memory. Nine years.”
Rose’s laughter cut off as if the sound had been turned off.
She peered intently at Shane. At his confusion. At the lack of recognition in his eyes. At how nervously he pressed his shoulder to Ilya, as if instinctively seeking support.
Her face changed. The diva mask fell off, leaving the live, compassionate face of a woman who understood everything.
“Oh god,” she whispered. “Are you serious? You really… nothing?”
“I remember you as the actress from Under the Cover of Darkness,” Shane admitted honestly. “But Ilya just said we… dated.”
Rose shifted her gaze to Ilya – and suddenly burst out laughing. Loudly, pealingly, to tears.
“Dated?! Rozanov, you’re something else! You call that circus with clowns ‘dated’? That was a disaster, not a relationship!”
She walked up to Shane, took his hand – gently, friendly, without the slightest coquetry.
“Okay. Let’s do a quick crash course before your jealous husband rewrites history in his favor. We met at a bar in Montreal. You were drunk, devilishly handsome, and desperately trying to look straight. I was tired after shooting, mad at producers, and wanted entertainment. We found each other.”
Shane felt heat flooding his ears.
“And we?..”
“Yes,” Rose nodded. “A few times. You were… sweet. Diligent. But in bed, you looked like you were trying to solve a differential equation, not get pleasure.”
Ilya in the background let out a gloating chuckle.
“And then we went to a club,” Rose continued, ignoring Ilya. “And he showed up. Dancing with some peroxide blonde. And you froze in the middle of the dance floor. You looked at him like…” she sighed. “Like I wanted to give you an Oscar for best drama. Or a slap in the face.”
Shane asked quietly:
“And what did I do?”
“Ran away. Just turned around and vanished, leaving me that evening. A week later I talked to you straight, and we ‘broke up’,” she made air quotes with her fingers and rolled her eyes.
Shane closed his eyes.
“Sorry…”
“God, Shane,” Rose squeezed his palm. “I forgave you ten years ago. We drank, you cried on my shoulder, and we became best friends. You told me more than your own therapist. And Ilya…” she threw a predatory smile in Ilya’s direction, “still doesn’t like me. Because I know everything about you. Even what he doesn’t know.”
“I don’t…” Ilya began but waved his hand. “Fine. Yes. I don’t like you. You’re too loud. And you teach him to drink crappy wine.”
“Jealous, Rozanov?” Rose winked. “Relax. He’s already yours. I checked. Hopeless.”
She turned to Shane, beaming.
“Right. I need wine. Your husband has a stash, that Barolo. I want to hear EVERYTHING about your amnesia. Every detail.”
Shane looked at her – bright, funny, understanding. Then at Ilya – scowling but resigned.
“Ilya… get the wine,” he asked. “I need a drink to process that I dumped Rose Landry in a nightclub for you.”
Ilya, grumbling something about “barbarians” and “regimen,” went to the cellar. He returned with a bottle of dusty, noble wine and three glasses.
When Shane was handed his glass, he didn’t drink immediately. He brought it to his face and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. Tart, complex smell of blackcurrant, earth, and oak.
Shane tried to catch at least something. At least some spark. Did I drink this wine with her? Did we laugh about something under this smell?
But his sense of smell was silent. The smell was just the smell of wine. No pictures. No déjà vu. It hit him again with the realization of loss, but Rose’s voice brought him out of the trance.
“So, Hollander. Spill. From the very beginning.”
“One glass,” Ilya warned, sitting next to Shane and demonstratively putting an arm on the back of the sofa behind his shoulders. “Practice tomorrow.”
Rose stuck her tongue out at him and, leaning toward Shane, whispered conspiratorially:
“He adores you to the point of losing his pulse. But, honest to god, he’s so stifling. How do you live with him?”
Shane laughed, taking a sip. The wine was excellent, even if he didn’t remember it.
“I think I’m starting to understand why we became friends, Rose.”
P.S.
Later, when the light in the bedroom was already off, and Anya was quietly snuffling in her spot in the corner.
Shane lay staring into the darkness. That very bottle from Ilya’s “sacred” stash, which he and Rose finished after all (despite the owner’s grumbling about regimen), made Shane’s tongue too loose and sarcastic.
He nudged Ilya with his elbow. Not hard, but calculatedly. Right under the ribs. Ilya, who had almost drifted into sleep, let out a heavy, martyred sigh.
“Mmm?”
“Slides eighteen through twenty-two,” Shane pronounced clearly.
“What?”
“In your presentation,” Shane continued in the tone of a prosecutor on cross-examination, despite slight intoxication. “Slides eighteen through twenty-two. Section ‘Acquaintances and Social Ties.’ Five damn slides, Ilya. Cassie was there, Lisa was there, even your therapist. But not a single one had Rose.”
Ilya rolled over to the other side, pulling the blanket over his ear to drown out this drunken mumbling.
“Shane, it’s two in the morning. Sleep.”
“You intentionally distorted the data array,” Shane wouldn’t let up, moving closer and hugging his husband so he wouldn’t escape justice. “You manipulated the sample. That is scientific misconduct, Rozanov. You hid the fact of a relationship with an Oscar-winning actress from me for five pages of presentation.”
Ilya turned his head toward him. His eyes glinted in the darkness.
“I hid from you the fact that you were an idiot who tried dating a woman to avoid admitting you wanted me. I was protecting your self-esteem.”
“You were protecting your monopoly,” Shane snorted, throwing a leg over him. “Greedy Russian bear.”
Ilya chuckled, surrendering. He interlaced his fingers with Shane’s and squeezed them tightly, until knuckles cracked.
“Yes. Greedy. Go to sleep, analyst. Tomorrow on the ice I’ll sweat all this wine out of you along with the complaints.”
Shane buried his nose in his husband’s warm neck and smiled. Ilya was jealous even of a past that didn’t exist for Shane. And that was the best proof of love Shane could receive.
Now he had a trump card. And he intended to use it at every convenient opportunity.