Archive of Our Own

July, 2017.

“Well, just..” 

Yuna Hollander stands up, walks away. Ilya hears the sounds of dishes, and with each clink Shane flinches. 

He catches Shane’s eye. Sees the anguish, panic, everything combined. 

Go. 

Ilya mouths it as Yuna heads to the door. Shane breathes in deep, one of his everything has to be okay breaths, and stands. He follows Yuna close behind, hands shaking as he goes. 

Ilya watches him leave, worry plain on his face. It doesn’t necessarily click to him who he’s left with until he hears the scrape of a fork against an empty plate. 

David Hollander is staring at him, Canadian politeness stretched across his face. Ilya tries to smile politely back. It does not feel successful. 

“So…” David starts, then trails off. Ilya can see so much of Yuna in Shane, but this, this inability to continue a conversation naturally, is clearly all David. 

“So.” Ilya repeats, taking another bite of pasta. It is really fucking good pasta. “How did you manage to get good vodka here?” It feels like a safe topic. The one thing they’ve been able to relate on in the past twenty minutes. David’s shoulders sag in relief at the question, so Ilya feels like he made the right choice.

“Imported it. Costs a pretty penny, but, you know. It’s…”

“Worth it.” Ilya finishes, smirking. 

“Yeah. I had no idea I even liked vodka till I tried some of the real stuff.” David raises his glass, taking another sip. 

Ilya repeats the motion, nodding. 

“Yes. None of the, ah, corn shit.” 

David laughs at that, just a hint of a chuckle. 

“Yes, well. Canada is known for being…corny.” He emphasizes the last word, then chuckles to himself again. Definitely a joke was made. Ilya cannot for the life of him find the humor in this. 

“Ah.” Ilya takes another sip and smiles awkwardly. This is painful. He has never considered himself an awkward person before, but this feels like the seventh circle of Hell. Every time Shane has been forced to do small-talk makes perfect sense now. He was not taught to speak like a human being, clearly.

David clears his throat. 

“So, uh. Feels like I should be doing some dad-talk here.” His voice shakes. He has so clearly never done this before. Ilya thinks he might be ill from second-hand embarrassment. “What are your intentions with my..my, uh, Shane?” David smiles while he says it, once again in on a joke that Ilya cannot comprehend. 

His answer to this still feels important, however. Weighted. 

“I do not have intention, I think.” Ilya starts, then frowns. “Er, no.” It’s not true. He’s had many intentions with Shane over the years. Back in Saskatchewan, staring at him for the first time, his “intention” was not exactly pure. He’d seen the smattering of freckles across his nose, cheeks pink with cold, and decided he wanted to see more. Wanted to see how far that flush went, see how far the freckles went, if they decorated every inch of him. 

This does not feel like an intention he can share with David Hollander. Ilya shifts in his seat. He can’t exactly place when that intention began to shift. It never went away, obviously, but rather, was added to. Maybe when Shane walked into his hotel room at their first All-Star game, panic written across his features. Ilya’s intention then was to smooth the frown across his face, to watch the tension melt out of him. 

This also does not feel like an intention he can share with David Hollander. Maybe it was when he bought, inexplicably, a twenty-four pack of ginger ale for one night. When he threw away items in his fridge he almost-certainly still wanted to make room for it. When he searched up ‘canadian food easy make’, and put together the ingredients for a tuna melt, despite them definitely not being just-Canadian food. When he watched Shane knock on the side of his house, not his door, and something in his heart flipped over. 

This one does feel like an intention he can share with David Hollander.

“To take care of him, I think. Probably. Is that good intention?” Ilya looks up, and sees David’s face melt into a genuine smile. 

“Yes, I think so.” David raises his glass of vodka, and nods his head towards Ilya’s own glass. 

Ilya knocks his glass against David’s. The resounding clink echoes throughout the cottage, and Ilya comes to a conclusion. 

He thinks he likes David Hollander. 

—————

September, 2018. 

Moving sucks. Ilya hates it. He hated saying goodbye to most of his cars, and he hated the way his Boston teammates looked at him when he said goodbye. The confusion painted across their faces. The unsaid, unspoken, “you are making a mistake”. 

He hates that Shane isn’t here. Shane is still in Montreal, training with his team. The team he got to keep.

Ilya doesn’t blame Shane for his absence, of course, but it is still deeply frustrating. He hates his giant, empty Ottawa mansion. It doesn’t feel like home, not yet. Ilya supposes that’s what today is for, to decorate, to make it feel more, what’s the word that Shane used? Homey. He hates that he doesn’t think it’ll feel like home until Shane is in it. 

Behind him, a car pulls up to his driveway. Ilya turns, takes in the boring, black SUV. His heart races, and for a moment, he wonders if Shane got out of pre-season training just for this. The door opens, and David Hollander steps out. 

Not the Hollander he wanted to see, but not a bad surprise, either. 

“Hello, Mr. Hollander!” Ilya yells, and waves obnoxiously. 

“It’s just David, Ilya.” David says, exasperated. “We’ve been over this.” He walks up the steps to Ilya, and Ilya shakes his hand with a grin. 

They have spoken a bit over the past year, mostly in the group chat containing Shane, David, Yuna, and himself. Mostly logistics about moving to Ottawa, about planned public appearances, the charity, and more terribly boring subjects that make Ilya want to bash his head into concrete. He and David are usually in the same boat in those conversations, one of mild confusion and a general agreement to let Yuna and Shane handle logistics. 

It is…nice, having him in his life. Ilya does not know what to do with older men that are kind. Genuine, true kindness is not something he is terribly familiar with. David, like Shane, gives it out freely. Ilya admires and fears it in equal measure. 

“Here to help move boxes? I worry for your poor back!” Ilya grins, and David shakes his head. 

“I used to play hockey too, you know.” 

“Yes, yes, Shane told me. For, uh…McDrill? Dill?” 

“McGill, Ilya. McGill.” David sounds exasperated, but still fond. It reminds Ilya so much of Shane that his heart squeezes uncomfortably. 

They both head inside the house, and David whistles at the pile of boxes in the living room. Ilya had thought he didn’t have much he wanted to keep when he first started packing, that he had no room in his heart for sentimentality. Staring at the box simply labeled ‘jane’, he realizes it is not true. 

David gets to work fairly quickly, going right to the box labeled ‘kitchen’, and tearing it open. Ilya had bought all new appliances and cookware, but he’d kept a few things. Shot glasses from his old Boston teammates. A wine glass set from Yuna. His mother’s old collection of Soviet Porcelain plates that he’d had shipped here. David holds those extra-carefully, as if he knows. He probably does, somehow. 

Ilya turns to the ‘jane’ box, opening it with more care than the contents probably need. The clothes Shane left in his Boston house all those years ago, still folded. A wrinkled newspaper with the heading: ROZANOV AND HOLLANDER TO PLAY TOGETHER IN ALL-STAR GAME. A photograph of that stupid commercial, laminated with care. A stuffed animal of a loon that Shane had got him cheekily, a smirk playing at his lips. 

Small moments. Tiny memories, just general enough to give nothing away. 

“Ilya, where should I put— oh.” 

Ilya jumps at David’s voice, turning to see his eyes locked onto the newspaper. 

“You know, I really did think you guys had to have connected, or something, at that game. Your chemistry there…Even Yuna was shocked. Couldn’t stop talking about that goal and assist, analyzing it in that way she does.” His voice is quiet, contemplative. 

“Mm. Is not untrue. We were…in bad spot before Florida.” Ilya tries to sound casual, and knows he’s failing. David frowns. 

“Why’s that?” He sounds so genuinely curious, and Ilya wonders, not for the first time, how much Shane has told his parents since the cottage. Knowing Shane, not much. 

“Rose Landry.” He tries, and fails, to keep the contempt from his voice. 

“Oh, right, yes. I remember that. Yuna was so excited, it was kind of funny. She was watching the tabloids more than any groupie!” David laughs a bit, seemingly unaware of Ilya’s frown deepening. 

“Hm. I wish I could have shared her enthusiasm.” 

“Oh. Right. That must have been…difficult.” 

“Is one word for it.” Difficult, excruciating, infuriating. Replaying Shane saying ‘It’s private’, when Ilya asked about women, just for him to go and publicly fuck the most famous woman in the world. Knowing he had no right to be upset, and being upset anyway. Wondering if that was it, if Shane and Rose were going to go on and make beautiful perfect babies and Ilya would still be there, behind, replaying stolen moments in hotel rooms till he died a horrible, boring death—

“Shane never spoke about her very much. Yuna would press for more information, ask so many questions, and Shane would just shake his head. When he did talk, it was—you know how Shane is, when he doesn’t care about what he’s talking about. Monosyllabic at best, silent at worst.” David pauses, sucks in a breath. “Even when he was pretending he hated you, he still talked more about you, with more emotion, than he ever did about her. Probably more than anything besides hockey.” 

Ilya looks up, meets David’s eyes. 

“Thinking back on it, we really should have guessed sooner. You guys aren’t exactly subtle.” David winks, and Ilya scoffs. 

“Not subtle? We are definition of subtle! Rivals! Hating each other till the end of time!” Ilya makes a grand gesture with his hands, as if to mimic a time-line stretching on forever.

“Eh, you know what they say. Love and hate are two sides of the same coin.” 

“I do not know they say this. Who says this? Canadians? I do not trust Canadians.” 

David laughs, then, loud and unashamed. He slaps a hand on Ilya’s shoulder, grins, and says, 

“Careful. You’re Canadian now, Rozanov.” 

Ilya groans dramatically, slapping a hand over his chest as if he’d been stabbed. David laughs again, and Ilya can’t help but join in, a warmth glowing in his chest. 

He thinks he might not mind being Canadian, if this is what it’s like.

————

November, 2018.

The press conference was a lot. Flashing lights, so many questions, so many times Ilya had to talk about her, to say her name to people who never knew her. To people who didn’t quite understand the weight of it. Shane, next to him, had tapped his foot against his every time they asked him about the rest of his family. If his brother knew, if he supported it. What he thinks his father would say. 

In honesty, he knows what Grigori Rozanov would say. Stupid, weak, a waste of time. Worse than his mother. Pining hopelessly after something that does not matter. Embarrassing the family. Bringing shame to the Rozanov name. 

All of the highlights. 

“Mr. Rozanov, do you think your mother would be proud to see the man you’ve become today?” 

It’s a new, young reporter. Fresh-faced, hungry for a viral clip. Ilya’s throat closes around the words ‘I don’t know.’ How the fuck would he know? He can hope, pray, clutch her crucifix to his chest like that somehow brings her closer to him, but in the end, he doesn’t know. That was taken from him. Not by her, no. He doesn’t blame her. Maybe by his father. Maybe by Russia itself. Or whatever genetic predisposition every Rozanov has to unique and constant suffering. 

His throat is dry. He doesn’t think he can speak, and he glances at Shane, panicked. Shane takes over.

“I don’t know if we can speculate on that at this time. But knowing my own mom’s reaction, and knowing Rozanov, I can’t help but think any mother would be proud to have a son like him.” Practiced, media-trained, perfect. Ilya loves him so much it aches.

Eventually, it’s over, and they’re free to leave. Ilya tries to catch Shane’s eye, but he’s clearly still locked into the media-perfect mask, a strained smile glued to his face. He got this way, sometimes, after too many people talking to him, or too many things happening at once. Stuck to one ‘setting’, of sorts. Scared to let it drop and have the rest of him break. Ilya wishes he could reach out to him, hold his hand, bring him back to reality. 

He has to settle for shaking his hand firmly in front of yet another camera, and hoping his eyes said the rest. 

They leave separately, of course, taking different routes to David and Yuna’s cottage. In the back of the taxi, where no one could see, Ilya lets his head drop into his hands. It’s good, what they’re doing. 

Would she be proud? He thinks she would be. He knows it. He thinks he knows it. 

He tries not to see his father’s face when he closes his eyes. 

He fails. 

The rest of the drive goes by in increments, Ilya switching wildly between worrying about Shane, and worrying about his own mind.

Soon enough, the car pulls up to the now-familiar driveway of Shane’s parents’ cottage. Ilya immediately feels like he can breathe again. He knocks on the door, and, to his surprise, David opens it. 

David is quiet, his mouth set in a thin line. 

“Is he okay?” It’s the first thing out of Ilya’s mouth. He knows Shane, he knows having him field those questions was a lot for him. He’s grateful, of course, but worried that he’d asked too much of him yet again. Worried that Shane would finally realize, after making the charity public, after all of this work, that it had been a mistake. 

Lazy. Selfish. Weak. 

His father’s voice rings in his head. 

 You will ruin him. He will fail, and it will be your fault. Just like your mother.

“Ilya. Are you okay?” David puts a hand on his shoulder, and it knocks him out of it, briefly. 

“Of course. Why would I not be okay? This is best day of my life. Or something. Probably.” Ilya tries to smile. He doesn’t think it’s very convincing. By the look on David’s face, it’s not. 

“Come in, son. Let’s sit down for a bit.” 

Ilya’s breath catches on the word son. He does not think he can remember a time when that word had not been spit at him like an insult. 

Numb, he follows David inside, sits by the dining room table. Lets him put a glass of vodka in his hand, the same one he’d had years ago. David sits next to him, holding his own glass. 

“Shane’s okay. He’s talking with Yuna, debriefing. Resting a bit. You know how he gets.” David says it so casually, and Ilya is struck by the fact that yes, he does know how Shane gets. He is lucky enough to know Shane Hollander as well as his father. The thought warms him, chasing away some of the ice that had settled over his chest. “I know I already asked, but really, are you okay? That can’t have been easy, up there.” 

“Is..strange. I should be okay, yes? I should be happy. Shouting from the rooftops that we did it, we actually made this. Shouting fuck Grigori Rozanov.” He grits out his father’s name, spitting it into existence. 

“You weren’t close?” 

Ilya laughs, a harsh, sharp thing. 

“No.”
 
David just leans back, taking a sip of his vodka. 

“You know, I didn’t talk to my father before he died.” The confession is so casual, Ilya almost misses it. 

“What?” 

“He…wasn’t kind, about Yuna. About Shane. Real asshole. Taught me to play hockey, sure, but that’s about it. Still, I think about him sometimes. On days like this, watching you and Shane up there, talking about the stuff that matters, I think about him. He’s dead now, but I wonder… I wonder if hearing something like that would have been enough to change his mind.” David is quiet, contemplative. 

“In my experience, no. Nothing is enough.” Another sip. It burns down his throat.

“Ha. Maybe so. Still, it’s good. You guys are…doing good. Putting good things in the world.” 

“Maybe so.” 

“I know so.” There’s a quiet certainty in the way David says it. 

Ilya sucks in a breath. It’s not that he doesn’t believe in Shane, or even himself, really. He just…Can’t believe that something like this exists, maybe? Or if it does, why couldn’t he have done something sooner? Why wasn’t this sort of thing available to his mother? Logically, he knows he was twelve, and that there is nothing he could have done. Logically. But in his gut, he still feels like it’s his fault, maybe. That if he had done enough, or tried harder, or found resources, that maybe she would still be here. If he had just stayed by her side long enough. He wouldn’t have to guess if she’d be proud. She could just tell him she was. She’d take his hand, rub her thumb across his fingers. The same motion he does now, every time he’s scared, or stressed. Just another part of her he carries with him. 

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until David puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“Ilya. You did good.”

Maybe it’s this that breaks him. David says it the way she used to, somehow. Soft, gentle. An undeniable belief that Ilya did well. That he’s good. Maybe even good enough. 

The tears fall harder now, and he bites his cheek, trying to smother a sob. David moves closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“Hey, Ilya, I mean it. You’re good, okay? You uh, you’re good here.” It’s the same words Ilya had said to Shane almost two years ago. “Your family, like it or not, is here. Okay?” David squeezes his shoulder, and it feels like fire. It’s painful. It’s lovely. It’s everything Grigori Rozanov never was. 

“Thank you.” Ilya chokes out, wiping his eyes aggressively. “You are not the worst Hollander.” 

David barks out a laugh. 

“That honor go to Shane?”

“Mm, only sometimes. Your father, I think.” Ilya smiles, something small and quiet. 

“Cheers to that, son.” 

They clink glasses, and it feels like home. It feels like something she would have loved. 

—————

December, 2020.

The door slams behind Shane as he leaves. 

I already chose you, Hollander. 

The words felt like poison on his tongue. Burned on their way out in the way only honesty can. He’d watched Shane’s eyes widen in shock, first. Then anger, confusion, pain. Ilya wishes he didn’t feel a bitter sort of vindication at that. A sort of relief in watching Shane feel some of the hurt that’s been living in Ilya’s chest for three fucking years. 

It’s not fair, the voice inside his head that wants Shane to hurt. But Shane hasn’t exactly been fair, either. 

Sorry I still want to win cups instead of smoking weed with my teammates between losses.

Shane had rolled his eyes as he said it. Flippant, as if unaware of the impact every word he says has on Ilya. Maybe he doesn’t. Doesn’t seem to pay enough fucking attention to notice. Not fair, indeed.

Ilya sinks to the floor, his back up against his bedroom door. He’d run upstairs after telling Shane to leave, and now, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. His hands shake. He needs to do something, hit something, maybe. Drink, maybe. Smoke, maybe. Do anything other than replay the past twenty minutes over and over in his head. 

Somehow, he finds himself calling David Hollander. 

He doesn’t know why he does it. Maybe because Svetlana is in Russia, and it’s way too late there. Even though he knows she would pick up if he called. She would answer, and she would talk to him regardless. 

Maybe he just wants to talk to someone who loves Shane as much as he does, and who maybe understands how uniquely fucking upsetting he can be. 

David picks up on the second ring. 

“Ilya, it is 10:00 clock at night. This is valuable crossword time.” His voice is teasing, but guilt strikes through him. 

“Sorry. Did not mean to interrupt.” 

Something in his voice must give him away. 

“Just teasing. You guys okay over there?” 

“Ah, is just me now. Shane is…” Ilya trails off. He can’t badmouth David’s own son to him. That would be new levels of fucked-up, even if Ilya is angry with him. He doesn’t think David wants to hear that, either, he loves Shane, thinks the world of him. “On his way home.” He finishes awkwardly. 

It’s silent on the other line. David is doing the weird, specific Hollander thing they all do during hard conversations. Pausing, giving the other person time to say more, to process through, or something. Waiting patiently till they’re sure you’ve said all you need to say. Ilya does not understand it, and in fact, finds it unnerving. 

“We fought.” It is unnerving, and, unfortunately, effective. 

David hums. 

“Shane is hard to fight with.” He says it with all the experience of a father. 

“Yes. His eyes get very sad, while his mouth gets very angry.” 

David chuckles. 

“It’s true. Did you deserve it?” 

“No. I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t think so.” 

“Did he deserve it?”

“Yes. Maybe. I think so.” 

David whistles. 

“What happened?” His voice is kind, encouraging. Ilya thinks, not for the first time, that David is the closest person he’s ever had to a real, functional parent. 

“He did not want to come with me to a team party. I got very upset, and he said some things. I said things back.”`

“What kind of things?”

“Things that would make both me and your son look bad, probably.” David just pauses again. Waiting. Fucking Hollanders. “I asked a stupid question.” Ilya bites his lip, reticent to say anything more. 

“What kind of question, son?” 

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut. It still gets him when David calls him that, even if it’s been years since the first time. 

“If he would choose me. Instead of hockey.” A hum from the other line. “Stupid. Hockey is everything to him. I know that. It was…unfair.” 

“Ilya. You’re everything to him, too. Anyone with eyes can see it.” 

“Hopefully not anyone. That is part of our problem.” Ilya rubs his eyes. “No one can fucking see it.” 

Another pause, longer this time. Like David is thinking. 

“When Shane was in 2nd grade, he came home crying once. Yuna immediately ran to him, you know how she is, comforting and a little intense. Shane wouldn’t tell her what was wrong. I kinda stood on the outside for a bit, 'cause Yuna had always been better at comforting him than me. Better at everything than me, really.” David chuckles, a little self-deprecating. “But after a while, Yuna turned to me, absolutely at her wits end. Shane had been wailing for the better part of an hour, just getting more and more stressed by his own tears.”

“Sounds like he has not changed much.” The picture of a tiny Shane, wailing and clenching his fists, brings a smile to Ilya’s face. 

“No, not really. Eventually I just…opened my arms, and Shane ran to me. Cried into my shirt for maybe thirty more seconds, and calmed right down while I hugged him. It was one of those, ‘oh, maybe I am meant to be a father’ moments, you know?” 

Ilya swallows. He cannot remember a single time his father held him. Certainly not while he cried. His mother did, but those memories feel faint and distant, able to be blown away by a little wind. He thinks of the man he might have become, if he grew up being held while he cried. 

Maybe someone like Shane Hollander. 

“Why was he crying?” Ilya’s voice is soft, choked. David kindly ignores it. 

“A girl had kissed him on the bus home. I still remember him saying ‘too much spit, Dad, so scary’.” A pause charged in implication. “That was the first moment we thought Shane could be a little different.” 

“A little gay, maybe?” The joke falls a bit flat. 

“Yeah. Or just…sensitive. He’s always been that way. Like the world is ten times more for him than everyone else.” 

Ilya processes this alongside the information he already knows about Shane. That he has to have his clothes folded a specific way. The way he flinches when Ilya shouts in his ear, or when announcements are a bit too loud during a game. His diet, controlled to every single crumb. His clothes, always chosen with specific materials in mind. The way he studies strangers’ facial expressions before he can contribute to the conversation. Like he needs to make sure he knows exactly what to say and how to say it. 

The way sometimes, it feels like even his love for Ilya has to be controlled. 

“Yes. He is…particular. It is one of the things I first fell in love with.” As Ilya says it, he realizes it’s true. The amusement he felt the first time Shane folded his clothes in that hotel room. The awkward, stunted way he sexted. And the way every one of Ilya’s touches lit his skin on fire, like even the suggestion of contact sent him writhing and panting into the bed.  

David’s voice shakes him out of his reverie.

“The first time we saw you two kiss, way back at the cottage, I almost expected him to pull away and start crying. Or turn to me and say too much spit, so scary.” 

Ilya laughs. 

“That would be very bad.” 

“Sure, but not unexpected. You talked him down from a panic attack faster than my hugs ever did. That was unexpected. I remember feeling relieved that he would know love like that. That he’d finally feel safe with someone besides me and Yuna.” 

The lump in Ilya’s throat grows. 

“I know you just fought, and it was probably a pretty bad one for you to call me. But my son loves you. Just as much, if not more, than hockey. Give him time. You know how he is, how he needs to process.”  A flicker of irritation builds in his gut. 

“Yes. If only he could process wanting to love me where people can see it.” It’s too bitter. 

“Ilya.” It’s a warning. 

“Sorry, Mr. Hollander.” Ilya unintentionally straightens up, still desperate for the Hollanders’ approval in all things.

“It’s always David for you, you know that.” His voice is still fond. A good sign.

“Sorry, David.” It’s much softer than before. 

“He wants to, son. I know he does. No one’s ever made him so…quiet, before.” 

This is confusing for Ilya.

“Shane is not a particularly talkative person.” 

“Not literally, Ilya. His brain, it’s uh…It’s always been loud. You make it quiet. Better than I or Yuna ever did.” 

Ilya considers this. Thinks it’s a compliment, probably, but at the moment it just frustrates him. He knows he loves Shane, he knows Shane loves him. He feels selfish for wanting more, but god, he wants.

 “So I just…wait? For his brain to be quiet enough to—” Ilya’s voice breaks. “To want me?” 

“Oh, son. He already does. I think that’s what scares him.” David’s voice is gentle, like a hug. Ilya has the absurd impulse to drive over to the Hollander cottage, curl under a blanket, and do a crossword puzzle with him. Fucking Hollanders. 

“It scares me too.” His voice is hushed.

“I thought nothing scared big, bad Russian hockey players.” The joke is a welcome reprieve.

“Da, true. Nothing except Hollanders. Is known bane of every Russian’s existence.” Ilya replies, ignoring the tears welling up in his eyes. 

“Well, if you’re not too scared, wanna come over for lunch tomorrow? Yuna can make pasta, and we can talk some more.” It’s an olive branch, an out of the difficult conversation. 

“Please no more talking. I have talked about my feelings so much. Am so tired.” 

“Puzzle, then. I’ll bring out the big boys.” 

Ilya does not understand why David Hollander calls 1000 piece puzzles 'big boys', when they are only medium-sized and certainly not boys. But it brings a smile to his face anyway. 

“Thank you, David.” He hopes David can hear everything else behind it. 

Thank you for talking to me. For picking up. For loving me more than my own father ever did. For giving me a family for the first time. For loving Shane.

“Anytime, son. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“See you tomorrow.” 

The call ends, and Ilya’s phone lights up with a message. 

Jane: I’m sorry. Call me when you want to talk. Please.

Ilya turns his phone off. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he will talk. 

————

March, 2021. 

Fucking Brad. Ilya is pacing back and forth, hands shaking. The video is everywhere. Shane is at Montreal’s practice facility, facing his team for the first time since, and Ilya can’t do anything. 

He was supposed to leave, actually, planning to drive straight to Montreal since he was fucking benched anyway. But David had sent him a single text, just:

Mr. Hollander (2nd worst Hollander): On my way. Save some good vodka for me. 

He knew Yuna was waiting for Shane, at least, and has the brief thought that they split up on purpose. One son each. It’s enough to scare off some of the dread that pools in his stomach. He still doesn’t quite know how to function in a family that cares for him, how to deal with the fact that there are people who want to comfort him, who want to spend time with him. That there’s someone who calls him ‘son’ like it’s something given, not something earned. 

Ilya is pacing, Anya yipping between his heels, when the knock comes. David has a key, but he always knocks, now. Some lessons are learned the hard way.  

He opens the door and barely has time for a ‘hello’ before David is crushing him into a hug. Ilya doesn’t mean to get choked up. This situation is, ostensibly, harder for Shane than Ilya, who has been ready to come out for longer. But maybe it’s just that David’s first instinct is to hug. 

It’s the first time Ilya’s ever been held by someone he considers a father. 

He doesn’t let himself cling too long, as always, afraid of taking too much. He’d always been a greedy thing, desperate for more love than he deserves. And yet, every Hollander gives freely, like they have more than enough to give. It is strange, to be around people who do not treat love like a commodity. 

‘Scarcity mindset.’ Galina had called it, once, when Ilya spoke about this with her. ‘The idea that there is never going to be enough for you. That every resource is limited, emotional or literal. When you survive on scraps of love, you learn to hoard anything you get close, and assume that will be all you ever get.’ 

‘So I am like starving dog? Begging under the table?’ Ilya had deadpanned, and Galina had smiled. 

‘Something like that.’ 

Now, he steps away from David Hollander, rubbing his eyes wildly. 

“How are you doing, kiddo?” 

“Mm. Not good. Probably bad.” 

“Well, that’s to be expected.” David always talks so matter-of-fact, even when he is saying not much at all. It is comforting, somehow.

Ilya waves him inside, and David stoops low to say hi to Anya. She immediately jumps on him, tongue lolling out of her mouth, because she is perfect. David pats her on the head, and Ilya nods, satisfied. She deserves all the head pats in the world. 

They travel to the kitchen, where Ilya pulls out the good vodka. He pours them two full glasses, an ice cube in David’s, just like he prefers. Says it ‘brings out the flavor’. Ilya doesn’t quite think that is true, but he’s never going to question it. Vodka was the first thing they ever bonded over, after all. 

“Yuna talked to Farah. Going over the statement being put together, and all that.” David takes a sip of his drink, and Ilya nods. 

“Yes.” He feels empty, somehow. Blank. Shane’s ring sits against his chest, and he still feels like this might be the final straw. Might take it all away from him in one fell swoop. Thinking of statements, and agents, and whatever the fuck Crowell wants just drives him further into that emptiness. 

He drinks. David sits at the bar. 

“I’m sorry, you know. That you two couldn’t do it your way.” Condensation drips down the side of David’s cup. Ilya watches it go, the little droplet slowly making its way down, and wonders. 

Would they have gotten married first? Announced it along with wedding pictures? He knows Shane had some kind of plan. He’d only half-listened, distracted by the very thought of holding Shane’s hand in public. 

“We were going to do it this summer. Announcement.” 

David hums. 

“What would you have said, if PR and all that didn’t exist?” 

Ilya ponders this. Drains the vodka in his cup, fingers thrumming against the counter. Maybe it’s just the vodka on an empty stomach that leads him to say what he does.

“Hello, world. I have been in gay-love with the man you are all obsessed with me hating for over ten years. He is annoying and annoyingly beautiful. He has a weak backhand. I have been obsessed with his freckles since I was seventeen, and will dedicate more years to counting them all. He is more to me than stupid cups. He is more to me than any trophy or award. His name is Shane Hollander, and I love him. Fuck Roger Crowell. Amen, hallelujah, Canadian anthem.” He raises his hands at the end, shaking them in a bad approximation of jazz hands. 

David laughs. 

“That was almost beautiful. I don’t think you have to sing 'O Canada' to prove you love him, though.”  

“Your son loves his country very much. Almost as much as hockey. Concerning.” 

“Almost as much as he loves you, maybe.” 

Ilya smiles, a soft thing. 

“Yes. Maybe.” 

“I’ll let Yuna know to tell Farah you have some ideas.” 

“Yes. Shane will kill me, and then all our problems will be solved.” Ilya jokes, but it doesn’t sound as funny as he means it to. He hates when jokes do that in his voice, when they become too real. David frowns, sips his vodka, and opens his mouth. Ilya cuts him off before he can speak. “I joke. Haha. Very funny.” 

“Not that funny, Ilya.” 

“A little bit funny?” 

David pins him with a gaze scarily similar to Shane’s ‘Shut the Fuck Up Ilya’ stare, and it is just as effective. Ilya’s mouth snaps shut. 

“Shane is happiest when he’s with you. This, fucked up as it is, doesn’t change that.” David says it, again, so matter-of-fact. Like it is a universal truth. Ilya almost believes it. 

“Okay.” It’s all he can say.

David pours him more vodka, and for a while, they both just drink in silence. Ilya keeps watching the condensation drip from David’s cup. He feels like there’s some kind of metaphor he can make about it, that he is like the sad little droplet, but his brain is too full of static. He was never a poet, anyways. 

After a while, David wordlessly beckons him to the couch. They both sit, Anya curled up between them. More vodka is poured, till Ilya’s eyes are a little blurry and his body is pleasantly warm. David pulls out the New York Times crossword on his phone, and they get to work. 

“What kind of clue is ‘I like ice cream’? Yes, obviously. Everyone does. This tells me nothing.” Ilya is pointing to a particularly irritating clue, and David laughs. 

“It’s a thinker. We just aren’t there yet.” 

“Blyat. We are too smart for this.” 

“Or too drunk.”

Ilya waves his hand. 

“Not drunk. Very hard to get me drunk.” He shakes his empty glass, then frowns at it when his vision sways. David laughs. 

“What about ‘NHL award’? You should know that one.” 

“David. There are so many awards.” Ilya groans, sitting back against the couch.

“Three letters, starts with C?” 

Ilya sits up. 

“CONN. CONN SMYTHE.” He shouts, truimphant. The letters glow blue, echoing his victory, and Ilya punches the air. “I have this award, David. I know this one.” 

“I think the ice cream one is metoo. ‘Cause everyone does like ice cream.” David types it in, and it works. They both shout for joy, and then promptly start laughing. 

“That is bullshit. New Yorker is bullshit.” He says it while smiling. There is something magical about this, about doing stupid little word puzzles. 

Ilya thinks about Vegas, when he had won the Conn Smythe, thinks about Shane in that bathroom. How desperate he was for a scrap of Ilya’s attention. 'Scarcity mindset', the Galina in his head murmurs.

His eyes had blurred with tears, only smiling when Ilya brought up the New York Times. 

‘My Dad loves it.’

‘Ah, so being boring is genetic?’ 

‘Wow, genetic.’ 

Now, years later, Ilya knows David Hollander is extremely boring. But boring in the same way that Shane is. Comforting, safe, stable. Someone who knows that Ilya’s life is falling apart, and somehow knew what he needed was vodka and crossword puzzles. Someone who gives his dog perfect head pats. Someone who hugs him while he cries. 

Someone who treats him like a second son. 

David clicks the next clue, and Ilya leans in. Everything is fucked, and Shane is facing his worst fears, and nothing feels like it will ever be the same again. And yet, he has this. Crossword puzzles with David Hollander. The knowledge that he is loved. 

Boring is good. Boring is perfect. Boring is everything he needs. 

————

May, 2021

It’s Shane’s 30th birthday when Ilya realizes. He and David are sitting next to each other on the patio outside the Hollander’s cottage, sipping vodka. He shoots up in his chair, almost spilling the drink in his hand. Shane is at the grill, and shoots him an odd look. David frowns in confusion.

“David. I have done terrible thing.” Ilya clutches the ring around his neck. 

“Scary thing to start with. What’s going on?” David seems rather nonplussed.

“There is a tradition, yes? It is old-fashioned. Most modern Russians do not do this. But I read online that many Canadians still do.” 

“Ilya, bud, we’re not exactly the most traditional of families—“ 

“I did not ask for your blessing. Or Yuna’s.” It rushes out of Ilya. It feels a little silly, saying it aloud, but for some reason, it feels important. He can remember his father inviting Polina’s parents over, a formal invitation to discuss marriage. Ilya had thought it silly at the time. But he also thinks of Polina’s father shaking Grigori’s hand, thanking him for the ‘show of respect’. Maybe David would think Ilya has disrespected him? 

He is knocked out of his spiral by David laughing. No, not just laughing. Full on cackling. 

“Ilya. In what world do you think that matters to us?” 

Ilya flushes. Or something, because Russians do not blush. 

“I don’t know! I don’t want to disrespect you!” 

David just laughs harder. 

“Heaven forbid, the great Hollander name, disrespected by Ilya Rozanov!” He’s practically howling now. Yuna, who was previously inside, pokes her head out in confusion. Ilya wants to melt into his chair. 

“What’s going on?” Yuna calls. 

“Ilya is asking for our blessing!” David calls back, laughing through it. 

“Well that doesn’t make any sense. Ilya, Shane proposed to you. It would be him who had to—“ She cuts herself off abruptly. Ilya’s ears feel hot. 

“Yes, cannot exactly ask dead parents for a blessing. It would be scary if they said yes.” He deadpans. David stops laughing. 

“Oh, Ilya. I’m sorry I laughed.” He puts a hand on Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya fights the urge to shove it off like a particularly disgruntled cat.

“No, is okay. It is a bit stupid.” Ilya bites his lip. “I do not think I would have wanted Shane to ask, even if he could. Would not end well.” For a moment, he imagines it.

Shane, shaking with anxiety, reaching a hand forward. He’d probably stumble over his words, even with a script perfected beforehand. Grigori Rozanov would A, spit on him, or B, try to break his fingers. Definitely would not end well.

“It’s just a bit of a silly thing, you know?” David says, not unkindly.

“Shitty tradition!” Yuna calls out, before heading back inside to presumably escape this conversation. 

“I did not want you to…what is the word? For feeling upset later?” Ilya presses on, trying to explain.

“Resent you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Ilya. We could never. When is it gonna get through your head that we love you, kid?” David says it so easily, like it’s a fact of life. 

Ilya is so tired of crying in front of David Hollander. And yet. 

“Blyat.” 

David doesn’t comment on it, knows better. He just wraps Ilya in a hug, and lets him cry. 

 Not for the first time, he thinks of how lucky Shane is. To have had this his whole life, a father who holds him, a mother who stayed. Ilya expects the familiar jealousy to curl around his throat, but instead, he just feels…warm. Grateful. Because David Hollander is his now, too. Apart of his life just as much as Shane’s. 

“I love you too. And Yuna.” Ilya murmurs. 

“We know, son. We know.” 

“Even if you laugh at me for asking respectful and responsible questions.” 

“It was a stupid question. You’d always have our blessing, anyhow.” David pulls back, pats him on the back, even as his words bring a fresh well of tears to Ilya’s eyes. 

Shane chooses that moment to walk up to them, holding a tray of eight burgers. Some things never change. 

“What happened to you guys?” 

“Ilya tried to ask for my—“ David begins.

“David. No, do not—“ Ilya tries.

“Blessing to marry you.” David finishes, a grin on his face. 

“Ilya, that’s so fucking stupid.” Shane has his ‘Oh My God Ilya’ frown on his face, and Ilya is going to get to marry him so soon, and he will be apart of this strange, silly little family for real. 

Joy wells up in his stomach, bursting out of his chest, his throat. He’s never felt so light. 

Ilya stands up, grabs Shane’s face, and kisses him. Then promptly blows a raspberry against his cheek. 

“Ew, Ilya, that’s so fucking gross, I could have dropped the burgers what the fuck—“ 

Shane keeps bitching, and David keeps laughing, and Yuna comes out holding a comically-large salad, and for a moment, everything is perfect. 

Ilya looks at his family, the first one he’s ever felt truly apart of, and feels warm. Feels like he’s home. 

Maybe for the first time.

——————

May, 2021. Later that night.

Ilya can’t sleep. He’d had a perfect day, probably the best he’s had in a long, long time, and yet. Sleep eludes him. Galina had said something about this, restlessness in the face of joy. Bullshit. He was happy. Why couldn’t his body just let him be happy? 

Shane, next to him, tosses and turns. Mumbles in his sleep. Ilya can’t help but reach out, not-quite-touching, but almost tracing the smattering of freckles from his nose down his cheek. He’s so beautiful it’s near painful to look at him. The ring gleams against his chest, right next to a mark Ilya had left over his heart earlier. A birthday present, of sorts. A reminder, maybe. That Shane was his. That he was allowed to have this. 

Are you, though? 

It’s that voice that keeps him awake. The incessant one that morphs from his father to Alexei to his coach back in Russia to sometimes, at his worst, his mother. 

You don’t deserve this.

Ilya sits up, squeezing his eyes shut. 

They love you, but for how long? 

He shoves his hands against his eyes. 

This can’t last, Ilyushka. Nothing ever does.

It’s that, that sad, finality in her voice, that does it. He swings his legs over the bed, meaning to get up, to run, maybe, and then. 

“Ilya?” 

A hand, warm, callused, familiar. Curled over his arm. 

“Go back to bed, solnyshko.”  

“Little sun?”

Ilya’s heart cleaves in two at the soft, sleepy tone of Shane’s voice. 

You are my sunlight. You light up any room you walk into. I do not deserve you.  

He almost says it. Instead, all he can say is:

“Da.” 

“What’s wrong, solnyshko?” The pronunciation is butchered. Shane smiles, though, one of his tiny, self-satisfied smiles. 

“Nothing is wrong. Go to sleep.” Ilya tries to sound soothing, quiet. Shane’s face morphs into a scowl. Shit. 

“Bullshit.” Shane opens his eyes fully, and Ilya knows he is fucked. “No lying to me on my birthday. Or ever.” 

“Is okay. I am just…” He gestures to his head distractedly. 

“Feeling sad?” Shane’s eyes crinkle in concern. The conversation around Ilya’s depression was still fresh, and clearly, still heavy on Shane’s mind. 

You will ruin him.

That one was Grigori. Ilya sucks in a breath. 

“No. Just, ah…” He frowns. He does not know how to say this. “I am…happy. And that is problem.” It’s the closest he can get to the truth of it. Fucking English. 

Shane sits up fully now, his hand still on Ilya’s arm. He squeezes tight. 

“Why is that a problem?” He sounds so genuine. So confused. Ilya loves him, loves him, loves him. 

“My brain thinks it is. I think. Too much good, maybe? I don’t…” He can’t say it. Shane will get that frown, that sad, little frown. But he will get angry if he lies. Which is the better of two evils? Truth, with a sad Shane, or a lie, with an angry one? 

Shane is still looking at him, dark eyes open and curious. Truth, then. 

“I don’t know if I deserve this. You. Your family.” It’s quiet, a rush. Floods from his mouth before he can stop it. 

Shane frowns, the sad frown. But a little bit angry, too. Ilya doesn’t know how he managed to fuck up so badly he got both outcomes. 

“What?” It’s still probing, waiting for all the information. Ilya rubs his eyes. 

“Sorry. I don’t know.” 

“Ilya. Yes you do.” 

He doesn’t know how to say this without hurting Shane, or himself, in the process. He doesn’t know how to put to words the mix of feelings in his gut, the constant back-and-forth of gratitude and fear. The feeling that he is the luckiest in the world, and that anything and anyone can take it away. That he will fuck up soon enough, and every Hollander will realize it. Shane will walk away, and David will take back every time he’d called him ‘son’, and Yuna will stare at him with the same disdain she regards Boston. 

In the end, the words flood out of him. A mix of Russian and English, possibly incomprehensible.

“You are perfect. Your family is perfect. I am not. You let me in, and I have ruined you. Hockey is harder now. Family is harder now. Everything is harder now. And all you Hollanders do is smile and hold me and care and smile and cry and feel, and all I can fucking hear is him, and her, and yet you all keep loving me and I—. I do not deserve it. I am waiting for the day I fuck up and it all goes away.” His breath is shaky. Tears threaten to fall. “I don’t deserve it. Shane. I don’t deserve you.”

Shane is quiet, for a bit. Processing it all, in that soft, methodical way he does. Taking in each piece of information, examining it, and categorizing it. Just like he does in hockey. 

When he speaks, Ilya is prepared for the worst. 

“I don’t think you get to decide what you deserve.” It’s quiet. Matter-of-fact, just like his father. 

“What?” 

“Ilya. I love you. My parents love you. That’s our choice. Our decision. And it’s not going anywhere. You don’t get to choose that, okay? It’s fucking stupid if you think you can. You deserve it, ‘cause that’s just what it is. We just love you. That’s it. Okay? That’s fucking final.” His voice is just as factual as David’s was, when he told him Shane was happiest when he was with Ilya. 

Not for the first time, he realizes just how much of David is present in Shane. At first, he only saw Yuna in him, her strict compassion, her love of scheduling, her insanity about hockey. But this, the quiet softness, the surety in his love for others, the awkward, boring parts of him, that is all David. Ilya still can’t believe he can have this.

“I do not know how to believe you.” It’s a painful truth.

“That’s okay. I’ll just keep saying it till you do.” Shane sounds…unbothered is not the right word. Confident. Completely sure of this outcome. 

For once, the voices in his head are quiet. They can do nothing in the face of this. 

“Okay.” The first tear falls, and Shane catches it with his thumb. 

“Ya tebya lyublyu.” Shane’s Russian is beautifully imperfect. 

“I love you.” Ilya’s English is constantly getting better. 

Shane tugs at his arm until Ilya falls into his lap, a little awkward, a little uncomfortable. But as Shane’s hand digs into his curls, he can’t find it in himself to care. He lets himself cry. He thinks about his mother. 

We can have this, Mama. It can last. I wish you were here to believe it. 

Shane strokes his hair until the tears stop, until his leg starts to cramp, until his leg falls asleep. He doesn’t care. He will be a Hollander in July. 

The thought is terrifying. The thought makes him smile. 

And for a moment, he can feel his mother’s hand in his hair alongside Shane’s.