Chapter Text
It was strange not having Ilya around. Deep down, Shane knew that was kind of alarming.
Their separation, this time, was only for a long weekend.. Barely a blip in the rhythm of their season. They’d be back on the road together by Tuesday, chasing another win in Toronto, extending Ottawa’s streak, slipping right back into the familiar pattern of planes, hotels, and shared space. Or that they just spent the last month together in pretty much what his husband referred to as the “hot spots”. He supposed it was good though. That they weren’t sick of each other in the year since they married and since Shane had joined the same team.
Rose asked him once if he thought it was the novelty of it. He had answered honestly, no don’t think so. And she had pouted at him, jokingly but only for a moment before longing wishing she had what they had. Shane knew his comfort had been stiff and awkward, patting her hand and saying you’ll find it….one day. God it was awful. Even now, thinking about it, he winced. He wondered if he should text her. Rose was amazing. She deserved her happily ever after. He knew that, and if they were compatible-if he wasn’t super gay like Ilya said, perhaps they would have worked out.
Fuck. That meant he had to get out of bed. Perhaps he could send Ilya a topless photo. Maybe Ilya would see it in the bar in Boston where he was celebrating Cliff Marlow’s birthday, and get all agitated by it. Shane technically had been invited to go to the birthday celebration too, but he declined. He’d never been super close to Marlow or to Connors, and the fact that Marlow brought the condo Ilya used to own, the one where Shane used to go for clandestine hook-up’she flinched at the thought of the sofa and the tuna melts-made him less inclined to go. And besides poor Anaya had missed them terribly. One of her dads should be there, though Shane was certain that she was upset the spare human was home and not her favorite.
As he shuffled into the kitchen, he became aware of a light on. He was almost certain he didn’t leave it on. He was facetious about electricity and conservation, so already he was clued in that something was wrong. Then there was the footsteps. Oh god. Had someone broken in? Gotten past the dog and the-
Speaking of Anaya, she was giving happy yelps and her collar was jiggling. Those were the noises she reserved for….Shane rounded the corner, finding Ilya excitedly murmuring to Anaya in Russian. The sight of him made his heart swell. Had Ilya missed him so much that he’d snuck away from Marlow’s birthday party?
Shane titled his head. Ilya looked different. He blinked a few more times, stepping closer.
Ilya’s face snapped up, shoulders tensing, “Hol-Hollander?”
Was Shane imaging it or; was Ilya’s accent thicker? And since when did he greet Shane as Hollander in a non-jovial manner? His husband rose, his shoulders still tensed and his mouth pulled into a tight line. The curls that escaped his beanie looked different. His face looked different. Younger, somehow, but that couldn’t be could it?
“What….,” Ilya was glaring around, “where are we?”
Was his husband playing some sort of joke?
“Home?” Shane said, stepping into the living room.
Ilya gave him a quizzical look. One eyebrow rose into his hairline, as he processed it before fleetingly a smile spread before he schooled himself, “this house? Your house? Not weird sex building Hollander?”
Now Shane was getting concerned. He’d sold that building-yes the hook-up one-years ago as part of his contribution to the Irina foundation. Ilya was well aware of this. Did he have amnesia? But then where the fuck was Cliff or Connors to tell Shane this?
“Ilya?” Shane tried to ignore the way that familiar face scrunched up in confusion at the sound of his own name, “are you feeling okay?”
“Da Hollander,” the words were said with a confidence that did not much his body language, “you are having panic attack?”
“Not yet,” Shane answered honestly, “just confused as to how you suddenly don’t recognize our house?”
That sucked all of the false bravado out of Ilya, “our house?” he asked before nervously repeating in Russian, “nash dom?”
He kept going, the words tumbling out faster now,sharp, clipped Russian spilling into the space between them. It wasn’t directed at Shane so much as around him, like Ilya was trying to think his way through something that refused to make sense. Shane surprised himself by catching most of it. It had ended with but I live in Boston. Ilya hadn’t lived in Boston for years.
Without meaning to, in Russian, Shane asked, “what hockey team do you play for?”
“Boston Raiders,” Ilya answered automatically before recovering, “you speak Russian?”
He sounded horrified. Except, Shane had been learning for years. Absolutely nothing was adding up. This was either an elaborate prank or…..
“What year do you think it is?” he asked in English.
“Very funny Hollander,”
“I’m not well known for my humor,” Shane deadpanned, “what year it is?”
“Two thousand and fifteen,” Ilya said confidently.
Shane felt all of his blood still. It was currently two thousand and twenty-two. Suddenly, his husband’s confusion and younger looking appearance all made sense. He must be dreaming. Having an out-of-body experience because how does an Ilya from 2015 arrive here in 2022? For a second, everything seemed to tilt—like the room had shifted just slightly off its axis. And suddenly, horribly, it all made sense. The confusion. The way Ilya had been looking at him—not with recognition, but with wary calculation. The sharper edges of his face, the younger set of his shoulders, the absence of everything Shane had come to know by heart.This wasn’t his Ilya.This was Ilya before.
No wonder he was horrified that Shane all of a sudden knew Russian. Ilya used to hide behind it, uttering sweet things in Shane’s ear as they stole moments in hotel rooms, telling Shane it was something dirty until Shane learned to tell the difference.
“Hollander?” Ilya asked, his voice pinched with concern as Shane rubbed at his temples.
“Pinch me,” he muttered mostly to himself. He should have known Ilya would take this literally, “ow!”
“You said to pinch you,” Ilya pointed out, like that explained everything, “is it expression? Like St. Patrick’s day and green?”
Shane stared at him, “Not…..” he cut himself off, exhaling sharply, half a laugh escaping despite everything. “Not like that.”
Ilya’s brow furrowed, unimpressed.
“You are the one acting strange,” he said. “First you say this is your house, then you speak Russian, now you ask me to…..” he gestured vaguely, clearly losing patience, “.....hurt you.”
***
Ilya had forgotten how tense Hollander was when he was young. Not that older Shane was the epitome of peaceful, but age, experience, and getting to live freely had calmed him a bit.This one paced.Relentlessly.Back and forth across the kitchen, like he was going to carve a trench straight through Marlow’s hardwood floors if he kept at it long enough. Ilya wanted to hug him, to kiss him, and to brush away the stress lines in his forehead but he did not think it wise.
“You are telling me that you’re my husband?” young Shane looked like an angry kitten pacing about the kitchen.
There it was again,that word, bitten off like it offended him.Ilya didn’t even bother sitting up properly anymore. He had one elbow propped on the counter, head resting in his hand, watching with the kind of detached curiosity usually reserved for particularly stubborn animals.He’d explained this.Once. Twice.Three times.Each time met with the same disbelief, the same spiraling agitation, the same refusal to actually listen.
“I know,” he decided to say, “I am much out of your league,”
Shane scowled, “fuck off Rozanov!”
There it was.That familiar snap. It made him laugh without meaning to. Shane’s dark eyes flashed at him.
“You are laughing?” Shane said, “somehow I’ve time traveled to an impossible future and you’re laughing?”
“I’m sorry solnyshko,” his sincerity was butchered by his attempts to stifle further laughter.
Shane made a noise of pure frustration, dragging both hands down his face,“You’re enjoying this,” he accused.
Ilya considered that.Then, without a hint of shame, “a little.”
“Unbelievable,” Shane muttered again, but there was something underneath it now—something thinner, more uncertain.
Because for all his bluster, for all the anger and disbelief, he hadn’t left.Hadn’t bolted for the door.Hadn’t written it off completely.And Ilya knew why.Even if this version of Shane didn’t want to admit it yet.Because some part of him,some small, inconvenient part,believed it.Or at least believed him.
“I can call you,” Ilya offered, “I mean er my Shane?”
Ilya could not help but to smile at the sight of young Shane blushing. Of how his freckles, Ilya’s favorite feature, scrunched up as his brain processed Ilya saying my Shane. Get used to it,solnyshko, Ilya thought, I am yours and you are mine. Forever. He gently rubbed his wedding ring a soothing grounding measure. He’d tease his Shane about this later,about the blushing, about how easily he unraveled at something as simple as my Shane.Suddenly, he was desperate to hear his Shane. Make sure he was alright.
Shane answered on the third ring, “Ilya?” he breathed, one could hear the relief in it.
Something in Ilya’s chest loosened.Younger Shane heard it too. His head snapped up, eyes narrowing as he tried to place the tone, the familiarity, the intimacy in that single word.Ilya lowered the phone slightly, then deliberately switched it to speaker, setting it down between them.
“Hi moya lyubov,” Ilya said, “I have a-
“Ilya the craziest thing…hang on,” Shane turned and yelled in Russian, “Sadit'sya!”
“Is Anaya giving you problems?” Ilya asked quite enjoying how confused young Shane looked.
“No Ilya it's well I know this will make no sense but it’s you! I mean somehow younger you,”
Ilya glanced up.Right at the younger version of his husband, currently vibrating with barely contained agitation on the other side of the counter.
“Ah,” he said simply, “I think I know this problem too,”
“What?!” his Shane yelled out.
“I am staring at younger you,” Ilya told his husband, “he is like angry caged kitten-
“Shut up Rozanov!” younger Shane roared before clamping his hand over his mouth.Youn Shane froze in place, eyes wide, like he couldn’t quite believe he’d just done that. His gaze flicked to the phone, then back to Ilya, horror dawning as the implications caught up to him.
“Oh my god,” his Shane muttered after a moment, “did I actually sound like that?”
“Da, yes,” Ilya told him, “like you er swallowed balloon gas,”
There was a choked noise from the phone, “I did not—”
“You did,” Ilya cut in he held the phone towards young Shane, gesturing for him to say something more. He looked outraged and also battling the urge to defend himself.
“I do not sound like I swallowed balloon gas, Rozanov!” younger Shane snapped, bristling immediately. “And it’s called fucking helium.”
Ilya snorted before he could stop himself,“Ah,” he said, nodding once like this was a deeply important correction. “Thank you, Professor. I will memorize element now.”
“Shut….” younger Shane started, then cut himself off with a frustrated noise, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re insufferable.”
“Da,” Ilya agreed easily.
“Ilya,” his husband chided. On the other side of the line, Ilya could hear his husband clearing his throat. Clearly, Shane had been spiraling himself into a plan, “you need to get back to Ottawa.And Ilya I will kill you if you crash driving at a ludicrous speed to get here,” before Ilya could protest, Shane spoke over him, “Shane er hello? I know you’re probably freaking the fuck out. Understandable…..but er…..the Russian loves us okay?” There was an immediate, offended sound-sharp, indignant-from somewhere off to the side of Shane’s end of the call.Younger Ilya, apparently.Ilya couldn’t help the faint curl of satisfaction at that.On this side of the room, younger Shane made a strangled noise, color flooding his face again,, “but don’t okay? We’ll figure it out somehow because we really need you guys not to fuck up the timeline,”