Chapter Text
May, 2018
It had been ten years since Ilya Rozanov left the little town of Blythe.
Ten years since Shane Hollander had seen his first love.
Ten years since he had broken his heart.
Now twenty-eight, Shane has his life together. Still living in Blythe, with a beautiful fiancé and a nice, stable job at the local clinic.
A gaudy gold ring that’s not his style, a person he’s only with to save his parents the embarrassment of having a gay son, and only playing hockey when the only rink in the town isn’t booked or closed for renovations (why they don’t do it all at once, Shane will never know).
Still, he has a good life. He definitely doesn't think about Ilya anymore… only when he sees the sunlight dancing across the puddles on the sidewalk, when the smell of rain is still fresh in the air.
“Rose?” He calls into the house, peeking around the corner into the living room. Usually, she’s home around this time. It’s only seven o’clock, the sky fading blue. “Rose! Are you here?” He pauses.
No response. Shane sighs, wandering into the kitchen. Natural light pours in through the sliding glass doors—Rose particularly enjoyed the amount of sunlight the house would get during the day, and Shane preferred that to buying a million lamps… the overheads were never an option for either.
There was a note stuck to the counter, a bright pink that stood out against the dark granite. He snagged it off, bringing it closer to his face. God, he really needed to start wearing his glasses more. Rose’s handwriting was nearly illegible.
going to lily’s with sveta, come by!!!
Shane hated that bar. He hated it for the simple reason that it shared a name with his Lily. There was nothing else that deterred him—it was the quietest of the two in town, and the only people that really frequented it were a few members of his old team, Rose, and Sveta.
Scott Hunter had opened Lily’s three years after he graduated from the local university—coming back with his boyfriend, Kip Grady. Shane didn’t care that Scott was gay. The town of Blythe did.
Now, Lily’s is really only a place to avoid seeing cousins he doesn’t like and high school classmates he’d rather not talk to. Shane was compelled to ask Scott why he named the place “Lily’s” numerous times; he couldn’t recall any emotional attachment to the name from him, and Kip only shrugged when Shane asked.
Lily, Lily, Lily.
The name echoed in his mind, bouncing off the walls of his skull. He couldn’t catch it, couldn’t bury it under resentment or grief or anything tangible. It only existed in his head, on the sign outside of Scott’s bar.
Shane stuck the note back on the counter. He walked to the front door, pushing his shoes on and swiping the keys to his car off the hook. He slipped out the door, locking it once and checking twice.
He hopped into his car—a reliable Jeep Cherokee, starting the engine and peeling out of the driveway. The windows were rolled down about halfway, a cool spring breeze flowing into the car, rendering the AC useless.
The roads were mostly empty, save for the occasional car rolling down the opposite side. They waved, he waved. It was Holly Franco first in her minivan—she had just had a third baby, from what Rose had told him.
Following her three minutes afterward was Zachary Taylor in a Toyota Camry; Sveta had told him that Zach was apparently encroaching on a divorce to Genevieve Taylor, née Lang, after she had found him cheating on her with their son’s teacher.
He did look a little exhausted in the split second Shane saw him through the windshield. Word spread too fast in this town. The wildfire that was Scott Hunter’s sexuality was still burning, even years later. People here had too much to say about everyone and everything. He guessed that was just what happens when there’s nothing else to do.
Lily’s is a few streets away from the downtown area. Close enough to walk into the most urban area they have (a.k.a., a cluster of little stores), far enough away to have some privacy if you’re going to throw up in the parking lot and don’t want anyone to see.
Shane pulls into the parking lot. He could park as horribly as he pleased, if he really wanted to. There were maybe four other cars in the lot. He lined up straight anyway, backing into a spot close to the entrance. By the time he’s out of the car and pulling open the door, he can hear Rose’s laugh.
“No fucking way!” She howls, her arm looped with Sveta’s in the back booth. Scott and Kip aren’t even behind the bar—they’re leaning against it, discussing something Shane decides he doesn’t need to know.
Sveta’s staring at Rose, a grin spread wide across her face in a way he’s only ever seen when she’s with her. She glances towards Shane’s direction when the bell rings at the door, and waves him over. “Shane! You came!” Her voice has the slightest Russian accent.
“Yeah, well, you stole my fiancé from me, so I kind of had to.” He says, walking over to their booth. Svetlana rolls her eyes, pulling Rose closer against her. Shane slides in across from the pair, his eyes dropping to the diamond on Rose’s ring finger. He doesn’t look at it for more then two seconds.
Rose, her laughs finally getting slower, is just able to get words out again. “Shane, you seriously won’t believe this,” She smiles. “Sveta, you have to be the one to tell him. Please. You have to.”
Shane thinks Rose is amazing. She’s kind, smart, totally his best friend, and wow, Svetlana just might be made for her. The woman looks at her like she hung the moon, her eyes tracing over Rose’s lips, nose, the cut of her jawline and the shadows that dramatize it.
If they were in any other city, any other place, Svetlana would be the one who has the matching ring to Rose’s. She would be the one who has a house with her, and they’d probably end up ruling the world. Both Rose and Sveta always seemed like they were the type to be famous.
And maybe in that other city, other place, Shane would’ve ended up with Ilya.
Instead, he sits in a bar in Blythe that shares a pseudonym with his first love, laughing at a story Svetlana recounts with harrowing detail, in a lavender relationship and only possessing a dying passion for things he cannot have anymore.
“… Jesus, speaking of, remember Ilya?” Svetlana gives a pointed look to Shane, and his blood runs cold for just a moment. Svetlana and Rose know Shane’s gay. They don’t know he was dating Ilya Rozanov their entire senior year.
Shane clears his throat. “Of course I do,” He says with all of the subtlety of a rhino. “How could I not? We were Blythe’s headline story for four years.”
In high school, Shane and Ilya were both on their high school’s hockey team. They were the best players that team had seen by far, and it wasn’t close. Despite being teammates, the town enjoyed picking sides—who would score more goals that season, more points, more assists. They became miniature celebrities with fan camps behind them, ready to skewer their rival if asked.
“Are you on Hollander or Rozanov’s side?” Became the most common question to ask. Again, Shane wondered how little people in their town had to do. He never bought into the story. In fact, he tried to repaint the image of Hollander and Rozanov to friends.
Not like it mattered now. Ilya won—he went to university states away to play hockey, and Shane went to the local university everyone else in their graduating class did. They would never see each other again. He wanted it to feel like relief.
Shane’s arms crossed over his chest, a protective gesture he didn’t realize he was doing. “No idea why, but the asshole texted me after months—” Less time than his no contact of ten years. Shane bit it back. “—and he’s coming back to visit.”
His heart dropped to his feet. Memories of Ilya came flooding back, too fast to stop. His grin was just as competitive as it was haunting; his canines sharp, the feeling of them biting into his lower lip, tasting blood as his tongue slipped into his mouth.
The desperate measures they took to keep it quiet, and all of the risks they took despite it. Ilya’s car parked on the quiet backroads, the two tumbling into the backseat. Ilya falling into the bushes outside of Shane’s window at two in the morning, trying to stifle laughter—his mom walking into his room five minutes later and asking why he was up.
“Did—did he say why?” Shane managed out without too much of a stutter. Fuck, his palms were getting clammy. He balled them up, placed firm on his thighs, his leg jumping up and down. Rose raised an eyebrow, beginning to catch onto his anxiousness, but she didn’t say anything. “Or when?”
Sveta shook her head. “Nope,” Her lips popped, pronouncing the ‘P’. “Well, not about the why… or a specific date. Just really fucking soon.”
Shane could’ve predicted that himself—Ilya wasn’t exactly known for his punctuality. His head hit the back of the leather booth, unable to hide his uneasiness any longer. “You’re joking.” He groaned, impending doom carving itself a home in his gut.
Rose and Svetlana exchanged looks. “I thought you weren’t…. y’know, actually enemies,” Rose started, leaning against the table now instead of against Sveta. “Did something happen since he left?”
“More like right before.” Shane says, unable to stop himself in time. Scott and Kip glance over. “Fuck. Okay. If I tell you this, you can’t tell anyone else—”
The bell to the door rings. Shane’s head snaps up.
He makes eye contact with Ilya Rozanov.
***
2008
“Oh, shit—” Shane clamps a hand over Ilya’s mouth, listening for any movement on the other side of his house. Ilya’s hand moves insistently down his shorts. He glares at the boy, and immediately, his hand pauses.
Don’t be stupid, he’s saying silently. They both know better. What would happen if they got caught. Only, neither of them shift away, sitting still. Sweet silence blesses them. Ilya begins to snort, and Shane grabs his face, kissing him. His hand moves into Shane’s hair, running through the clipped strands.
Ilya’s teeth bite down on Shane’s lip just for a moment, before his arm wraps around his waist and flips their position. Shane’s head hits his pillow, a quiet mmp escaping his lips, Ilya eagerly swallowing the sound.
His hand slides out from under him, up the white cotton of Shane’s shirt. They break for barely three seconds, Shane’s shirt being pushed up and over his head. Ilya throws it across the room, landing on Shane’s desk. “Better.” He breathes, and he grins. Shane can feel his cheeks light up.
Thank fuck it’s dark. The clock on his nightstand reads 2:38 A.M., the bright red of the digital letters being the only light in the room, his curtains pulled over the window. “Shut up.” Shane was the one reaching this time, pulling his face down. Their lips collided again, unnecessarily soft.
He can hear Ilya chuckle into the kiss, feel his hands moving, sliding across his skin. Everytime Shane wonders why he risks being with Ilya, everytime they almost get caught or fight or do something so fucking stupid he wants to rip his hair out, he’s brought back to moments like these.
Ilya Rozanov is a drug Shane can’t quit. He is an idol, a sight so gorgeous Shane couldn’t tear his eyes away if he tried. He’s beautiful on the ice, graceful in a way hockey players shouldn’t be, the precision he displays so effortless Shane can’t help but admire.
But Ilya now is a different kind of stunning. Half-naked in his bed, so absorbed in Shane he doesn’t pretend to care about being caught. The glint in his eyes when he makes him break, the way he moves when he pulls Shane’s legs over his shoulders.
When his lips move down, planting kisses along the column of Shane’s neck, his breathing stifles—Ilya glances up, his lips curled upwards. “I thought you wanted quiet?” He teased, his accent just rougher around the edges.
“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Shane huffed, the exhale melting into a sigh as Ilya’s lips press against his pulse point.
Ilya’s teeth grazes his skin, careful not to leave any lasting marks. “Mm, I don’t think is what you want.”
Maybe not. “I want you to be quiet, that’s what I want.”
“Why do you not put on music? Is very normal, you know. Falling asleep to music.” He paused. “And setting the mood, too.” Ilya wiggled his eyebrows, and Shane rolled his eyes so hard they could’ve fallen out.
Shane shook his head, his breathing uneven as Ilya pushed down his sleep shorts. “My parents know I don’t listen to music, they’d get suspicious. It’s loud.” Their bickering was also loud for the quiet house, but that didn’t stop either one.
“Whatever. You’d probably choose whale songs anyway.”
Shane sat on his bed, watching Ilya shrug his shirt onto his shoulders. “You’re going to be cold. Why didn’t you bring a jacket?” He asked, pressing off of his bed and walking over to his closet. Opening the door slowly, avoiding the creaking it makes when he pulls it too fast, he begins to shuffle through his zip-ups.
“It is not horrible out. I parked right down the road,” Ilya waves him off, but waits for him to pick out a hoodie anyway. “You are very dramatic, Hollander.” He said with an unmistakably fond tone.
“You love it.” Shane responds, helping him put the hoodie on. It’s one of his favorites—light blue, soft on the inside, pure cotton. He reaches behind Ilya, pulling the hood over his curls. Shane stares for a second too long, before leaning in, planting a gentle, deep kiss on Ilya’s lips. “Goodnight. Drive safe, okay?”
“I will, I will.” He nods, his hands lingering on Shane’s waist. Reluctant to let go, he drops his forehead on the other man’s shoulder, whispering against the skin. “я тебя люблю.”
Shane needs to ask what that means one of these days. For right now, though, he needs to get Ilya out of his house before his parents wake up. Ilya finally pulls away, and Shane walks over to his window, unlocking it and pushing the window up and open.
“Don’t fall into the bushes like last time. Seriously—you had scratches all over you.” Shane steps back, letting Ilya swing one leg out of the window. He only blows a kiss, winking, before slipping onto his roof. Shane watches as crawls across the tiles, then onto the tree a few feet away. He jumps down from there, running to the road.
He stares until Ilya’s out of sight. Then, he closes his window, locking it again. “я тебя люблю…” Shane mumbles to himself, his tongue tangling the sounds, before stripping the sheets off of his bed; pondering the hushed words.
***
May, 2018
He makes eye contact with Ilya Rozanov.
Rose and Sveta are talking, trying to grab his attention. Maybe. Time seems to slow as Ilya approaches, stretching on forever yet somehow speeding up like he’s skipping through a scene he’s already seen before.
He can’t hear Rose or Svetlana. Their faces blur in his peripheral vision, all his attention devoted to the man walking towards him. Ilya’s older now, no longer the boyish teenager who put on a disguise of a man.
Taller, slightly. Maybe taller than Shane now. He had a new mole on his neck, right at the center, like a bullseye marker. He’s broader, too, more built. The gold cross necklace still rests on his chest, worn for wear, but not far from the glinting shine it had when it swung over his face ten years ago.
“Shane!” Rose’s voice snaps him back, accompanied by a shake to his shoulder. “Are you okay?” She asks, worry evident in her tone. No, he wasn’t okay. Nausea crawled up his throat, his heart squeezing in his chest, beating a million miles a minute.
His mouth was dry, his thumb rubbing against the gold ring on his finger. His fucking engagement band. Shane was going to be sick. He needed to get out of here. It was too late, though—Ilya was already standing over him, his hands shoved in his pockets, all too casual for what their situation was.
“Sveta,” He greets first, not acknowledging Shane yet. “Rose—Hollander. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
Ilya’s voice is barely what Shane remembers. His accent has softened significantly, no longer tripping over vowels or skipping syllables. This rattles him more then it should. Svetlana glances over at Shane, before nodding.
я тебя люблю.
“Yep.” Is all Shane can say. Yep. It has been a while. Ten years, to be specific—ten years he’s spent pretending he doesn’t think of Ilya every waking moment, pretending everything in this god-forsaken town doesn’t have an Ilya-focused memory attached to it.
Ilya’s eyes finally shift over to him. Shane wants to squirm under his gaze, curl into himself and cover his head. They drop down to the ring on his finger. There is no surprise in his pupils, only a look of confirmation.
Then he looks to Rose’s hand, the diamond the centerpiece; the band matching Shane’s. If Ilya cared, he didn’t show it. “Congratulations. Are you married already?” He directs the question at Rose.
“Uhm. Nope, just engaged,” She says, looking to Shane for some kind of reassurance. He could see what Rose was thinking. This is Svetlana’s good friend—they could trust him with the secret of their relationship, right? Surely Svetlana would tell him about it anyway.
But neither of them said anything about it, and Svetlana only leaned back in her seat. “We’re really excited, though. Are you going to keep visiting? We’d love you to be at the wedding.” Rose’s nails tap against the wood table, her foot nudging against Shane’s.
Ilya smiles, but nothing in it is friendly. It’s stiff and one Shane remembers as his forced polite smile. He almost forgot he had one of those. “Ah, maybe. I’m very busy these days.”
Shane’s had enough of this. He clears his throat. “Rose, I’m gonna go, I’m tired,” He slides out of the booth, brushing off nonexistent dust on his shirt. “I’ll see you at home. Love you.” He casts one last glance at Ilya, before making a beeline for the door.
Pushing out into the fresh air, the sun is beginning to dip under the horizon, the sky painted shades of orange, pink, red. There’s a car parked right next to his now, despite countless empty spots with no cars. “Asshole.” Shane muttered.
The bell rings again. Ilya is following him. Shane doesn’t turn around, walking faster to his car. He can hear footsteps behind him, heavy and just as quick.
“I missed hearing you say that.” Ilya calls out. Shane freezes, before whipping around.
“Oh really? You missed it?” Shane scoffs, the smirk on Ilya’s face only more infuriating. “Doesn’t seem like it. Not when you fucking—left me here!”
Ilya shakes his head. “You could've followed me. They offered you a spot on the team too.”
“Oh, fuck you, Rozanov. You know exactly why I couldn’t follow you. You left me here.” In more ways than one, Shane didn’t add.
Ilya walks closer, and Shane takes a few steps back. Ilya’s strides are longer, eating up the distance. His hand reaches up, cupping Shane’s jaw, his thumb brushing over his cheeks—over his freckles.
For a moment, Shane lets him touch him. He relishes the feeling of Ilya’s hand on his skin again, and it feels like breaking a dry spell. He mutters something in Russian Shane can’t understand. Ilya leans in closer.
Shane shoves him away.
“Get the fuck off of me!” He hisses, his hands trembling. “What the fuck are you doing here? Come back just to taunt me? You should’ve just stayed gone!” He means it. He means it so much, the words spill from the deepest corners of his consciousness.
It would be easier if Ilya stayed gone. Shane wouldn’t have all of these feelings bubbling up again that never truly stayed down; there would be less doubt. Less wondering what they could’ve been. Ilya showing up now means that Shane would never be able to escape those thoughts again.
Tears spring into Shane’s eyes. His lower lip begins to tremble, and he brings his hand to his face, swiping the wetness away—his palm too rough against his skin, overcompensating for how utterly vulnerable he feels in front of a man who doesn’t even care.
Ilya shifts in his stance, his hands moving to reach for Shane—to his waist, how he always pulled him closer—but he let them fall to his sides. “I hate you. I hate you so much.” Shane cries, his voice trembling just enough to make him feel even stupider.
He doesn’t wait for a response. Shane turns on his heel, throwing open his car’s door, climbing in and starting the engine. He peels out of the parking lot, watching Ilya disappear in his rearview mirror, still standing on the sidewalk outside of Lily’s.
Shane drives five minutes before he has to pull over, throwing up into the grass.