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Chapter Text

The snow always reminded him of home. 

Growing up in Moscow, it had been a constant. Ilya had been able to count on the fact that, every winter, snow would fall in thick, heavy clumps, blanketing the city in a sea of white. His mother always said how beautiful it was. It had been her favorite thing in the world. After she died, Ilya found himself detesting it. As though the world was mocking him, reminding him of what he didn’t have by shoving precipitation in his face. 

He could smell it in the air as he lit a cigarette, sitting on the stone fence outside the hospital. Ilya couldn’t quite describe the scent, but he recognized it all the same. It was a crisp, clean smell, as though it could somehow erase the sins of Moscow by hiding every inch of dirt entrenched in the city’s foundation. 

The wind whistled, cutting through the air like a knife. Ilya was used to the cold, though. He’d lived in it his whole life. Growing up, winter had leaked through the walls of his family’s home, sucking out all the warmth from inside. There’d been a chill that, no matter how hard his mother tried to banish, no matter how many blankets she bought or how high she turned the heat, had refused to go away. 

When his mother died, the house had only gotten colder. 

Sirens echoed faintly in the distance, the sounds of the city slightly jarring. Ottawa was so quiet, so peaceful, Ilya had forgotten what a proper city sounded like. 

It was odd, being back. He had thought, at one point, that he’d never return. But then, Alexei had called. Well, to be exact, Alexei had called ten times, up until Ilya had blocked him. A few hours later, Svetlana had called on his brother’s behalf, and suddenly, Ilya found himself on a plane to Moscow. 

His niece, Kira, had a heart condition and needed surgery immediately. Predictably, Alexei had wasted all of his money and had no means to pay for it. So, without hesitation, Ilya had gotten on a flight to Moscow. While he had promised never to return, he would do anything for his niece, even if it meant returning to a place he hated. 

Wiebe had understood when Ilya told him he’d need to miss their game that night, but Ilya would be back in time for their next one. 

He didn’t intend to stay in Moscow any longer than he had to. 

Extinguishing his cigarette on the freshly fallen snow, he dropped it onto the ground before standing up, turning to go back inside and see his niece one last time before visiting hours ended for the night. 

She was meant to be discharged in two days, and once Ilya saw her home and made sure she had everything she needed, he’d be on a plane back to Canada. Back to Shane. 

God, he missed him. He had offered to come, as moral support, but Ilya had refused. He wouldn’t allow his fiance to miss a game, not for Ilya’s family. Besides, the last place Ilya wanted Shane was Russia. It was stupid, not to mention dangerous, for the two of them to be seen together there. They planned to come out in the summer, but until then, they were being as careful as always. 

Even if it wasn’t for the danger, he wouldn’t have wanted the other man here. This place… it was evil. It would taint his solnyshko. Moscow brought out the very worst parts of Ilya, parts he never wanted his fiance to see. 

Moscow ruined everything. It always did. 

Ilya wouldn’t let it ruin them too.  

Shane hated late practices with a passion. An early morning or afternoon practice was fine. Night games were great. But evening practices? Awful. 

For starters, by the time practice started, he was already tired from the entire day. There was no adrenaline to run on the way there was at games, where the roar of the crowd was loud enough to rattle Shane’s teeth. Then, by the time practice was over and he got home, it was pretty much time for him to go to bed, and just like that, his whole night was gone. 

Luckily, most of their practices tended to be earlier in the day, but an issue that morning with the Zamboni meant the Metros didn’t get onto the ice for practice until 4:30, much to Shane’s dismay. 

“You’re going to be the last one out on the ice,” Shane informed Hayden as he grabbed his helmet out of his stall. 

Nearly everyone was done putting their gear on, almost ready to go out to the rink, except for Hayden. The man was doing something on his phone, clearly not worried about being late. 

“I’ve just got to send this last FanMail,” Hayden told him, waving his concern away. “I filmed it the other week and forgot to submit it. If I don’t do it now, I’ll end up with a fine.” 

Shane rolled his eyes at Hayden’s ridiculous scheme. He wasn’t sure why the guy loved FanMail so much. If he really wanted extra cash – which, with four kids, he probably did – he could just do a commercial or something. It’d probably save him time in the long run, and pay a hell of a lot better. But no one could persuade Hayden that the videos were a waste of his time, and plenty of people had tried. Shane was convinced almost every player on the team had tried talking him out of it at one point or another. 

“Done!” he announced, quickly tossing his phone into his stall before throwing the last few pieces of his gear on and moving toward the door to the hallway. “C’mon, we’re gonna be late!” 

Shaking his head, Shane followed after the man, sometimes wondering why he was friends with Hayden. 

They were barely on the ice for half an hour before Shane realized something was wrong. It started with someone coming down from the office and whispering in Theriault’s ear. Then, the pair of them started staring at Shane. Not just looking, or watching. 

Staring. 

Theriault disappeared up to the offices for a couple of minutes before returning, looking a complex combination of both incredibly shaken and pissed. Like really pissed. 

“Hollander!” the man snapped, causing everyone on the ice to immediately stop moving, all eyes drifting to look at Shane. “Upstairs, now.” 

Not sure he’d ever heard the man sound so forceful, Shane quickly skated towards the boards. He headed towards the locker room as Theirault began yelling at the team to get back to skating, and quickly threw his skates and pads in his stall before turning to go to the offices. 

He froze as he entered the doorway of Theriault’s office, surprised to find Marcel, their PR manager, already sitting in a chair across from Theriault’s desk, the head coach in question pacing back and forth in the small room. 

Marcel looked like he was one second away from having a breakdown, while Theriault just looked…enraged. He seemed more angry than Shane had ever seen him, even when they got their asses kicked in the playoffs. 

The man looked up at the sound of Shane entering the room, eyes lit with fury. 

“Tell me it’s not true,” he demanded, moving toward Shane with a speed that was almost scary. “Tell me it was a joke or a prank. Tell me it was just you being a stupid fucking idiot!” 

Shane flinched, stepping back a bit to try and put some space between him and the coach. He wasn’t sure what was more disorienting, the man’s anger, or the fact that Shane had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. 

“Tell you w-what’s not true?” he asked, voice shaking without his permission. Silently, he looked toward Marcel, begging the man to help, and thankfully, the PR manager took pity on him.

He held out a tablet to Shane, which, thanks to the tension in the room, might as well have been an atomic bomb. 

“This was posted to Twitter about 20 minutes ago,” Marcel told him, and Shane gingerly accepted the tablet from the man, a pit of dread forming in his stomach. “It’s everywhere.” 

While part of him knew, deep down, what he was going to see when he looked at the tablet, Shane hoped he was wrong. He hoped it would be some stupid rumor that could be easily quashed, like that he was using drugs or having an affair with a WAG. Anything, really, would be better than the truth. 

But when he looked down, there it was. In the back of one of Hayden’s stupid FanMails, he and Ilya were kissing, Ilya’s hand in his hair, their tongues down each others’ throat. And it was unmistakably them. 

All the air flooded out of his lungs, and Shane found himself unable to breath. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It was supposed to be planned, and on their time, and thought out, and– and–

His mind ran a million miles a minute, his chest aching with the need to breathe. Except he couldn’t. As hard as he tried, he just couldn’t get any air. 

Everyone knew. The whole world knew. His teammates, his coach, the fans, hell, the commissioner of the fucking MLH. They all knew. 

He could hear Theriault screaming at him, but Shane couldn’t make out the words. It didn’t matter anyway. Nothing mattered anymore. 

There was no covering it up, no hiding it, no making up some stupid excuse. It was out there, for everyone to see. 

A set of hands landed on him, but Shane could barely feel them. Everything but the all consuming burning in his chest was fuzzy, like static in the background. He felt himself being pulled away from where he’d been standing and he followed the tugging blindly, unable to resist. 

The panic had sunk its claws into his chest in an iron-tight grip, leaving no room for escape. Nausea churned in his stomach, worse than he’d ever received from any hangover or stomach flu. A knot had formed in his throat, twisting and turning tightly until it was suffocating him. 

“-the, Shane, you have to breathe!” 

Hayden was suddenly kneeling in front of him in the empty locker room, his hands cupping Shane’s face, a desperate look in his eyes. Shane shook his head furiously, unable to explain to the man that he couldn’t, he just couldn’t. 

“C’mon, breathe with me, okay?” Hayden instructed, grabbing one of Shane’s hands and holding it to his chest so that Shane could feel the rise and fall of his lungs. “Just breathe.” 

His head was pounding, and his lungs burned at the first breath he managed, but the second one came a little easier. 

Once his breathing was on a somewhat regular pattern, Hayden leaned back a bit, letting out a sigh of relief. 

“Good, good, just keep doing that,” his best friend instructed him, still looking somewhat terrified. 

“Everyone knows,” Shane choked out, the only thought that had been occupying his mind for however long it had been since he’d stepped into Theriault’s office. 

His mind was splintering, breaking away at the edges, his thoughts running away like an overflooded river. He felt like he was drowning, like the horrible realization of what was happening had surrounded him, providing no escape, pushing him deeper and deeper into the dark, cold abyss of the sea. 

“I know, buddy,” Hayden said, a look of incredible guilt plastered onto his face. “I’m so fucking sorry, Shane.”

Shane’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion for a moment, before he realized what the other man meant. It was almost enough to make him laugh. As if, in this moment, with everything that was happening, he could possibly find it in himself to be mad at Hayden. Frankly, that was the last thing on his mind. 

“I n-need to– I should call–” Shane tried to form the words, but his tongue felt numb, the muscle not wanting to work the way he instructed it to. 

He was exhausted. 

His muscles ached, and his chest burned, and it shouldn’t be possible to feel so damn terrified when he was so tired, and yet the one overwhelming thing he felt was fear. 

“I texted your parents,” Hayden told him gently, squeezing his knee reassuringly. “They’re on their way.”

Shane shook his head, not having meant that. While it’d be a relief to have his parents here, they weren’t who he wanted to see the most. 

“Ilya,” he clarified, wincing as he swallowed, his throat feeling like he’d eaten a fistful of glass. “I need to call Ilya.” 

He fumbled around for his phone, desperately needing to hear his fiance’s voice. Together, they could figure this out. They’d make a plan. Ilya could drive with his parents from Ottawa and–

But Ilya wasn’t in Ottawa. He was in Russia. 

No. 

No.

They’d kill Ilya in Russia. They’d kill him, or arrest him, or– or– 

Oh god, they’d kill him. 

Shane couldn’t lose him, not his Ilya. Not the man he loved more than himself. The person who owned his entire heart. Fuck, what was he meant to do? The truth about them was everywhere, all over the Internet. If they were lucky – and in Shane’s opinion, they had never, ever been lucky – it wouldn’t have made its way to Russia quite yet. But once it did, they’d kill him. They’d take the man Shane loved most in the world and tear him to shreds. 

They wouldn’t care about the medals Ilya had won for them, or the legacy he’d created for Russia. They wouldn’t care about how his smile lit up a room, or that he was incredibly patient with kids. They wouldn’t care that he looked at Shane like he was the goddamn sun, or that he was more considerate than anyone else Shane had ever met. 

All they would care about was that he loved a man. And for Russia, that was enough to make him the scum of the Earth, to make him deserving of whatever hell they could cook up for him.  

Shane choked on his breath, coughing harshly as the panic started to creep back in. His hands shook as he opened his phone, calling Ilya’s number. The phone rang until it went to voicemail, and Shane called again. 

Once.

Twice. 

Three times. 

The phone rang and rang in the silence of the locker room, the only other sound being Shane’s laboured breathing, and yet no one picked up the phone. 

Ilya never answered. 

Hayden ended up driving him home to Ottawa, the powers that be – which at this point, was anyone but Shane considering he was basically non-functional – having decided that it’d be better for Shane to be home. Away from Theriault and the team, in a place where he could hide from the press. 

It wasn’t until Hayden had turned the car off that Shane came to enough awareness to realize they weren’t at his cottage, or his parents’ house, or even Ilya’s place. They were at the rink. 

He shot Hayden a confused look, the expression taking more energy than he had, and Hayden simply shrugged. 

“I just do what your mom tells me, man,” he said by way of explanation, before hopping out of the car. 

They wandered through the halls of the arena, and Shane found himself thankful the place was mostly empty. He didn’t have it in him to talk to anyone right now, to answer the thousands of questions people probably had. 

As they entered Wiebe's office, they found that the coach, along with both of Shane’s parents, were already there. He’d barely made it through the doorway before his dad stood up and yanked him into a hug, his mom not far behind. 

“Oh, Shane,” his mom murmured as he buried his face into his dad’s shoulder, feeling all of six years old again, pretending like his parents could magically fix everything. 

A hand landed on his shoulder, his mom gently rubbing his back as his dad just held him tightly. He let out a shuddery breath into his dad’s shoulder, about three seconds from falling apart. 

Usually, he would feel relieved by his parents’ presence, but right now, all he felt was numb. The one thing he could feel was terror, but anything beyond that was out of his reach. 

When he finally pulled back from his dad, he looked at Wiebe for the first time since he’d entered the room. Instead of looking enraged or disgusted, like Theriault had, the man just looked…worried. 

Farah was there as well, which was a bit of a comfort, as Shane knew that if anyone could handle the shit-storm that was coming, it was her. 

“Have you heard anything yet?” Wiebe asking him, sounding hopeful. 

Shane simply shook his head, swallowing past the lump in his throat. The drive from Montreal had taken two hours, during which he must have called Ilya a dozen times, but there’d been no answer. 

Of course, there were a million reasons why Ilya might not be answering. It was the middle of the night, he was probably asleep. Maybe his phone was silenced, or had died. 

But the little voice in the back of Shane’s head told him that he knew those were just excuses. Ilya was a light sleeper, he’d wake up to his phone ringing. If he wasn’t answering, something was deeply, truly wrong. 

“What about his brother?” Farah suggested as Shane’s dad pushed him to sit in a chair, which was probably a good idea considering how wobbly his legs felt underneath him. 

“I don’t have Alexei’s number,” he explained as everyone else took a seat, with Wiebe leaning against his desk. “He and Ilya don’t really talk.” 

He was suddenly aware of how stupid that sounded. Sure, Ilya and his brother were practically estranged, but Shane still should’ve had his number, right? In case of some sort of emergency like the one they’d found themselves in. He should’ve asked Ilya for it before he left for Moscow. 

Why didn’t he ask him? Shane was usually all over those sorts of details, but he’d forgotten. He’d had a busy week of games and practice when Ilya flew out, and it had never occurred to him to ask for Alexei’s number. 

God, why didn’t he? 

“Should we put out a statement?” Shane’s mom asked, moving to grab Shane’s hand and squeeze it reassuringly from where she was sitting next to him. 

Farah sighed, pursing her lips for a moment. 

“It’s a bit difficult,” she told them, tilting her head a bit. “Unless you want to deny everything, anything we say could make things harder for Ilya.” 

She chose her words carefully, the way any good agent would, but Shane could read between the lines. They either came out and told the world it was a prank, just a silly joke they pulled on Hayden, or they had to stay silent. The truth wasn’t an option. It wouldn’t just make things harder for Ilya, as Farah had put it, but it’d put him in more danger. 

Shane sucked a breath in, holding it for a moment before exhaling heavily as he considered his options. 

“And if– if we did? Want to deny everything?” he questioned, voice shaking a bit. 

His mom looked stricken at his question, and his dad’s eyes flared in surprise, but Shane had to ask. It was the last thing he wanted to do, truly, it was. Shane hated having to hide their relationship. He hated lying to everyone. And the idea of pretending that it was all some sort of elaborate joke, it was horrible. The fact that he was even considering it made him so incredibly ashamed. 

But if it would help keep Ilya safe, then Shane would do it. Shane would do anything, if it meant keeping Ilya safe. 

“We could try,” Farah conceded, not sounding very confident. “But I’m not so sure people would buy it.” 

Right. Because shoving your tongue down your rival’s throat, letting him put his hand on your ass, that was a pretty big commitment to a prank. 

His mom and Farah began talking over their options, with Wiebe chiming in every now and then, and Shane zoned out, unable to think about anything other than Ilya at that moment. 

The way his smile shined brighter than the sun. 

How his eyes lit up when he saw Shane, like he was the only person in the world that mattered. 

The sound of his laugh, Shane’s favorite sound. 

What he looked like when he just woke up, curls ruffled from sleep, his face completely unguarded. 

Shane needed Ilya to be okay. He was his world, his heart, his everything. They were two bodies with one soul, two halves of a whole. Loving Ilya had been like finding the missing part of himself. Without him, Shane was nothing.

Losing Ilya Rozanov would be the end of him, plain and simple. It would break him, crush him into a thousand pieces, until there was nothing left but dust and ashes blowing in the wind. 

A knock at the door pulled Shane back into himself, and the conversations screeched to a halt as everyone looked over to the doorway. Bood and Hayes were waiting in the doorway, looking hesitant about interrupting, along with another man that seemed familiar, but Shane couldn’t place where he knew the guy from. 

“Hey, Coach,” Bood greeted once Wiebe had waved them inside, evidently the spokesperson for the three of them. “We just wanted to uh– check in. See if there’s any news on Rozy.”

“Nothing yet,” Wiebe replied, before finally seeming to notice the third man, blinking in surprise. “Petrov?” 

It clicked, suddenly, who the man was. Nikolai Petrov. He’d played for the Centaurs for most of his career, but had retired four years ago. The man had to be pushing 40 at this point, and had grown up in Russia before moving to Canada to play in the MLH. 

He was tall, at least 6’4, and broad, built like a stack of bricks. Hell, the man made Scott Hunter look small, and that was something. He had dark brown hair, and even darker brown eyes, eyes that had an undeniable fire behind them. 

“Wiebe,” the Russian greeted, the familiar accent a reminder of just how much Shane missed Ilya. “Bood filled me in. I figured I’d see if I could help at all.” 

Farah immediately jumped at the chance, turning around in her seat to look at the man. 

“Do you know how much the news has spread?” she asked him impatiently. 

Shane’s heart sank to the floor as the man grimaced, glancing at him with a pitying look. 

“My sister still lives in Moscow, she’s working the night shift so she’s still awake,” he explained, shoving his hands into his pockets. “She says it's everywhere.” 

He felt like he was going to throw up. He probably would’ve, if he had anything left in his stomach. It was bad enough that the news had spread in Canada, but in Russia? There’d be no escaping it. His mom squeezed his hand even tighter, clearly an attempt to ground him, but it was failing miserably. 

“Have you heard from Rozanov yet?” Petrov questioned, and Wiebe shook his head gravely.  

Farah sighed, moving to call someone, but Shane couldn’t bring himself to ask who. He faded away again, drifting into the abyss of fear and numbness his mind had created. 

Wiebe moved past where Hayes, Pike, and Bood were sitting against the wall, talking quietly amongst themselves, as he approached Petrov. Farah had stepped out into the hall, no doubt trying to control the absolute shit show they’d found themselves in, and he could only pray that she’d be able to do something. 

Hollander was sitting on the other side of the room with his parents, looking completely shell-shocked. Wiebe could only imagine what was running through the man’s mind right now. 

He couldn’t say he’d seen this coming. Rozanov and Hollander, two of the greatest rivals hockey had ever seen. Except they weren’t rivals. They were in love. 

It complicated things significantly. He wouldn’t lie and say it didn’t. But Wiebe didn’t care about the media complications, or the PR impact. He cared about his team, his players, his boys. 

He cared about Rozanov. 

Ilya Rozanov appeared, to most people, as a cocky, borderline heartless Russian. He was brazen, bold, and full of confidence. On the ice, he resembled a wolf, hunting his prey, stalking the other players until just the right moment, waiting to strike. 

However, the Ilya Rozanov that Brandon Wiebe knew was far more complex. 

He was a brilliant player, that much was certain. But also far more intelligent than most people gave him credit for. Hardly anyone bothered looking past the man’s somewhat stilted English to notice that, but Wiebe did. 

There was a surprising kindness to him as well. Rozanov was full of so much compassion it was almost shocking. He was patient with the rookies, sweet with Wiebe’s daughters when they came to visit, supportive of his teammates. 

He was a good man. 

A man that had been through more in his life than was fair. Most people would’ve turned bitter at everything Rozanov had suffered, they would’ve broken under far much less pressure than he had suffered. But through everything, he had endured. 

If there was one thing in this life that Brandon Wiebe was certain of, it was that Ilya Rozanov was a good, good man. A man that didn’t deserve this. 

So Wiebe didn’t care if he loved another man, even if that man was Hollander. He was going to stand by his side, and do whatever he could to protect his captain, because that was what it meant to be a coach. Looking after your boys, no matter what. 

Petrov glanced at him as Wiebe moved to stand by the man’s side, and he purposefully kept his voice low enough that Hollander couldn’t hear. Although, by the looks of him, the poor kid was dissociating so much he probably wouldn’t hear Wiebe if he screamed into his ear. 

“How bad is it over there? Really,” Wiebe asked, bracing himself for the answer. 

Part of him was terrified of the answer, but he needed to know. If he was going to help Roz, Wiebe needed to know everything. 

Petrov gave him a commiserating look, biting his lip a bit in hesitation. Wiebe didn’t know the guy well, having only come to coach the Centaurs after his retirement, but just by being here, he had put himself in Wiebe’s good book. 

“It’s four o’clock in Moscow,” Petrov informed him, pointedly not meeting Wiebe’s gaze. “Most of the city will still be asleep.” 

He could sense the man had something else to say, something he was holding back, and frankly, Wiebe didn’t have time for that. 

“But?” he prodded, wondering where the typical Russian boldness that Petrov had been known for had gone. 

Petrov tilted his head, finally moving to look Wiebe in the eye, his dark brown eyes holding such a fierceness in them that Wiebe almost jolted back in surprise. 

“If Rozanov hasn’t left already, he won't make it to see morning in Moscow.”

Chapter Text

Ilya woke up to hands shaking him violently, and the sound of someone talking. No, not just talking. Pleading. 

“‘lya, Ilya, wake up!”

He bolted upright in bed, pulse racing as he moved to push whoever the intruder was away, only to realize that it was his sister-in-law. 

“What the fuck, Katya?” he exclaimed, heaving a breath as he pressed a hand against his chest, his heart pounding against the surface of his skin. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“You need to go,” she told him insistently, a wild look in her green eyes. 

Ilya’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion as she stared at the woman. Sure, they weren’t close, hell, they’d probably only spoken a couple of times, but he never would’ve pegged her for the type that would try and kick her out in the middle of the night. 

“What?” he asked, blinking sleep out of his eyes. 

But Katya had already turned to start throwing his stuff into the backpack he’d brought on the plane with him. Some clothes, his wallet, his passport, everything went into the bag. 

“What are you doing!?” Ilya demanded to know, finally getting out of bed to move to stand in front of her, blocking Katya from moving until she answered him. 

“Trying to get you out of my house before your brother kills you,” she answered succinctly, shoving his backpack into his chest, leaving Ilya rushing to grab a hold of it before it fell to the floor. 

“And why would Alexei do that?” Ilya asked with a scoff. 

The man was a cockroach, and a coward at that, but he wouldn’t stab Ilya in the back right after he practically saved Kira’s life. Or, at least, paid a doctor to save Kira’s life. 

“Maybe because there’s a video all over Twitter of you shoving your tongue down a man’s throat.”

Her words made Ilya go cold, like someone had just dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. This couldn’t be happening. There was no way someone could’ve filmed him and Shane, right? They were always so careful. It had to be some elaborate, cruel prank the woman was pulling on him. 

“What are you talking about?” he questioned in a weak voice, swallowing heavily past the lump in his throat. 

Katya tossed him her phone and sure enough, every trending tag on Twitter was about him and Shane. And then, right when he refreshed the page, a zoomed-in video of the two of them at Pike’s house, making out clear as day. 

“Fuck!” he snapped, running a hand through his hair and yanking tightly at the strands. 

This wasn’t part of the plan. They were supposed to come out in the summer. There would be some sort of carefully crafted statement, a beautiful, heartwarming Instagram post set to be published while they were at the cottage. They were meant to have time to hide away from the world, to let the press die down before the season started. 

But most importantly, the plan didn’t include Ilya being in fucking Russia when they came out. 

“You’ll wake Alexei,” Katya hissed at him as he yanked on a pair of jeans before pulling a sweater over his head. 

The clock on the nightstand told him it was just after one in the morning, and he could see snow falling through the window, so it was sure to be freezing out. But the cold didn’t matter. He needed to go. Now. 

If Ilya didn’t leave while he could, if he waited until morning, there’d be no escape. He’d probably be arrested, and that was if the police got to him before a mob of Russians did. It was more likely someone on the streets would kill him first. When even the police wanted you dead, there was no one to save you. 

“Where will you go?” Katya asked him as he went out into the hallway, grabbing his jacket from the coat rack and hurriedly pushing his arms through the sleeves. She crossed her arms over her chest, shivering a bit in the coldness of the hallway, dressed in nothing but a thin nightgown. 

His sister-in-law must have gotten out of bed the moment she saw the news, Ilya realized. 

“Wherever the first train out of Russia is going,” Ilya replied, throwing his backpack over his shoulder. He’d brought a suitcase too, but there was no time for that. 

A plane would be faster, but Ilya didn’t like his odds in an airport. Too much security. People paid less attention when traveling on a train. It’d be safer, he hoped. 

Katya nodded once, apparently agreeing with his course of action. Ilya reached for the doorknob, pausing slightly as he looked back at his sister-in-law. 

“Why did you wake me?” 

They both knew Alexei would’ve relished the chance to turn Ilya in, especially if it meant getting a reward. He would also be furious if he ever discovered Katya had helped him. Helping Ilya put Katya in danger, and yet she was doing it anyway. 

“You saved Kira, now we’re even,” she informed him evenly. “But Ilya… never come back here.” 

Ilya swallowed heavily, giving a small nod before finally unlocking the front door to the apartment and stepping out into the night. 

Katya didn’t have to worry. Ilya had no plans to ever return to Moscow. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t. He was essentially an enemy of the state right now. If he ever tried to return, it would surely end in either his death, or imprisonment. 

He would leave Moscow tonight, and never come back. It would be the last time he was in the country of his birth for the rest of his life. 

The snow was falling heavily, blanketing the streets. A fierce cold occupied the air, making his breath steam in front of him. The flakes were coming down in fat, wet clumps, the type that were always his mother’s favorite. Snow like this is a gift, Ilyushka, she'd told him once, when he was small enough to believe her. It covers all the ugly things and makes the world new again.

But it hadn’t been enough to cover up everything. It hadn’t been enough to wipe away his mother’s depression, or his father’s abuse. That was the thing about snow. For a while, it made everything seem better, but once it melted, the world was messier than it had been before. 

There was no beauty in the snow tonight. It wasn’t hiding anything, but exposing Ilya instead. Every footprint he left behind him was a trail, evidence of his escape, a path for anyone who might decide to follow him. The snow made everything too bright, too visible, even in the dead of night. 

Ilya considered trying to get a cab, but there weren’t many out on the street so late, and he ran the risk of being recognized. Walking was safer, so Ilya begrudgingly started the two mile trek to the train station, moving as quickly as he could.

The wind picked up, and Ilya pulled his hood up, tucking his chin down, hoping it would help to conceal his identity a bit. The cold nipped at his skin, turning his cheeks numb, creating an ache in his fingertips. It was the Moscow he remembered from childhood – brutal, unforgiving, indifferent to suffering. 

Every sound he heard as he walked startled him, the fear thrumming through his veins causing him to be on high alert. All it took was one person recognizing him, and that would be the end of him. A car passed, its headlights cutting through the snow, and Ilya pressed himself closer to the building along the sidewalk, heart hammering until it was gone. 

The terror building up inside of him only increased when he realized he’d left his phone back in the apartment. But it was too late to go back. He had no way to contact anyone, no way to call Shane. 

Oh god, Shane. 

He must be losing his mind. Ilya could picture him so clearly in his mind, those brown eyes he loved so much wide with fear, the worry line between his brows deepened with panic. His solnyshko, his sunshine, probably consumed by the darkness of his anxiety. 

While Ilya knew it was likely chaos back home, he knew Shane was safe. Likely being hounded by the press, potentially having been kicked off of his team, but safe. Alive. 

Ilya would be lucky if he made it home. 

The thought of never seeing Shane again made Ilya's chest constrict painfully. Never hearing his laugh, never watching him light up when Ilya walked into a room, never feeling his warmth beside him in bed. Never getting to marry him. Shane was warmth and light in a life that had been so cold for so long. He'd thawed something in Ilya that had been frozen since his mother's death.

It wasn’t fair. He wanted more time. He wanted a future, their future, the one they’d been waiting for for what seemed like forever. They’d spent so much time hiding, waiting for the day they could finally live and now, Ilya might die before that ever happened. 

Stop it, Ilya told himself firmly. You will see him again. You will marry him. You will get to call him boring and tease him for drinking ginger ale and make fun of his weak backhand. You just need to get to the train station.

The streets were mostly empty, but not entirely. A few people hurried past, heads down against the wind, not sparing Ilya a glance. Each one made his heart race, convinced they'd recognize him, but no one stopped. No one looked twice. They were all just trying to survive the cold, same as him.

Ilya cut down a side street, hoping to avoid the main roads. The buildings here were older, more rundown, the kind of neighborhood where people minded their own business because getting involved in someone else's problems was dangerous. The snow was deeper here, untouched, virgin white that would show his tracks clearly to anyone following.

The alley was darker than the main street, the snow not reflecting as much light. Ilya picked up his pace, eager to get through it quickly, his instincts screaming at him that something was wrong. On the ice, he always trusted his instincts. A wolf knew when it was being hunted, after all.

He heard the footsteps behind him before he saw anything.

He told himself it was nothing. Just someone else cutting through. But the footsteps were moving faster than his, getting closer. The sound of boots crunching in snow, multiple sets. A pack closing in.

"Hey!" a voice called out in Russian. "Hey, you!"

Ilya's blood turned to ice. He didn't turn around, just walked faster, his heart pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. 

"I know you!" the voice said, louder now, slurred with alcohol. "I know who you are!"

A hand yanked him back suddenly, and Ilya whipped around, shoving the man away with all the strength he could muster. The man stumbled back, but one of his friends caught him, the three men hovering scarily close to Ilya. 

“You’re mistaken,” Ilya said firmly, trying desperately to exude every ounce of authority he’d learned from being captain. 

His eyes flicked around the alley quickly, searching for an exit, but there was none. The only way out was the next street over, and he’d never make it that far if he couldn’t convince these drunks that he wasn’t who they thought he was. 

“No, we’re not,” the largest of the three men corrected menacingly, stepping closer to grab ahold of Ilya’s coat. The man leaned in, so close that Ilya could smell the alcohol on his breath. “You’re him. That faggot. Rozanov.” 

Shit. Ilya had been in enough fights to know when he was backed into a corner. So, he did the only thing left he could do. Threw the first punch. 

He managed to get a few hits in before pain exploded across his face as a punch connected with his cheekbones, then another to his ribs. Ilya fought hard, fists swinging wildly, but three against one was never going to end in his favor.

“You think you’re special, Rozanov? You think you can bring shame to Russia like this and get away with it?” 

He threw his elbow back, feeling a hint of satisfaction as it connected with something soft, earning a grunt of pain. But then, a kick landed in his stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. He gasped, sucking in air as he curled up into a ball, burning pain flaring up along the side of his ribs. 

Another kick, this one to his back. The pain was overwhelming, white-hot and all-consuming. Through it all, the snow kept coming down, gentle and relentless, covering everything. Covering him. Soon it would cover his body entirely, erasing all evidence that Ilya Rozanov had ever been here at all.

But the snow couldn't make Ilya new. Couldn't erase what he was, what he'd done, who he loved. Couldn't erase the fact that he'd loved a man, loved Shane Hollander with his whole heart, and that love had led him here, to this alley, to this death.

He wouldn't trade it though. Even now, even dying in the snow, he wouldn't trade a single moment with Shane. Because loving Shane had been the greatest thing Ilya had ever done. It had been what made his life worth living, what gave him purpose. And now, the whole world knew, and Ilya didn’t care. He wanted them to. He wanted every single person in the whole goddamn world to know that Shane Hollander was the love of his life. That they’d belonged to each other. 

A boot connected with his head, and stars burst across his vision - bright points of light against the darkness, like Shane's smile. The voices around him were growing more distant, the world tilting sickeningly. Laughter echoed faintly in his ears, followed by the crunching of snow. And then, all of a sudden, silence. 

He wasn’t sure how long he laid there, gasping for air that wouldn't come, his ribs screaming with each attempt to breathe, before he realized they were gone. Apparently, he wasn’t worth the effort of killing. Maybe it was because they were drunk. If someone else came along, someone sober, they’d no doubt finish the job. 

It took every bit of strength he had in him, but Ilya managed to roll over onto his hands and knees, ribs creaking in protest, head spinning. He retched into the snow, acid burning in his mouth. Blood dripped from his nose, his mouth, staining the white beneath him. His head throbbed with a sickening pulse, and his ribs felt like they were made of broken glass. But he could move. He had to move.

If he stayed, he’d be dead. 

Using the brick wall of the alley for support, Ilya hauled himself to his feet. The world spun dangerously, and he had to close his eyes and breathe through the nausea. He could do this, he told himself. He’d had concussions before, fractured ribs, a broken nose. It was nothing. Pain was just something to be endured, as his father used to say. 

Ilya stumbled deeper out of the alley and back onto the street, every step sending shockwaves of pain through his torso. Something was definitely wrong with his ribs - broken or badly bruised, he couldn't tell. His left cheekbone was already beginning to swell, and the taste of blood was thick in his mouth.

But he was alive. He was moving. And most importantly, he was getting away.

He had no idea where he was going anymore, just that he needed to put distance between himself and that place. Everything felt fuzzy, his head throbbing with every pulse of his heartbeat. He wanted to go home. He wanted Shane. 

Stumbling, Ilya tried to remember where he was going. The train station - he still needed to get to the train station. Ilya stopped and leaned against a wall, the white-hot pain in his head threatening to send him stumbling to the ground. 

A laugh bubbled up from his chest before he could stop it. It came out broken and slightly manic, each breath sending fresh waves of pain through his ribs. His father had been right all along. Worthless. That's what he'd called Ilya, over and over throughout his childhood. Worthless, pathetic, a disgrace. And here Ilya was, beaten and bleeding in a Moscow alley, about to die in the snow like a dog. 

Maybe the old bastard had seen this coming. Maybe he'd known that Ilya would end up exactly here - alone, broken, dying in the country that he’d given everything to.

The hysterical laughter turned into a sob, and Ilya pressed his forehead against the cold brick, the snow falling on his neck, down his collar, sending a chill down his spine. 

It was so cold. 

He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to be home so badly it hurt. Ilya could picture it so clearly, it was like a dream. Lying in bed in the warm cottage, snow falling outside the glass windows, curled up next to the man he loved with his head on Shane’s chest, blanketed by his warmth underneath a cozy duvet. Shane would card a hand through his hair and Ilya would drift off to sleep, lulled into a blissful doze by the thumping of Shane’s heart beating beneath his ear, the most comforting sound in the world to Ilya. And he’d be warm. So warm. 

And then another shiver wracked his body, and Ilya was forced back into his horrible reality. 

He was in pain. He was freezing. He was alone. 

But above all, he was tired. 

It would be so easy to just stay here. To curl up in the snow and go to sleep. 

He could see his mother again. 

God, how he missed her. 

Chapter Text

His parents dragged him home eventually, once the clock on the wall of Wiebe’s office hit midnight. Hayden followed them in his car, deciding to take Shane’s parents up on their offer to stay the night instead of driving back to Montreal so late. 

He was thankful his parents had kept their place in Ottawa, rather than moving to their cottage full-time. Both Shane’s cottage and his parents’ had so many memories of Ilya, of the time they’d spent there together, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stand spending the night there without him. 

He passed out not long after they got home, exhausted from the panic attacks he’d had throughout the day and aided by the melatonin his mom slipped him before he went to bed. His sleep was fitful, filled with awful, horrible, vivid dreams about all the terrible things that could have happened to Ilya.

His last nightmare was particularly brutal, the last image in his mind of lifeless sky blue eyes.

Shane woke up in the early hours of the morning, gasping for breath, praying that everything had somehow been a horrible dream.

But it wasn’t.

Ilya was still missing.

After he managed to crawl out of bed, Shane stumbled downstairs, feeling like absolute shit. His parents were sitting at the kitchen counter, and for a minute, Shane found himself hopeful that maybe, just maybe, there was good news. That maybe Ilya had called, or was already on a plane home. But one look at his parents’ faces, the worry and the pity, and Shane knew there’d been no news. 

The TV in the kitchen was turned off, something Shane found odd considering that, for as long as he could remember, his dad had watched the news in the morning. 

“CBC not on this morning?” he asked, wincing at the roughness in his voice. It sounded as though he’d smoked an entire pack of cigarettes the night before.

His parents exchanged a careful look before his dad turned back to him, hesitating a bit. 

“No, it’s– it’s on,” his dad explained, biting his lip. “It’s just…”

“Just what?” 

Shane didn’t really have the energy to be patient. The last thing he needed right now was people hiding things from him. 

Another silent conversation occurred between his parents, before his mom finally looked at him and gave him a sad smile, the expression not reaching her eyes. 

“It’s all about you,” she informed him. “And Ilya.” 

Shane winced, suddenly thankful the TV was off. He didn’t need to hear what people were saying about them. Hell, he could probably guess. It was likely all talk about whether they had ever thrown a game for the other, about how long they’d been hiding their relationship, about how the league was going to react. 

But he didn’t care about any of that. All he cared about was Ilya’s safety, and right now, he was anything but safe. 

It was just past seven, which meant it was the middle of the afternoon in Russia. And yet, no call from Ilya. There was no way he could’ve slept so late, which meant…

Shane didn’t want to think about what that meant. 

He could’ve been arrested. 

He could’ve been hurt. 

He could’ve been… 

He could’ve been killed

Ilya could be dead. 

The thought made Shane's stomach turn, bile rising in his throat. He gripped the edge of the counter, trying to steady himself as the room spun around him.

“Honey, sit down,” his mom said gently, guiding him to one of the kitchen stools. "Let me make you some breakfast."

“I'm not hungry,” Shane managed, though the words felt distant, like someone else was saying them.

"You need to eat something," his dad insisted, his voice firm but kind. "You haven't had anything since yesterday morning."

Had it really only been yesterday morning? It felt like weeks had passed since he'd walked into Theriault's office, since he'd seen that video, since his entire world had shattered into a million pieces.

Hayden appeared in the doorway, looking worse for wear himself. His hair was sticking up in every direction, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Shane wondered if he'd slept at all.

"Any word?" Hayden asked, even though he clearly already knew the answer.

Shane shook his head, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

His mom set a plate of toast in front of him, and Shane stared at it blankly. The thought of eating made him nauseous, but he forced himself to take a bite anyway, if only to stop his parents from worrying. It tasted like cardboard in his mouth, but he chewed mechanically, swallowing with effort.

His phone sat on the counter in front of him, screen dark and taunting. He'd checked it obsessively throughout the night, calling Ilya over and over until his voice mailbox was full. No answer. No text. Nothing.

“Maybe we should try calling the hospital," his dad suggested. "The one where his niece is. They might be able to-”

“We don't know which hospital," Shane interrupted, his voice hollow. “I don't- he told me, but I can't remember. There were so many things happening when he left, and I wasn't paying attention, and-”

He broke off, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. God, why hadn't he paid more attention? Why hadn't he written it down, gotten the details, asked for his brother's number? What kind of fiance was he?

"It's not your fault," Hayden said quietly, echoing the words Shane had heard a dozen times the night before. But they didn't make him feel any better.

Everything was his fault. If he'd been more careful, if he'd checked that they were alone before kissing Ilya, if he'd convinced Hayden to stop those stupid FanMails earlier–

"Shane." His mom's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. "Stop. I can see you blaming yourself, and you need to stop."

"How can I not?" Shane asked, looking up at her with desperate eyes. "Mom, he could be- he might be-"

He couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't voice the terrible possibilities that had been haunting him since yesterday.

His phone buzzed on the counter, and Shane lunged for it so fast he nearly knocked over his orange juice. But it was just Farah, asking if there'd been any updates.

Nothing, Shane typed back with shaking fingers. Still nothing.

"Maybe we should contact the embassy," Hayden suggested. "The Canadian embassy in Moscow. They could help, right?"

“Farah's already contacted them," Shane's dad said. "She called this morning. They're looking into it, but considering he’s not a Canadian citizen, they have other priorities.”

Shane wanted to scream. Wanted to throw his phone across the room, wanted to tear something apart with his bare hands. The helplessness was suffocating, crushing him under its weight.

"There has to be something we can do," he said, his voice breaking. "We can't just sit here and wait."

But that was exactly what they had to do. Wait and hope and pray that Ilya was okay, that he'd somehow managed to avoid the worst of it, that he was on his way home.

The waiting was torture.

With every minute that passed by, Shane convinced himself of more and more scenarios, each one more horrible than the last. 

Ilya getting arrested in the middle of the night, being pulled out of his bed and brought to the police station. 

Ilya bleeding out in the street alone, after having been attacked. 

Ilya being grabbed by some sort of angry mob and hung right there in the streets of Moscow, for all to see. 

The thought made Shane's chest constrict painfully, his breathing becoming shallow. His vision started to blur at the edges, dark spots dancing in front of his eyes.

"Shane?" His mom's voice sounded distant, muffled, like he was underwater. "Shane, honey, breathe."

But he couldn't. His lungs wouldn't work properly, couldn't pull in enough air. The kitchen was spinning around him, tilting on its axis. His hands gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white, trying to anchor himself to something solid.

Ilya could be dead. He could be in a cell somewhere, being beaten, tortured. He could be-

"Shane!" His dad's hands were on his shoulders, firm and grounding. "Look at me. Look at me, son."

Shane tried to focus on his father's face, but it kept swimming in and out of view. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst out of his chest. Every breath felt like he was trying to inhale through a straw, thin and insufficient.

"He's gone," Shane gasped out, the words barely coherent. "He's- I can't- what if they-"

"Breathe with me," his dad instructed, his voice steady and calm in a way that Shane desperately needed. "In for four counts. One, two, three, four."

Shane tried to follow, but his lungs wouldn't cooperate. The panic had its claws sunk deep into his chest, squeezing tighter and tighter.

"I need- I need to go there," Shane said frantically, trying to pull away from his dad. "I need to find him. I need to-"

"Shane, you can't," his mom said gently, moving to stand in front of him. "You can't go to Russia. You know that."

He did know that. Logically, rationally, he knew that going to Russia would only make things worse. But logic and rationality had abandoned him sometime around when he'd seen that video yesterday. All he had left was fear and desperation and a need to get to Ilya that was so visceral it hurt.

Hayden appeared in the doorway, taking in the scene with wide eyes before quickly moving to Shane's side.

"Hey, buddy," he said softly, crouching down so he was at Shane's eye level. Shane hadn't even realized he'd sunk to the floor. "You're okay. You're safe. Just focus on breathing."

"Ilya-" Shane choked out.

"I know," Hayden said, his own voice thick with emotion. "But you need to breathe, Shane. Ilya's going to need you when he gets back, and you can't help him if you're passed out on your kitchen floor."

That cut through some of the panic. Ilya would need him. Shane had to pull himself together, had to be strong for when Ilya came home. If he came home.

No. Not if. When. He had to believe it was when.

Shane forced himself to take a shaky breath, then another. His dad kept coaching him through it, patient and steady, until finally, the panic started to recede. It didn't disappear entirely—it was still there, lurking at the edges of his consciousness, waiting to pounce again—but it was manageable.

"There you go," his mom murmured, running a hand through his hair the way she had when he was little. "Good job, sweetheart."

Shane felt exhausted, wrung out like a dishrag. He leaned back against the kitchen cabinets, closing his eyes.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"Don't apologize," his dad said firmly. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

A knock at the door made them all freeze. Shane's heart jumped into his throat—what if it was news? What if-

His dad went to answer it, and returned with not the police or Farah or anyone with information, but instead, Ilya’s teammates. Bood, Hayes, and Haas stood there at the edge of his parents’ kitchen, all three of them looking slightly uncomfortable, but mostly worried.

“We just wanted to check in,” Bood said, somewhat awkwardly, his eyes immediately finding Shane on the floor. “Any word?”

Shane shook his head mutely.

The three players exchanged glances before Hayes spoke up carefully, as though worried that any word he said could send Shane spiraling. 

“Do you mind if we keep you company for a bit?” 

Shane glanced at them, carefully looking for something that he couldn't quite name. Deception, perhaps. After all, it wasn’t like his teammates had checked in, with the exception of Hayden. They probably all hated him. Weren’t the Centaurs pissed too? 

But as Shane searched their expressions for any sign of anger, all he found was concern. Eventually, he nodded and instead of the guys moving to sit in the living room, or at the kitchen table, they all just sat down right there on the tile floor, leaning against the kitchen cabinets. 

His parents excused themselves to the living room, his mom giving him a worried look as they went, leaving just Shane and Hayden with the three Centaurs. 

For a while, the only sound in the kitchen was of the clock on the wall ticking, each strike of the second hand reminding Shane of every moment that passed by where Ilya could be in danger. Finally, Bood cleared his throat, the noise a startling change from the quiet. 

“We uh–” the man hesitated, seeming unsure of what to say. That was fair, Shane supposed. He didn’t know what to say in this situation either. “We want you to know that, at least for us,” he motioned to the rest of the guys, who all nodded in agreement. “Nothing’s changed. Rozy’s still our captain, always. He’s our friend and this– I mean I won’t lie, it’s a pretty big shock, but it doesn’t change anything.”

Shane swallowed heavily, finding himself unexpectedly emotional at Bood’s words. Maybe they didn’t have the Metros on their side, but they had the Centaurs. These guys, they loved Ilya, they cared about him. Even if they felt a little betrayed, or lied to, they’d still shown up. 

Shane's eyes burned with tears he was too exhausted to shed. 

"Thanks," he whispered. Bood nodded at him in response, and that was that. 

Eventually, they moved to the living room, and Shane sat on the couch next to his mom, Hayden on his other side and the rest of the guys scattered around the room. He wondered where his dad had gone, but found that he didn’t have the energy to ask. Time passed by slowly, but at the same time, in a blur. 

At some point, the sound of the front door opening and closing echoed through the house, and a few moments later, a cold, wet nose pressed against his hand. 

He looked down to find Anya’s soulful brown eyes staring up at him, her tail giving a little wag. 

Troy Barrett was standing in the entryway, having been let inside by his dad, and he nodded a greeting to Shane, rocking back on his heels a bit. 

"I went and got her from the kennel that Ilya leaves her at when he’s away," Barrett explained quietly, looking a bit unsure of his actions. "I thought— I thought you might want her here."

Shane's composure cracked. He slid off the couch onto the floor, wrapping his arms around Anya's neck and burying his face in her fur. She let him, patient and still, as if she understood that he needed this.

“Good girl,” Shane whispered, his voice breaking. “Good girl, Anya.”

The dog whined softly, licking his cheek, and Shane held her tighter. She smelled like Ilya's house, like home, and for a moment, Shane could almost pretend that everything was okay.

Troy joined the rest of the Centaurs, sitting down on the other sofa next to Haas, and the four began a quiet conversation amongst themselves. He could hear Hayden murmuring something to his parents, but Shane just let himself focus on the feeling of Anya’s soft fur pressed against his face, of the warmth and weight of the little body in his lap. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket after a couple of minutes and Shane fumbled for it desperately, hoping against hope–

But it wasn’t Ilya. It was a text from Scott Hunter. 

Everyone in the room had gone silent when Shane grabbed his phone, but they must have known from the look on his face that it wasn’t Ilya, since they quickly resumed their conversations, evidently trying to give him some privacy. 

Shane unlocked his phone, going to his messages to read Scott’s text. 

I’m sorry for what you’re going through, kid. If you need anything, let me know.

Shane didn’t respond, unable to formulate one and knowing Hunter wouldn’t expect it from him anyway. 

A moment later, a second message from the Admirals’ captain followed. 

Roz will pull through. Hang in there.

If anyone even had an idea of what he and Ilya were going through right now, it was Scott Hunter. But still, it wasn’t the same. Scott Hunter had come out to the world with the love of his life safe in his arms, surrounded by his teammates who supported him more than anything. 

Shane had been forcibly outed, half a world away from his fiance, with no way of knowing if he was safe or even alive. 

Shane stared at the message for a long moment, but never found it in himself to respond. 

The morning dragged on with excruciating slowness. At some point, around lunch, his mom tried to get him to eat something, but Shane couldn’t bring himself to do it. The thought of any food made him incredibly nauseous, and how could he even be hungry when Ilya was missing. 

Farah called every so often with updates, the updates being that there were no updates. Or at least, none that she deemed worthy of Shane hearing. He was sure the league had contacted her by now, probably pissed at the two of them, but Shane couldn’t bring himself to worry about that. 

Eventually, the Centaurs had to leave to go get ready for their game that night, all of them either clapping Shane on the shoulder or giving him a hug on their way out. 

He wondered, faintly, how long he would have to wait. How long would it be until Shane found out what had happened to his fiance? Days? Weeks? If Ilya was… If he’d been killed, maybe they’d never find his body. Maybe Shane would have to live the rest of his days, never knowing what happened to Ilya in the final hours of his life. 

Shane stayed on the couch all day, where he sat wrapped in one of Ilya's hoodies that Haas had snagged from the locker room. It was too big on him, the sleeves hanging past his hands, but it smelled like Ilya's cologne and it was the only thing keeping Shane from completely falling apart.

Svetlana had called in the early afternoon, and Shane managed to pull himself together long enough to talk to her. She was in Boston right now, trying to get a flight back to Moscow. Still, it would be at least a day before she could get there, and Shane wasn’t sure how much more help she could be. The embassy was looking for Ilya. Farah had hired private investigators. Nothing had turned up. 

“Have you spoken to Alexei?” Shane asked his fiance’s best friend, hoping that maybe, Ilya’s brother could provide some sort of lead. 

Svetlana sighed, heaving a breath loud enough for Shane to hear through the phone. 

“That мудак says he has no idea where Ilya is. Says it's not his problem,” Svetlana explained angrily, and any hope that had been left in Shane dwindled down to nothing. 

“How can he have no idea? Ilya was there visiting his kid,” Shane pointed out, once again cursing Alexei Rozanov’s name. 

Svetlana fell silent for a moment, long enough for Shane to check and make sure the call hadn’t dropped. Eventually, she spoke up, sounding more hesitant than Shane had ever heard her. 

“I– to be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if Alexei turned him over. To mob, or police, or…”

Shane had to fight the urge to be sick, squeezing his eyes shut tightly as if he could ward away the nausea by pure willpower. 

He knew, God, he knew Alexei and Ilya didn’t get along, that Alexei was awful, but… 

It would never have occurred to him to think Ilya’s brother capable of that. Of sentencing his brother to death, or at least prison. 

But the second Svetlana said it out loud, it made sense. Alexei would probably hand his own wife and child over, if he could get a reward for it. If someone had offered him money, he would’ve told anyone who asked where to find Ilya. 

Shane found himself unable to answer, too busy wishing he’d tried harder to stop Ilya from getting on that plane. Eventually, Svetlana spoke up, sensing his distress. 

“I should go, I have to pack,” she explained softly. “But I’ll call later.” 

Petrov showed up not long before the game started, not saying much but instead simply sitting there in silent support as the coverage of the game started on the TV. Hayden headed home just before the first face-off, needing to get back to Montreal to help Jackie with the kids, but reminded Shane to text him if he needed anything. He said nothing about Theriault, or the fact that at this point, Shane was probably kicked off the team, and Shane found himself grateful that his best friend avoided that topic. 

And then, it was just Shane, Petrov, and his parents, who hovered nearby, wanting to be supportive while still giving him space. 

Shane didn’t know much about the other man. Ilya knew him, of course, since Petrov had remained involved with the Centaurs even after his retirement and well, two pro Russian hockey players in Ottawa were always going to run into each other at some point. 

He was quiet, which Shane had found to be more typical of Russians in the league, not counting Ilya, but the man still had a large presence, one Shane found oddly comforting. 

Shane didn't want to watch the game. Couldn't imagine sitting there watching hockey when Ilya was missing. But his mom turned it on anyway, keeping the volume low, and Shane found himself staring at the screen without really seeing it.

The Centaurs were playing the Bears, and from the opening faceoff, it was clear something was different. The team was playing with a fury Shane had rarely seen, every hit harder, every rush more desperate. Like they were trying to channel all their fear and worry into something productive.

They were playing for Ilya.

Shane watched numbly as Bood scored first, then Haas. The Centaurs were dominating, up 3-0 by the end of the first period, but Shane couldn't bring himself to care. Every goal felt hollow without Ilya there to see it.

Eventually, he found himself needing to hear some sort of update, any piece of news at all. 

“We haven’t heard from him,” Shane said into the quiet of the living room, immediately drawing Petrov’s attention toward him. “But is there anything you know about what’s going on over there?” 

Petrov sighed quietly, fiddling with the wedding ring on his hand.

“He hasn’t been arrested, they would’ve announced it on the news if he had been,” Petrov informed him. “Beyond that, I don’t… I don’t know.” 

Shane was pretty sure he was the first person in the world to be disappointed by the news that his fiance hadn’t been arrested. Of course, he didn’t want Ilya in jail but at least if he was, they would know he was alive. They could have a way to get him out. Lawyers could be hired, and deals could be made, and Shane could do something, anything. 

It was the act of doing nothing that was killing him. But there was nothing he could do to help Ilya, as awful as it was. Shane had never felt so helpless, so useless, in his entire life. 

“Is it… is it really so bad over there?” Shane found himself asking, morbid curiosity getting the better of him. “I mean, surely there are other gay people in Russia.” 

He knew it was highly frowned upon, obviously, but it wasn’t like every person in Russia was straight, right? He’d asked Ilya a couple of times what it was like there, what would happen if he came out, but Ilya had always brushed it off, never wanting to talk about it. Shane wished now that he had pushed more for an answer.

Petrov stayed silent for a moment, not answering as he gathered his words. His English was a bit more fluent than Ilya’s, likely a result of having been in Canada longer, but Shane could tell he still struggled with expressing himself exactly the way he wanted to, the same as Ilya. 

“It’s not just about him being gay, or bi, or whatever you call it,” he said with a wave of his hand, typical Russian brusqueness shining through his mannerisms. “Ilya Rozanov is the pride and joy of Russia. He’s one of the greats. One of the best hockey players to ever come out of Russia. He’s their champion. For him to do this, to love a man, they view it as…” 

He hesitated for a moment, searching for his next word carefully. 

“A betrayal. An embarrassment. And they’ll want him to pay for that,” Petrov stated clearly, dark brown eyes glancing over to meet Shane’s, a dark gleam in them. 

The man’s words felt like a punch to the gut, but Shane was still glad he’d told him the truth. Everyone had been treating him like glass, not wanting to give him bad news in fear that he’d break, but Shane needed to know the truth. He wanted every bit of information, even if it was scary. Nodding his thanks to the man, he turned back to the TV, the two of them falling back into comfortable silence. 

The third period started, and the Centaurs continued their relentless assault. They won 5-2, and as the final buzzer sounded, Shane felt... nothing. Just a vast, empty numbness.

The post-game media coverage began automatically, and Shane was about to ask his dad to turn it off when Wiebe appeared on screen for his press conference. The coach looked exhausted, the lines around his eyes deeper than Shane had ever seen them.

The questions started immediately, reporters shouting over each other, and Shane tensed, waiting for the onslaught of questions about him and Ilya. But Wiebe held up a hand, silencing the crowd.

"Before we take questions about the game," Wiebe said, his voice carrying that unmistakable authority that made everyone listen. It was the voice of a coach, a voice that demanded respect. "I need to address something. As you all know by now, there's been a video released involving Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov."

Shane's breath caught in his throat a bit, entirely unsure of what Wiebe would say next. Was he about to confirm everything, before they’d even had a chance to think about putting out a statement?

"I'm not here to comment on their personal lives, that's their business," Wiebe continued, his jaw tight. "But what I am here to say is that Ilya Rozanov is currently considered to be a missing person.” 

The press room erupted in chaos, cameras flashing, reporters shouting questions. Shane sat frozen on the couch, his heart pounding.

"He was last heard from 48 hours ago, and has been out of contact since the video was posted yesterday at four o’clock in the afternoon," Wiebe explained, raising his voice to be heard over the chaos. "We're working with the Canadian embassy and every resource we have to locate him and ensure his safety. If anyone has any information about his whereabouts, please contact the Ottawa Centaurs organization immediately."

Hearing it said out loud, on television, that Ilya hadn’t been heard from in over two days, that it’d been over 24 hours since the video got leaked, it was one of the worst pains Shane had ever felt. Here, tucked away in his parents’ house, it was easy to float away from everything, to pretend like it was all one bad dream. But Wiebe had just laid out the truth, plain and simple. Shane’s fiance, the love of his life, was missing. Possibly dead. 

He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was pure steel. "Ilya Rozanov is the finest player I've ever had the privilege of coaching. He's an amazing player, an incredible captain, and a man I am proud to have on my roster. He has the full support of the Ottawa Centaurs organization and every single player in our locker room."

Wiebe looked directly into the camera, and Shane felt like the man was looking right at him. "I know that there has been a lot of controversy and debate about what the Centaurs’ roster will look like going forward, so let me say this. For as long as I am coaching this team, and as long as Ilya Rozanov wants to play hockey, he will always be our captain. Always."

Then Wiebe stood and walked out of the press conference, leaving the reporters in chaos behind him.

“He didn't have to do that," Shane whispered as his dad finally turned the TV off, his voice hoarse from all the crying he’d done, along with definitely being dehydrated.

“Yes, he did," Petrov said firmly. “Wiebe's a good man. He takes care of his players.”

Unlike Theriault, Shane thought somewhat bitterly. The man hadn’t reached out since Shane and Hayden had left Montreal, and he didn’t think the coach would anytime soon. Honestly, Shane had probably been removed from the roster by now. 

But he was glad Ilya had his coach on his side. He deserved that much. 

Petrov eventually went home for the night, and Shane’s parents herded him upstairs and into bed. Anya, despite his mom’s rule about no dogs on the beds, was somehow allowed to curl up on the mattress next to Shane. Once his parents had gone to their own bedroom, the door to Shane’s room firmly shut behind them, he let himself break. 

All he could think about was Ilya. Where he was. If he was safe. If he was scared.

If he was still alive.

Shane pulled Ilya's hoodie tighter around himself and buried his face in Anya's fur, letting the tears he’d been holding back all day escape. He had to believe Ilya was okay. Had to believe that somehow, someway, his fiance would find a way home.

Because the alternative -a world without Ilya Rozanov in it - was something Shane couldn't even begin to comprehend. Ilya was the sun, the bright shining light Shane’s life quietly revolved around. Without him, everything felt unmoored, hollow. Dark. Ilya was the axis of his existence, and without him, everything spun apart.

He slept fitfully, waking up often throughout the night. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw those lifeless blue eyes from his nightmare. Saw Ilya hurt, bleeding, alone. Saw the light that lived behind his eyes flicker and go out, like a flame being extinguished.

And every time he woke up, he’d fall back asleep praying. Praying that when morning came, it would bring news. That Ilya would call, would text, would somehow let him know he was okay.

Because Shane didn't know how much longer he could survive this. This not knowing, this helpless waiting, this fear that was slowly eating him alive. This fear that the love of his life was slowly turning into a memory he wasn’t ready to have.

He needed Ilya to come home. He needed the world to give him back his reason for breathing. Loving Ilya had rewritten Shane’s life, and without him, there was nothing left to read.

Shane could survive many things. 

A life without Ilya was not one of them.

If Ilya didn’t come home, the rest of Shane’s life would be nothing but waiting.

The Centaurs players returned the following day, accompanied by Wiebe and Petrov. Shane’s mom made everyone breakfast and they ate in mostly silence, with a few bits of conversation occurring here and there. 

Shane picked at his plate, eating just enough to keep his mom from losing her mind with worry, the food tasting like ash the second it hit his mouth. He swallowed anyway, mindlessly going through the motions. 

A buzzing sound suddenly echoed loudly through the quiet of the kitchen, and Shane immediately looked down to find his phone rattling on the table. A rush of hope burst through him as he saw he had an incoming international call. He knew it wasn’t from Russia – he’d seen Ilya get enough calls from Moscow to know it had a +7 international code - but it was definitely somewhere abroad. 

He stood up and snatched his phone off the table, quickly accepting the call and bringing it up to his ear so fast he clipped the edge of his job. 

“Ilya?” he asked breathlessly, unable to wait a second longer. 

Please. Please. 

But all that came from the other end of the line was silence.

Chapter Text

It would be so easy to just stay here. To curl up in the snow and go to sleep. 

He could see his mother again. 

God, how he missed her. 

But then he thought of Shane.

Shane, who looked at him like he hung the moon. Shane, who'd never once made Ilya feel worthless. Shane, who was waiting for him, probably terrified out of his mind, probably thinking the worst. His love, his light, his everything.

Maybe he couldn’t keep going for himself, but for Shane, for the man he loved, he could. He owed him that much, after everything they’d been through. 

After all, if there was one thing Ilya Rozanov was, it was a fighter. 

He pushed off the wall, his jaw set with determination despite the pain screaming through every nerve. His father was wrong. He wasn't going to die in Moscow. He was going to get on that train, get out of Russia, and get home to the man he loved.

He wasn't done fighting yet.

By the grace of God, he made it to the train station. Limping, and in pain, but he made it. Ilya kept his hood up as he approached the ticket counter, praying the clerk wouldn’t recognize him. 

“Where to?” the elderly lady asked gruffly, clearly unhappy to be working the late shift. 

Ilya glanced at the board that listed all the trains departing soon, trying not to lift his head enough so that his face could be seen. 

The first train heading out of the country was to Minsk, but Ilya didn’t like his odds there. It wasn’t much better than Russia, in terms of LGBTQ rights, and he had no doubt that Belarus would be more than willing to extradite him if the Russian government asked. Plus, it was too close, too obvious. If anyone was looking for him, they’d expect him to have taken the first train. 

He scanned the board, growing desperate as he eliminated more and more options. Until finally, he spotted his salvation. 

A train to Berlin, leaving in an hour. It was a sleeper train, so it’d be a long ride, taking pretty much a whole day. But it’d get him out of Russia, to safety, and that was all that mattered. 

“Berlin, please,” he requested, thankful he had a habit of keeping plenty of cash on him so that he didn’t have to hand over his credit card with his name on it. 

The woman handed over his ticket without so much as another glance at him, and he stumbled over to a row of chairs against the wall, slumping down into one. 

His ribs flared in pain at the movement, but the rest of his body was thankful for the reprieve. The pounding in his head had diminished somewhat, so Ilya was fairly certain he’d been spared a concussion, or at least a bad one, although he’d definitely end up with a sizable bruise. 

The second the train pulled into the station, Ilya got on board, taking a window seat in one of the cars in the back. He kept his head pointed toward the window, hoping no one would bother him. 

Another spike of adrenaline ran through him at the realization that the police might be searching trains for him. If they were, then Ilya was fucked. He could only pray that they were waiting until the morning to do that. It was three in the morning, if the clock on the train was correct, meaning the sun wouldn’t be up for a couple of more hours. Hopefully, the darkness would be his saving grace until then. By the time it was light out, and the police started looking, Ilya would already be halfway to the border. 

Thankfully, the train remained fairly empty even as a few more passengers boarded, and eventually, the train pulled out of the station. 

Ilya watched out the window as they reached the edge of Moscow, saying a silent goodbye to the city he’d once called home. 

“Ilya? Are you there?” Shane begged, everyone watching him with bated breath. 

His heart was pounding in his chest, and Shane stood completely still, unable to take a single breath until whoever was on the other end of the line answered. 

There was another snuffling sound, and then finally, the most beautiful sound Shane had ever heard came through the line. 

“Moya lyubov,” Ilya greeted softly, voice somewhat strained. But that didn’t matter, because Ilya was talking. Ilya was talking and breathing and alive and that was all that mattered. 

“Oh, god, Ilya,” Shane exhaled, the tension flooding out of his body so quickly his knees nearly buckled beneath him. He grabbed the back of a chair to steady himself, and Wyatt, who’d been sitting next to him, managed to shake himself out of his relief quickly enough to grab Shane’s arm to steady him. “Are you okay?” 

Around him, the kitchen had gone completely still. Shane was vaguely aware of Hayes' hand on his shoulder, of his dad standing up from his seat, of every eye in the room fixed on him. But all Shane could focus on was the voice on the other end of the line.

“I’m fine,” Ilya answered, voice barely above a whisper, like he didn’t have the strength for more. As though he could tell how weak his answer sounded, he cleared his throat, trying once more, his answer barely more convincing than it’d been the first time around. “Fine.” 

Shane could hear the lie in his fiance’s voice. It was the same way he’d said he was fine after his father died. The same way he said he was okay after a tough hit on the ice that surely left him bruised and aching. The same way he always said he was young when talking about his mother’s death, as though the fact that he was a child when he lost her somehow made the pain easier. 

To Ilya, fine just meant not actively dying. 

“Where are you?” he questioned, praying to God the answer wouldn’t be Russia. “Are you hurt?”

“Berlin.” 

It didn’t escape Shane’s notice that Ilya didn’t answer his second question, which almost surely meant he was injured. His breathing sound labored as well, like it had when he ended up with bruised ribs last season. 

“You’re in Berlin,” Shane repeated, confused as to how the hell Ilya had ended up there. He watched as everyone sitting in the kitchen sighed in relief at hearing Ilya was out of Russia, even Petrov with his typical unmovable expression looking reassured. 

“Da, at hotel,” Ilya said, and Shane could hear something tight in his voice, something found up and barely held in check. “I’m– I’m safe.”

Shane closed his eyes, letting the words wash over him. Safe. Ilya was safe. It was all he’d been praying for over the past 36 hours and yet, he couldn’t let himself really believe it. He didn’t think he would for a while either, not until Ilya was home, in his arms, as far away from Russia as he could possibly get. 

“You… you are okay?” Ilya asked quietly, his words sounding painfully concerned. 

Shane let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. 

God, this ridiculous man. 

He’d been missing for almost two days, stuck in a country that wanted him dead, and he had the audacity to ask if Shane was okay? But that was just Ilya, always putting others before himself. While Shane loved him dearly for that, sometimes, he wished his fiance could have an ounce of self-preservation. 

“Am I okay!?” he exclaimed, words coming out more angrily than he’d meant them two. “Ilya, you’re the one who– we thought you were–”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t voice the fear that had been consuming him for the past few days. Shane forced himself to take a deep breath, knowing he needed to be calm. That Ilya needed him to be calm. He was always Shane’s rock, even when he probably wanted to fall to pieces, and right now, it was Shane’s turn to be the steady one. 

“When can you come home?” Shane questioned, desperately needing to know the answer.

“I have flight tomorrow morning,” Ilya answered, his voice smaller than Shane had ever heard it, wavering with every word. “Tonight, for you.” 

"Tomorrow morning," Shane repeated, relief flooding through him so intensely it made him dizzy. "Okay. Okay, that's- I'll be there. I'll pick you up from the airport. Do you need Farah to handle–”

Ilya let out a choked sound, and Shane froze, a vice clenching around his heart. 

“Shane,” Ilya’s voice was trembling now, his breathing becoming faster, jagged, so uneven you could hear the panic in it. “I just…I need…”

The words seemed to be failing him, his usually careful English fracturing under the weight of exhaustion and fear and everything he'd been through.

"It's okay," Shane said quickly, trying to sound calm even though his heart was breaking. He didn’t think it was working very well. The thought of Ilya half way around the world, alone and terrified and working himself into a panic attack, made Shane, well… panicked."You're okay. You're safe now."

"Ya ne mogu—" Ilya started, then caught himself, but Shane could hear him struggling, the English slipping away. "I can't... the words, oni ne yavlyayutsya–"

Shane cursed silently, wishing he’d focused more of his energy into learning Russian. He knew a few words, but nowhere near enough to help right now, not ones that he could use to get Ilya to calm down. 

Shane looked up desperately at the people gathered around him, unsure of what to do, until his eyes landed on Petrov. The second he looked at the man, with what must have been desperation on his face, the older Russian was moved, standing up and rounding the kitchen table to Shane’s side, reaching a hand out for the phone.

"Hey," Shane said softly into the phone, Ilya’s shaky breathing still echoing loudly in his ear. "Petrov's here. Talk to him, okay?"

“Petrov?”

“Nikolai Petrov,” Shane provided, knowing Ilya was too panicked to put the pieces together. “Do you want to talk to him?” 

Ilya stayed silent for a moment, with the exception of the occasional gasp for air, each one feeling like a knife in Shane’s gut. 

Finally, a quiet plea came from the other end of the line. 

“Please.”

Shane handed the phone over to Petrov, who immediately started speaking in slow, soothing Russian. 

“Breathe, kid. Just breathe,” Petrov murmured gently, everyone else in the room completely lost as to the conversation occurring. “Good.”

Shane couldn't understand most of what they were saying, but he watched Petrov's face carefully. The man's expression shifted – concern, then something harder, anger maybe, then back to concern, a visible trace of sadness in his brown eyes. His voice was low and steady, grounding, the kind of tone you'd use to talk someone down from a ledge.

The conversation went on for a few minutes, Petrov asking questions, Ilya responding in bursts of Russian that sounded increasingly frantic. At one point, Petrov's jaw tightened, and he said something firm, almost commanding, that seemed to settle Ilya somewhat.

Finally, Petrov spoke again, gentler this time, gentler than Shane ever knew the man could possibly sound, and then held the phone back out to Shane.

Shane grabbed it immediately. "Ilya?"

"I'm here." Ilya's voice was a bit steadier now, so it seemed as though Petrov had been able to calm him down a bit. "I'm sorry, I just... it's been a long couple of days."

"I know," Shane whispered. "I know. You don't have to apologize."

"I should go," Ilya said, and Shane could hear how much it cost him to say it. "I need to... I should try to sleep before the flight."

"Okay." Shane wanted to beg him to stay on the line, to keep talking, but he knew Ilya needed rest. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Ilya confirmed. "I promise."

"I love you," Shane said, his voice breaking again.

"I love you too. So much." There was a pause, and then, quieter: "Ya tebya lyublyu, solnyshko."

The line went dead, and Shane sat there for a moment, phone still pressed to his ear, as if he could hold onto Ilya for just a few seconds longer.

Then he looked up at Petrov. "What did he say? Is he really okay?"

Petrov's expression was carefully neutral, but Shane could see the concern in his dark eyes. "He's alive. He's out of Russia. The rest..." He shook his head. "The rest he can tell you when he's home."

"But he's hurt," Shane said, because it wasn't a question. He'd heard it in Ilya's voice, in the way he'd been breathing.

"Yes," Petrov admitted. "But he'll be okay. He just needs to get home."

Shane nodded, trying to process everything. Tomorrow. Ilya would be home tomorrow.

"He's alive," Shane said, his voice breaking, leaning on the chair in front of him for support fully now, head hanging down between his arms. His words came out wetly, tears burning hot in his eyes. “Fuck.” 

Everyone let out the collective breaths they’d been holding, with a shocked, startled laugh making its way out of Luca. Wiebe reached out to give the rook’s shoulder a squeeze, comforting the kid a little, while Shane’s dad finally rounded the table to yank him into a tight hug, clearly seeing that he was one second away from falling apart. 

Hayes, Bood, and Barrett started talking amongst each other as Shane’s dad pulled him into his arms, the three of them already chirping about how, of course, if anyone would make it out of a near-death situation, it’d be Rozy. 

Shane let his dad hold him for a minute, the hug a poor substitute for the warmth of Ilya's arms, but it would have to do.

For now, it was enough to know that Ilya was out there, somewhere, safe in a hotel room in Berlin.

And in less than twenty-four hours, he'd be home.

Shane didn’t think he’d ever let him out of his sight again. 

It wasn’t until the captain announced that they were descending into Ottawa, that the last of the adrenaline left his system. That Ilya was finally able to relax, to breathe. Even in Berlin, he’d been convinced that someway, somehow, Russia would find a way to extradite him, or simply kill him in Germany, or some other awful scenario. 

As hard as he tried, he hadn’t been able to get a bit of sleep in Berlin, jumping at every sound that he heard outside of his hotel room. 

Even once on the plane, although he was exhausted, sleep just wouldn’t come. After all, planes weren’t inherently safe. Ilya of all people knew that. There could’ve been a mechanical failure, something that would’ve forced them to have an emergency landing, and there was no guarantee they’d land in a country that would protect him. 

By the time he deboarded the plane in Ottawa, he was a jumpy, exhausted mess, brain foggy from getting maybe an hour or two of sleep here and there in the past three days. 

As he approached the customs agent, Ilya’s hands shook, convinced that the man would find something wrong with his paperwork, some reason to send him back to Russia. When the man did a double-take, eyes widening in surprise, Ilya was convinced it was the end of the road for him. 

But the man just smiled instead, stamping his passport and visa before sliding them back over to him. 

“Welcome home, Mr. Rozanov.” 

Home. 

He was home. 

Shane anxiously scanned the crowds, searching desperately for Ilya. His parents had come with him to the airport, and he’d insisted on getting there an hour before Ilya’s flight even landed, just in case it somehow got there early. 

His flight had landed nearly an hour ago, and although Shane knew it took a while to get off the plane, he was still worried. What if something had gone wrong? What if customs didn’t want to let him through? What if–

And in the middle of his spiraling, Shane caught sight of the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen – a head full of achingly familiar blonde curls, towering over most of the other people coming down the escalator. 

As Ilya made his way towards him – Shane only stopping himself from running into his arms due to the stupid line you weren’t allowed to cross if you were picking someone up – he could tell his fiance was in bad shape. There was a slight purpling on the side of his left cheekbone, made only visible by how pale he was. 

While Ilya was always fair, there was usually a healthy pink glow underneath his skin, something that was completely gone now. He’d hurt his ribs too, Shane could tell from the way he was walking. And God, he looked exhausted. The bags under his eyes were so dark they could’ve been bruises. 

But then, all of Shane’s thoughts flew out of his head, because Ilya was in front of him, unceremoniously dumping his backpack to the floor before throwing himself into Shane’s arms, seizing him like a drowning man would a life raft. 

Shane held him tightly, although not nearly as tightly as he would’ve liked, choosing to be cautious of his ribs. And Ilya, god Ilya, he just clung to him, burying his head in Shane’s shoulder like it was the safest place in the world. 

He ran a hand through those golden curls he loved so much, cupping the back of Ilya’s head as he moved to press a kiss to the man’s neck, the only place Shane could easily reach in their current position. 

“I love you,” he said, the words slipping out immediately, unable to hold back the one thing he’d wished he’d said when he thought they might’ve been the last thing he ever said to the man. His voice came out choked and watery without his permission. He sniffed, taking a deep breath in an attempt to steady himself. “I love you so much.” 

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya murmured back instantly, shaking in Shane’s arms. And then he whispered a confession, so quiet that Shane wouldn’t have heard it had it not been said right next to his ear. “Fuck, I was so scared.” 

His words broke Shane’s heart, aching at the thought of how terrified Ilya must have been the past few days. 

“I know,” Shane consoled him as Ilya hugged him even tighter, as though he was trying to be absorbed by Shane’s body completely. “But you’re safe now. You’re home.” 

Eventually, Shane pulled back just enough to look at Ilya's face properly. Up close, the damage was more visible - the bruise on his cheekbone was darker than Shane had initially thought, purpling toward the edges with a sickly yellow-green already forming around it. There was a cut on his lip that had scabbed over, and when Ilya shifted his weight, Shane saw him wince. Ila had reluctantly pulled back when Shane did, but his hands were still gripping Shane’s jacket like he was afraid to let go. 

Shane wanted to ask. Wanted to demand to know exactly what had happened, who had hurt him, how bad it really was. But the look in Ilya's eyes - exhausted and fragile in a way Shane had never seen - stopped him. There would be time for questions later. Right now, Ilya just needed to be home.

"Let's get you home," Shane said softly, reaching down to grab Ilya's backpack. It was surprisingly light - Ilya must have left everything else behind in Moscow.

Ilya nodded, seeming too exhausted to form words, and Shane kept an arm around his waist as they made their way to where his parents were waiting.

His mom immediately pulled Ilya into a gentle hug, careful not to squeeze too hard.

"We're so glad you're safe, honey" she murmured, and Ilya made a soft sound that might have been agreement or just acknowledgment. When she pulled back, her eyes were red-rimmed but determined. 

Shane kept an arm around his waist as they walked toward the parking lot, his parents trailing behind to give them some space. Ilya leaned into him heavily, like he needed Shane's support just to stay upright, and Shane was more than happy to provide it.

Shane's dad took the driver's seat while his mom sat in the passenger seat, leaving Shane and Ilya in the back. The second Ilya slid into the seat, he leaned heavily against Shane, his head dropping onto Shane's shoulder like all the strings holding him upright had been cut.

"Is okay?" Ilya asked quietly, his English deteriorating with exhaustion.

"More than okay," Shane assured him, wrapping an arm around Ilya's shoulders and pulling him closer. "Sleep if you need to. I've got you."

Shane held him carefully, mindful of his ribs, and felt Ilya relax incrementally. Ilya made a small sound of contentment, and within minutes, his breathing had evened out into the steady rhythm of sleep. 

Shane looked down at him, at the dark circles under his eyes, the bruise blooming on his cheekbone, the way even in sleep his brow was furrowed with tension. He pressed a gentle kiss to Ilya's temple, breathing in the familiar scent of him beneath the smell of airport and travel and fear.

His mom turned around from the front seat, her expression soft as she took in the sight of them. She didn't say anything, just reached back and squeezed Shane's knee gently before turning back around.

They didn't speak for the rest of the drive, the only sound the quiet hum of the engine and Ilya's soft breathing. Shane found himself memorizing this moment—the weight of Ilya against him, the rise and fall of his chest, the proof that he was alive and here and safe.

Every so often, Ilya would twitch in his sleep, his face tightening with some invisible distress, and Shane would murmur soft reassurances until he settled again. Whatever Ilya had been through - and Shane suspected it was far worse than he was letting on - it was clearly haunting him even in sleep.

The snow was falling lightly as they pulled into the driveway of his parent’s house, the flakes catching in the streetlights. It was too far of a drive to go to the cottage tonight, and while Shane supposed they could’ve gone to Ilya’s place, he was too paranoid about reporters turning up. Ilya needed rest, not a bunch of paparazzi standing on his front lawn. As the car came to a stop, Ilya stirred, blinking slowly as he tried to orient himself.

"We're home," Shane said softly. "Can you walk?"

Ilya nodded, though he moved slowly as he climbed out of the car. Shane's dad grabbed Ilya's backpack from the trunk while Shane hovered close to Ilya's side, ready to help if needed.

Inside, the house was warm and quiet. Anya immediately came bounding over, tail wagging furiously, but Shane caught her gently before she could jump on Ilya.

"Easy, girl," Shane said, guiding her to sit. "Gentle."

Ilya reached a hand down, gently smoothing the fur on the top of Anya’s head, and let Anya press her nose into his arm, her tail still going a mile a minute. He murmured to her in Russian, and for a moment, some of the tension left his shoulders.

"Khoroshaya devochka," Ilya said softly, scratching behind her ears. "Ya tebya propustil."

Shane's mom appeared with a glass of water and some painkillers, pressing them into Ilya's hand. "For your ribs," she said gently. "And there's food in the kitchen whenever you're hungry."

"Thank you," Ilya said, his voice rough. He took the pills obediently, swallowing them down with half the glass of water.

While Shane knew Ilya should probably eat something, one look at him told Shane he was more likely to fall asleep at the table than actually manage to get any food in him. His parents headed upstairs, likely to give them some privacy, and Shane watched them go before turning back to Ilya. He was swaying slightly on his feet, looking like he might fall over at any moment.

"Come on," Shane said gently, taking his hand. "Let's get you cleaned up."

He led Ilya upstairs to his old bedroom, then through to the bathroom closing the door behind them. Ilya stood in the middle of the room, staring at nothing, and Shane realized he was going to have to take charge here.

"Do you want to shower?" Shane asked carefully.

Ilya nodded but didn't move, so Shane stepped closer, reaching for the hem of his sweater.

"Can I help?"

"Please," Ilya whispered, the vulnerability in his tone breaking Shane’s heart. 

Shane carefully lifted the sweater over Ilya's head, having to bite back a gasp when he saw the skin underneath. The bruising on his ribs was extensive - dark purple and black marks that spread across his left side. There were other marks too, smaller bruises on his arms, his back, his shoulders. Evidence of a beating that made Shane's blood boil even as his hands remained gentle.

"Ilya," Shane breathed, his hand hovering over the bruises but not quite touching, afraid of hurting him.

Ilya didn’t respond, eyes glazed over with exhaustion, melting into Shane’s touch when he gently rested his hand over the bruises. 

Ilya's jeans came next, and Shane could see more bruising on his legs, his hip. Each mark was a testament to what he'd survived, and Shane had to focus on breathing through the rage that threatened to consume him. Despite his anger, his hands stayed as gentle as they’d ever been, even though his heart was breaking at each new injury he uncovered. When Ilya was down to his boxers, Shane could see he was shaking - from exhaustion, from pain, from everything.

Once Ilya was undressed, Shane turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature until it was warm but not too hot. The water hit Ilya's skin and he let out a shaky exhale, his eyes closing.

Shane quickly stripped off his own clothes and joined him, not wanting to leave Ilya alone for even a moment. Shane grabbed the shampoo, popping the lid open before pouring a generous amount into his hands. 

"Lean your head back a little," he said softly. 

Ilya complied after a moment, his brain struggling to process the simple instruction, and Shane worked his fingers through those golden curls, massaging gently, careful around the bruise on his head. Ilya stood there and let him, too exhausted to do anything but accept the care. The tension started to leak out of Ilya's shoulders as Shane washed his hair, the familiar ritual grounding them both. 

When Shane moved to grab the body wash, Ilya's hand shot out, catching his wrist. Shane looked up to find Ilya staring at him, his blue eyes wet with more than just water from the shower.

"I thought I'd never see you again," Ilya confessed, his voice cracking. "I thought... in that alley, I thought that was it."

Shane's heart shattered. He pulled Ilya into his arms, mindful of his injuries, and held him as tightly as he dared.

"But you made it," Shane whispered fiercely. "You're here. You're home. And I'm never letting you go again."

His words were a promise, a vow. The two days when he thought he’d lost Ilya had been the worst moment of his entire life. It had felt like there was this massive hole in his heart, like something in him was irreparably broken. While having to keep their relationship a secret and being long-distance had been one of the hardest things Shane had ever done, loving Ilya had been the easiest. It was effortless, loving this man. To Shane, loving Ilya felt like the most natural thing in the world. Loving Ilya was easier than breathing. It was natural, instinctual, and impossible to live without.

Shane had known for a long time that he would love Ilya Rozanov for the rest of his life. He would love him for all of their days, without even trying. But it wasn’t until now that Shane had truly realized it. For as much as he loved Ilya, losing him would have been the end of Shane. He wouldn’t have known how to go on without him. 

Ilya buried his face in Shane's neck, and Shane felt him shake with silent sobs, finally allowing himself to break now that he was safe. A few tears of Shane’s own leaked out, slipping down his cheeks and onto the tile below before being washed away down the drain.

Shane held him through it, murmuring reassurances, pressing kisses to his wet hair, his temple, anywhere he could reach. The water continued to fall around them, washing away the fear and the pain and the horror of the past three days, if only for a moment.

Eventually, Ilya's breathing steadied, and Shane finished helping him wash, his touch reverent and careful. When they finally stepped out, Shane wrapped Ilya in the softest towel he could find and helped him dry off. 

"Better?" Shane asked softly as he dried Ilya’s curls with a towel, giving a small smile at the way they fluffed up.

Ilya nodded, but his eyes were glassy with exhaustion. "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me," Shane said, cupping Ilya's face gently, careful of the bruise, before pressing a gentle, tender kiss to his lips. "I love you. Taking care of you isn't a chore."

Ilya's eyes filled with tears, and he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Shane's. They stood there like that for a long moment, just breathing together.

"Come on," Shane said eventually, reaching for Ilya’s hand. "Let's get you into bed."

He found a pair of his own sweatpants and one of his t-shirts for Ilya to wear - Ilya's clothes were all at his own place, and Shane didn't want him to have to wear anything from his backpack that still smelled like Moscow, like fear, like running.

Shane pulled back the covers and Ilya climbed in carefully, letting out a small groan as he settled against the pillows. Shane climbed in beside him, and immediately, Ilya curled into his side, his head on Shane's chest.

"Sleep," Shane murmured, running his fingers through Ilya's damp curls. "I've got you. You're safe."

Ilya's breathing was already starting to even out, exhaustion finally overtaking the fear and adrenaline that had been keeping him going.

"Shane?" Ilya mumbled, already half-asleep.

"Yeah?"

"Don't leave."

Shane's throat tightened. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

Ilya's eyes were already drifting closed, his body finally surrendering to exhaustion now that he was home, in Shane's arms, where nothing could hurt him.

"Ya tebya lyublyu," Ilya mumbled, already halfway to sleep.

"I love you too," Shane whispered back. "So much."

Within minutes, Ilya was asleep, his weight warm and solid against Shane's side. Shane lay awake, watching him, his hand resting over Ilya's heart, feeling it beat steady and strong beneath his palm.

He was home. He was safe. He was alive.

And Shane was never, ever going to take that for granted again.

Ilya woke to the sound of footsteps.

His eyes snapped open, heart immediately racing, every muscle in his body tensing despite the screaming protest from his ribs. The footsteps were moving down a hallway—heavy, deliberate. Coming closer.

He couldn't remember where he was. The room was unfamiliar, the light wrong. Gray morning light filtered through curtains he didn't recognize, falling on walls covered in old hockey posters. This wasn't his apartment. This wasn't the hotel in Berlin.

The footsteps paused, and Ilya's breath caught in his throat. His hand shot out, searching for something, anything he could use as a weapon, but found only soft sheets and—

A person.

Someone was in bed with him.

Panic surged through him, white-hot and blinding. He jerked away, a pained gasp escaping as the movement sent agony through his ribs. His back hit something solid - a wall - and he pressed against it, trying to make himself smaller, trying to disappear.

Where was he? How did he get here? The last thing he remembered clearly was the alley, the snow, the boots, the-

"Ilya?"

The voice was soft, concerned, familiar in a way that made something in his chest ache. The person in the bed was sitting up now, reaching for him, and in the gray light, Ilya could finally make out his face.

Shane.

Shane, with sleep-mussed hair and worried brown eyes, his hand extended toward Ilya like he was trying to calm a frightened animal.

"Hey, it's okay," Shane said gently, not moving closer. "You're safe. You're in Ottawa, at my parents' house. Remember?"

Ottawa. His parents' house. The airport. The shower. Falling asleep in Shane's arms.

Home. He was home.

But his heart was still hammering, his breathing still too fast, his body still convinced he was in danger. The footsteps in the hallway-

"That's just my dad," Shane said, somehow reading his mind. "He's probably going downstairs to make coffee. It's okay. You're safe."

Ilya tried to breathe, tried to force his body to understand what his brain was slowly piecing together. Safe. He was safe. Shane was here. He was in Canada, not Russia. No one was coming to hurt him.

But his hands were shaking, and he couldn't seem to make them stop.

"C’mere," Shane beckoned, his voice steady and calm as he pulled Ilya to his chest, taking deep, exaggerated breaths, pulling enough air into his lungs so that Ilya could feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his lungs. "Just breathe."

It took him a few tries, his body not quite wanting to cooperate with the steady rhythm Shane was setting. Ilya clung to him, his face buried in Shane's neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him. Home. This was home. Not Moscow with its brutal cold and unforgiving snow. Not a hotel room in Berlin where every sound made him jump. 

Here, in Shane's arms, this was home.

Gradually, his breathing evened out, and Shane held him through all of it, one hand rubbing soothing circles on his back, the other cradling the back of his head.

"Sorry," Ilya finally managed, his voice hoarse.

"Don't," Shane said firmly. "Don't apologize. Not for this. Not ever."

Ilya pulled back just enough to see Shane's face. His eyes were red-rimmed, and Ilya realized Shane had been crying.

"I'm okay," Ilya said, trying to convince them both, but failing miserably.

"You will be," Shane corrected gently, brushing a thumb back and forth along Ilya’s cheek. "But it's okay if you're not right now."

Ilya nodded, exhaustion pulling at him again despite having slept for hours. Or had it been hours? He had no idea what time it was, what day it was even.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"A little after eight," Shane told him, yawning a bit. "In the morning. You slept for about twelve hours."

Twelve hours. The longest stretch of sleep Ilya had gotten in days. And yet he still felt like he could sleep for a week.

"Are you hungry?" Shane asked. "My dad's probably already making breakfast."

At the mention of food, Ilya was reminded that he'd barely eaten anything substantial since leaving Moscow. Still, the thought of getting out of bed, of facing the world when he still felt so exhausted he could hardly think, of trying to act normal– 

“You really need to eat, Ilya,” Shane insisted, carding a hand through his curls in a way that made Ilya melt into the touch. “I can bring you something light up here. Some toast?”

Even eating toast sounded like far too much effort at that moment, but Ilya wasn’t about to let Shane down when the man was looking at him with such concern in his eyes. 

“Please? For me?” Shane requested softly, brown eyes pleading with Ilya. 

Ilya wanted to say he was fine, that he could handle breakfast downstairs. But the truth was, he wasn't fine. He was barely holding it together. The panic attack had left him feeling fragile, like one wrong move would shatter him completely.

"Okay," he agreed quietly. "Toast, please."

Shane pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Whatever you need. I'll be right back, okay?"

He started to pull away, but Ilya's hand shot out, grabbing his wrist.

"Don't be long," Ilya said, hating how small his voice sounded, how needy. If his father could see him now, he’d be disgusted by the whimpering, weak mess Ilya was behaving like. But the thought of being alone, even for a few minutes–

"Five minutes," Shane promised. "I'll be back in five minutes.”

Shane slipped out of the room, and Ilya focused on counting his breaths, on the feel of Anya's fur under his fingers, on the knowledge that Shane would be back. That he was safe. That he was home.

When Shane returned four and a half minutes later – Ilya had been counting – carrying a plate with some buttered toast and a glass of orange juice, Ilya felt some of the tension leave his shoulders.

"See?" Shane said with a small smile. "Told you I'd be right back."

And as they sat in bed together, eating breakfast while Anya begged for scraps, Ilya let himself believe it.

He was home.

And maybe, eventually, he'd start to feel safe again.

After breakfast, the exhaustion pulled at Ilya again, dragging him back under. Shane held him as his eyes drifted closed, whispering soft reassurances until Ilya's breathing evened out into sleep.

He slept through most of the morning, his body finally giving in to the healing it so desperately needed. Shane stayed with him, leaving only briefly to use the bathroom or grab water, always returning before Ilya could wake and find himself alone.

It wasn't until nearly noon that Shane's phone buzzed with a text from Theriault.

We need to talk. Today. Can you meet at the arena?

Shane stared at the message, his jaw tightening. He glanced at Ilya, still deeply asleep, then quietly slipped out of bed. Downstairs, he found his mom in the kitchen.

"I need to go to Montreal," he said quietly. "Theriault wants to meet. Can you—"

"We'll be here," his mom assured him immediately. "Go. Handle what you need to. Do you need me to come with you?"

Shane quickly shook his head. While he loved all the support his mom had given his career over the years, this was something he needed to do on his own. Thankfully, she seemed to understand, not fighting any harder to be invited along. He hesitated, hating the idea of leaving Ilya, but his mom squeezed his arm.

"He's safe here," she said gently. "And you need to do this. We'll take care of him."

Shane nodded, scribbling a quick note for Ilya in case he woke up, and headed out.

Ilya woke to an empty bed and his heart immediately lurched with panic. He sat up too fast, his ribs protesting, his eyes scanning the room frantically.

"Shane?" he called out, his voice rough with sleep and fear.

No answer.

He forced himself to breathe, to remember where he was. Safe. Ottawa. David and Yuna’s house. As he glanced around the room, he spotted a note on the nightstand and grabbed it with shaking hands, wincing as the motion pulled on his ribs. 

Had to run to Montreal to meet with Theriault. Your phone is charging if you need me. Be back soon. I love you. 

Montreal. Theriault. The Metros. Ilya's chest tightened, knowing what that conversation likely entailed. Part of him was annoyed that Shane hadn’t woken him up, hadn’t brought Ilya with him. Theriault was no doubt pissed, and the last thing Ilya wanted was Shane facing that alone. But he begrudgingly accepted that he was in no shape to go toe to toe with the Montreal coach anytime soon. 

He dragged himself out of bed, his body stiff and aching from sleeping so long. Every movement reminded him of what had happened – the beating, the desperate escape from Moscow, the fear that had lived in his chest for three days straight. His ribs screamed in protest as he pulled on one of Shane's hoodies that had been draped over a chair, the fabric soft and smelling like home.

The house was quiet as he made his way downstairs, but he could hear soft sounds coming from the kitchen - the rhythmic thunk of a knife on a cutting board, water running in the sink. The normalcy of it all felt surreal after everything. Following the sounds, he found David in the kitchen, chopping potatoes with the same careful precision Shane used when he cooked.

"Hey," David said, looking up with a warm smile, one that he only ever reserved for Shane. And Ilya too, apparently. His own father had never looked at him with such warmth, Ilya was sure. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay," Ilya said automatically, the lie slipping out before he could stop it. Then, feeling too guilty about lying to his soon-to-be father-in-law, he continued more truthfully. "Tired. Is Shane…?"

“In Montreal," David confirmed, his smile fading into something more concerned as a small frown creased his forehead. He set down the knife and wiped his hands on a dish towel. "His coach called. Don't worry, he'll be back in a few hours." He gestured to the counter with the kind of gentle authority that reminded Ilya painfully of his own mother. "Sit. I'm making breakfast for dinner. Figured you could use something substantial."

Ilya sat at one of the bar stools, his body grateful for the support. He watched as David moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, reaching for ingredients without looking, adjusting burners with absent-minded precision. 

The kitchen smelled like comfort - butter melting in a hot pan, the sweet vanilla extract David had just added to the batter, and underneath it all, the lingering scent of coffee from this morning. It reminded Ilya achingly of his mother's kitchen, though the scents had been different there. His mother's kitchen had been smaller, more cramped, the counters worn and the appliances old, but it had been filled with this same kind of warmth, the same sense of safety that came from being somewhere you were loved.

He missed her with a sudden, sharp intensity that made his chest ache. She would have liked David, he thought. Would have liked Yuna. Would have loved seeing Ilya in a home like this, being cared for like this. 

"Pancakes," David announced, glancing over his shoulder with that soft smile again. "With bacon and home fries. Shane's favorite when he was little."

After a moment, before Ilya had even registered the movement, David set a glass of orange juice in front of him. The glass was cold against Ilya's palms as he wrapped his hands around it, the condensation already forming under his fingertips. David gave him a small, encouraging nod, the kind that said it's okay, take your time, before turning back to the stove.

Ilya focused on the sensation – the chill, the smooth surface, the weight of the glass. Anything to anchor himself in the present moment, to keep from spiraling back into the memories that lurked at the edges of his consciousness. The alley. The boots. The certainty that he was going to die alone in the snow.

He took a sip, the citrus bright and sharp on his tongue, grounding him further.

There was something soothing about watching David cook. The careful attention to timing, the way he adjusted the heat with just a twist of his wrist, the practiced efficiency of someone who'd made this meal countless times. Ilya wondered if Shane had stood in this exact spot on Saturday mornings growing up, watching his father make these same pancakes. If this was one of those childhood rituals that had shaped who Shane was – the patience, the care, the quiet competence.

David hummed softly as he worked, something Ilya didn't recognize but that sounded warm and familiar anyway. The bacon sizzled in one pan while he poured perfectly round circles of batter into another, each movement economical and sure.

“Thank you," Ilya said quietly, the words feeling inadequate but necessary. "For everything. For letting me stay here, for-" He paused, struggling to find the English words that could encompass what he meant. For not turning him away. For treating him like he mattered. For caring when his own family hadn't. "For taking care of me."

David turned to face him, setting down his spatula with a soft clink against the counter. His expression was gentle but serious as he moved around the island to sit on the stool next to Ilya, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.

"Ilya," David said, his voice carrying that same firm kindness that Shane used when he was trying to make a point. "You don't need to thank us. You're family."

The word hit Ilya like a physical blow, stealing the breath from his lungs. Family. His own family had been so fractured for so long – his mother dead since he was twelve, his father's love twisted into something cruel and painful, his brother willing to sell him out for a handful of rubles. The Rozanov family had been broken long before Ilya left Russia, held together only by blood and obligation and the pretense that things were normal when they never, ever were.

The idea that Shane's family would still claim him, would still call him family after everything that had happened – after the forced outing, after becoming an international scandal, after bringing chaos and media attention to their doorstep – made something in Ilya's chest crack open.

"I don't..." Ilya started, then stopped, his throat tight. He didn't know what he was trying to say. That he didn't deserve it? That he was too broken, too damaged? That his own family had barely wanted him, so why would theirs?

David shifted on his stool, angling his body toward Ilya, giving him his full attention in a way that made Ilya feel seen, truly seen, in a way his own father never had.

"I know you've been through hell," David said, his voice gentle but firm, leaving no room for argument. "And I know you probably think you need to have it all together, to be strong, to not be a burden." He paused, making sure Ilya was looking at him. "But you're not a burden, Ilya. Not to us. Not ever."

Ilya's eyes burned, and he looked down at his hands, at the way they were still wrapped around the glass of orange juice like a lifeline. His knuckles were scraped, he noticed distantly, souvenirs from Moscow that he hadn't registered until now.

"In Russia, family is... complicated," Ilya explained, the words coming out rough and uneven. "My brother, he..." He swallowed hard, forcing himself to continue. "I think he would have told police where to find me. If he’d had time. His wife, Katya, she woke me up. But Alexei..."

He couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't voice what it meant that his own brother, his own blood, would have been willing to trade his life for money or favor or whatever reward he thought he'd get. That Alexei would have handed him over to a mob, to the police, to anyone who asked. That blood meant so little in the face of greed and self-preservation.

David's expression darkened, his jaw tightening in a way that reminded Ilya sharply of Shane when he was angry. That same protective fury, barely contained.

"Then he's not family," David told him, his voice icy with conviction. "Not the kind that matters, anyway. Family doesn't hurt each other like that. Family doesn't abandon you when you need them most."

"But Shane's team," Ilya continued, the words spilling out now that he'd started, like a dam breaking. "The Metros. They didn't call him. Didn't check if he was okay. His own team, and they just..." He gestured helplessly, unable to articulate the betrayal of it. "And now Theriault wants to meet and it’s– it’s…”

The guilt was crushing. Shane was probably losing his spot on the Metros right now, and it was Ilya's fault. If they hadn't been together, if Ilya had been stronger, if he'd just stayed away–

"Hey," David interrupted, his hand coming to rest on Ilya's shoulder, warm and solid and grounding. "Stop. I can see where your head is going, and you need to stop."

Ilya looked up, meeting David's eyes. They were filled with a fierce kind of love that made Ilya's throat tight.

"Shane's a grown man," David reminded him carefully. "He made his own choices. And if the Metros can't appreciate what they have in him, that's their loss, not his."

"He shouldn't have to choose," Ilya retorted, his voice breaking on the words. "Between me and hockey. Hockey is his life, his everything, and I'm ruining—"

"Stop," David cut him off again, more firmly this time. "You're not ruining anything. Shane's not choosing between you and hockey. He's choosing between you and a team that doesn't deserve him. There's a difference."

"But if he gets traded, if his career—" Ilya's breath hitched, the panic starting to claw its way back up his throat. "Fuck, what if no other team wants him now?"

"His career will be fine," David told him, his voice steady and sure in a way that demanded belief. "Shane's an incredible player. Any team would be lucky to have him." He paused, his hand squeezing Ilya's shoulder gently. "But more importantly, he'll be happy."

Ilya swallowed hard, trying to process that. Trying to believe it.

"I almost died," he confessed quietly, the words falling into the space between them like stones. "In Moscow. In alley.” He closed his eyes, seeing it again. The boots. The fists. The snow slowly covering him. "All I could think about was never seeing him again. Never getting to marry him, never getting to have life with him. I thought... I thought I'd wasted so much time hiding, being scared. Being a c-coward."

His voice cracked on the last word, and suddenly David's arms were around him, pulling him into a hug that was careful of his ribs but firm enough to hold him together. Ilya froze for a moment, his body not quite knowing how to accept comfort that came without conditions, without expectations.

"You're not a coward," David said fiercely into Ilya's hair, his voice rough with emotion. "You survived. You got yourself out of a country that wanted you dead, and you made it home. You made it home, kiddo."

Ilya's breath hitched, and then he was clinging to David the way he'd clung to Shane at the airport, his face buried in the older man's shoulder. David's hand came up to cradle the back of his head, the gesture achingly paternal, and something in Ilya shattered.

This was what it was supposed to feel like. This was what he'd spent his entire childhood craving—a father's arms around him, holding him not because he'd done something right or won something important, but just because he existed. Just because he was loved.

His own father had never held him like this. Not once, not in twenty-five years. Grigori Rozanov's touches had been harsh – a hand gripping too tight, a shove, a backhand across the face. Even his rare moments of approval had been cold, distant, measured. Love had always been conditional, always something Ilya had to earn through perfection, through hockey, through being exactly what his father wanted him to be.

And here was David, holding him while he fell apart, not asking for anything in return. Just offering comfort because Ilya needed it, because that's what fathers were supposed to do.

"I wish..." Ilya started, then stopped, not sure how to finish. I wish you were my father. I wish I'd grown up in this house, with this warmth. I wish I'd known that parents could be like this.

But David seemed to understand anyway. He always did.

"I know," David murmured, his hand still cradling Ilya's head like he was something precious. "I know, son."

Son.

The word nearly undid him completely. Ilya's shoulders shook with silent sobs, his face still buried in David's shoulder, and the older man just held him through it, murmuring soft reassurances in a voice that reminded Ilya painfully of his mother.

"You're so important to us," David said after a long moment, his voice thick with emotion. "Not just because Shane loves you, though God knows he loves you more than anything in this world." He pulled back just enough to look at Ilya, his hands moving to cup Ilya's face the way a father would. "But because we love you. Yuna and I, we love you like you're ours. Because in all the ways that matter, you are."

Ilya's breath caught, tears streaming freely down his face now. David's thumbs gently wiped them away, his touch careful around the bruise on Ilya's cheekbone.

"I've watched you the past three years," David continued, his voice soft but intense. "Watched you with Shane, watched you at Sunday dinners, watched you help Yuna in the garden even though you'd rather be anywhere else." A small smile tugged at his lips despite the seriousness of the moment. "I've watched you make my son happier than I've ever seen him. But more than that – I've watched you become happy. Watched you start to believe you deserved good things."

"I don't—" Ilya tried to protest, but David shook his head.

"You do," he said firmly. "You deserve every good thing, kid. You deserve a family that loves you. You deserve to be safe. You deserve to be with the person you love without fear." 

Ilya couldn't speak past the lump in his throat, so he just nodded, another sob escaping despite his attempts to hold it in.

"Come here," David said gently, pulling Ilya back into his arms. And this time, Ilya went willingly, letting himself be held, letting himself be comforted, letting himself accept the love being offered without questioning whether he deserved it.

They stayed like that for a long time, David holding Ilya, one hand rubbing slow circles on his back the way you would soothe a child. The pancakes were probably getting cold on the stove, but neither of them moved. This was more important than food.

Eventually, Ilya's breathing evened out. He felt wrung out, exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with physical pain and everything to do with emotional release. The kind of exhaustion that came from finally letting go of something you'd been carrying for too long.

"Thank you," Ilya whispered into David's shoulder, his voice hoarse. "For... for everything. For being-" He swallowed hard. "For being here."

David's arms tightened around him for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was rough with emotion.

"Anytime, kiddo," he said simply. 

They pulled apart slowly, and David squeezed Ilya's shoulder one more time before standing and moving back to the stove. The pancakes were indeed cold, so he started a fresh batch, moving around the kitchen with that same quiet competence while Ilya collected himself.

Ilya wiped at his face with the sleeve of Shane's hoodie, feeling raw but somehow lighter. Like he'd been carrying a weight he hadn't fully realized was there, and David had just helped him set it down.

They ate together at the counter, David serving himself a plate and sitting beside Ilya rather than across from him. Close enough that their elbows occasionally bumped, the proximity comfortable rather than claustrophobic. Ilya managed to finish most of his plate despite the lingering queasiness in his stomach, the food sitting better than anything had in days.

They finished eating in comfortable silence, and afterward, the exhaustion began creeping back in, bone-deep and unavoidable. Ilya's ribs ached, his head throbbed dully, and his body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

He found himself gravitating toward the living room almost unconsciously, drawn by the soft sounds coming from where Yuna was curled up on the couch with a book. She looked up as he entered, her expression immediately softening with concern and affection.

"Mind if I sit?" Ilya asked, suddenly uncertain despite everything David had just said. Despite being told he was family, old habits died hard. His father would have waved him off, told him to go away and stop bothering him.

"Of course not, sweetheart," Yuna said warmly, setting her book aside and patting the cushion next to her with a welcoming smile. "Come here."

Ilya settled on the couch beside her, intending to just rest for a moment, to sit in the quiet companionship of Shane's mother while he waited for his fiance to come home. But then Yuna's hand came up, her fingers carding gently through his hair, and Ilya found himself leaning into the touch without thinking.

It was familiar now, after three years of Sunday dinners and holidays. Three years of seeking comfort in this house when the world felt too heavy, when the hiding and the lying and the fear got to be too much. Yuna had always offered this – gentle touches, soft reassurances, the kind of maternal affection Ilya had been starved for since he was twelve years old.

Her fingers moved through his curls with practiced ease, the rhythm soothing and constant. It was exactly like Shane did, that same gentle carding that never failed to make Ilya melt. Like mother, like son.

"It's okay," Yuna murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, the same tone she'd use to soothe a frightened child. "You're safe, honey. Rest."

And somehow, with this woman who'd claimed him as family carding gentle fingers through his hair, Ilya let himself drift off again. He was safe. He was home. He was loved.

And for now, that was enough.

Shane returned home just after eight, his jaw tight and his shoulders tense. The meeting with Theriault had gone exactly as he'd expected - which was to say, terribly. But he'd made his position clear. He wanted a trade.

He found his mom in the living room, reading again, with Ilya asleep on the couch, his head in her lap.

Shane's chest tightened at the sight. Ilya looked younger like this, peaceful, the worry lines smoothed from his face. His mom looked up and gave Shane a soft smile, still gently stroking Ilya's hair.

"How'd it go?" she whispered.

"About as well as expected," Shane said quietly, sitting in the chair across from them, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "I told them I want out. And they seemed happy to see me go."

His mom nodded, unsurprised. "Good. You deserve better than a team that abandoned you."

While he knew that was true, it still hurt more than Shane would like to admit. He’d given the Metros everything. He’d won them three cups, countless playoffs games, he’d been their captain for nearly a decade. And yet it hadn’t earned him an ounce of loyalty. Not one single one of his teammates had stood by him, except for Hayden. 

Shane watched Ilya sleep for a moment, then asked, "How was he today?"

"He had a good talk with your dad," she said. "Ate a full meal. He's doing better than I think he realizes."

Shane felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. "Thank you. For taking care of him."

"Shane," his mom said, her voice firm but loving, giving him a look like she thought he was being a bit of an idiot. "He's family. You don't thank family for caring."

Ilya stirred then, his eyes blinking open slowly. It took him a moment to orient himself, and Shane watched as brief confusion crossed his face before recognition settled in.

"My little tomato," Ilya said, his voice rough with sleep. "You're back."

"I'm back," Shane confirmed, smiling softly as Ilya yawned, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He held out his hand, cherishing the warmth of Ilya’s skin against his own when Ilya slid his own hand into Shane’s grasp. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

Ilya let Shane help him up, leaning heavily against him as they made their way upstairs. Once they were in bed, Shane wrapped his arms around him carefully.

"How did it go?" Ilya asked sleepily, blinking in a way that told Shane he was forcing his eyes to remain open despite the exhaustion tugging at them.

"I told them I want a trade," Shane said simply, heaving a deep breath. 

Ilya was quiet for a long moment. "Are you sure?"

"I want a team I can count on,” Shane explained, chest clenching fondly at the memory of how the Centaurs had supported him over the past couple of days. 

Ilya turned in his arms, pressing his face into Shane's chest. "Ya tebya lyublyu."

"I love you too," Shane whispered. "Now sleep. We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."

Chapter Text

Four days after Ilya came home, he woke up without the immediate jolt of panic that had characterized every morning since Moscow. The bruises on his face had faded to a sickly yellow-green, and his ribs, while still tender, didn't scream with every breath anymore. He could move without wincing, could sleep for more than a few hours without jerking awake convinced he was back in that alley.

Progress, he supposed.

He lay in bed for a moment, listening to the quiet sounds of the house waking up around him. David's footsteps moving down the hallway, the soft murmur of Yuna's voice from downstairs, the distant sound of a car starting outside. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. The kind of sounds that reminded him he was in Ottawa, not Moscow. That he was alive.

Shane wasn't in bed - he'd been getting up early the past few days, unable to sleep much himself, though he tried to hide it from Ilya. But Ilya noticed the shadows under his eyes, the way he jolted awake at the slightest sound, the protective way he kept touching Ilya throughout the night, like he needed the physical confirmation that Ilya was still there.

Ilya pulled on a pair of jeans and a Centaurs hoodie that hung loosely off his frame - David had kindly gone over to Ilya’s house the other day to get some clothes for him - and made his way downstairs. His ribs protested the movement, but it was a dull ache now rather than the sharp, stabbing pain of the first few days.

He found Shane in the kitchen, making coffee. He was in sweatpants and one of Ilya's hoodies that was slightly too big on him, the sleeves hanging past his wrists, and the domestic normalcy of it - Shane humming quietly to himself as he moved around the kitchen with easy familiarity, completely unguarded in a way he rarely was with anyone else - made something in Ilya's chest settle.

This was what he'd almost lost. This quiet, perfect morning. The rest of his life with this man.

Ilya leaned against the doorframe for a moment, just watching. Shane reached up to grab mugs from the cabinet, the hoodie riding up slightly to reveal a strip of skin at his lower back. 

"I want to go to the rink today," Ilya announced, his voice breaking the peaceful silence.

Shane turned, coffee pot in hand, his expression immediately shifting to concern. The easy contentment that had been on his face a moment ago evaporated, replaced by worry lines between his brows and a tightness around his eyes. He set the coffee pot down carefully on the counter, giving himself a moment before responding.

"Ilya-" he started, but Ilya could already see where this was going. That particular tone, gentle and careful, the one Shane used when he was about to tell Ilya something he thought Ilya wouldn't want to hear.

"I need to see the team," Ilya continued, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement pulled at his ribs, a reminder of his injuries, but he ignored it. He'd been ignoring it for days now, trying to prove - to himself, to Shane, to everyone - that he was fine. That he was getting better. "I need to get back to normal. I can't just hide in your parents' house forever."

Shane's jaw tightened slightly, and Ilya watched as he chose his next words carefully. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, a nervous tell Ilya had learned to recognize over the years. Shane picked up a dish towel and started wiping down the already-clean counter, keeping his hands busy, not quite meeting Ilya's eyes.

"You're not hiding," Shane said carefully, folding the towel with more precision than necessary before setting it aside. "You're recovering. There's a difference."

The distinction felt like semantics to Ilya. Hiding, recovering - either way, he was locked away from the world, from his team, from his life. Either way, he was letting what happened in Moscow control him, letting fear win.

"I'm fine," Ilya insisted, hearing the edge creep into his voice despite his efforts to stay calm. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, frustration building in his chest, before he waved a hand dismissively. "I can go to rink. I want to go to rink."

Shane finally looked up at him, and Ilya could see the conflict playing out across his face—the desire to support Ilya warring with the obvious concern etched into every line of his expression. His brown eyes were darker than usual, troubled, and his mouth was pressed into a thin line.

"I just..." Shane paused, running a hand through his hair, making it stick up in different directions. He let out a slow breath, clearly trying to find the right words. "I’m not sure you’re ready. I want to make sure you’re–"

The words hit Ilya like a physical blow, even though Shane had delivered them as gently as possible. His voice had been soft, almost apologetic, but that didn't make them any less painful to hear.

"Make sure I'm what?" Ilya cut him off, his volume rising despite himself. Heat flooded his face, anger and frustration and something that felt uncomfortably like shame mixing together into a volatile cocktail. "Make sure I'm not going to fall apart? Make sure I can handle being around people?"

Shane's expression crumpled slightly, hurt flashing across his features before he could hide it. He reached out as if to touch Ilya, then dropped his hand, seeming to think better of it.

"That's not what I meant—"

"Then what did you mean, Shane?" Ilya demanded, taking a step forward. The movement pulled at his ribs but he ignored it, too frustrated to care about the pain. His heart was pounding, adrenaline flooding his system the way it hadn't since Moscow. "You think I'm too weak? Too fragile? You think I can't handle going to the rink, seeing my own team?"

He was picking a fight. Ilya knew he was picking a fight. But he just couldn’t stop himself. It was like all of his emotions were bursting out of him – anger, frustration, everything that had been piling up for the past week - and there was no stopping it. 

The kitchen suddenly felt too small, the walls closing in. Ilya could feel his breath coming faster, his hands shaking slightly with the force of his emotion. He'd been trying so hard to be okay, to prove that he was healing, that he could handle this. And here was Shane, the person he trusted most in the world, telling him he wasn't ready.

Shane's own frustration was starting to show now, his cheeks flushing, his hands gripping the edge of the counter hard enough that his knuckles went white.

"I think you've been through hell," Shane said, his own voice rising slightly to match Ilya's volume. "I think you almost died. I think you're still having nightmares every night - don't think I haven't noticed - and I think maybe, just maybe, you should give yourself more than four days before jumping back into everything."

The words stung because they were true. Ilya had been having nightmares, waking up gasping and disoriented, sometimes shouting in Russian, always reaching for Shane in the darkness to make sure he was real. And Shane had been there every time, holding him, soothing him, pretending he didn't notice when Ilya's hands shook or when he flinched at unexpected sounds.

But that was exactly why Ilya needed to do this. He needed to prove - to himself, if no one else - that he wasn't broken beyond repair.

"I'm not a child!" Ilya snapped, the words coming out harsher than he intended, laced with all the frustration and fear and desperate need to be seen as strong that had been building up over the past four days. "I don't need you to protect me from the world. I'm not made of glass. I'm not going to break."

He hadn’t been a child for a long time. That tiny, vulnerable part of him had died the day his mother did. 

Even as he said it, part of him wondered if it was true. He'd felt so close to breaking in that alley, in Berlin, even here in the safety of Ottawa. But he couldn't admit that, couldn't let Shane see just how fragile he actually felt.

"I know you're not-" Shane started, his voice tight with emotion.

Galina would have been disappointed if she could see Ilya right now. She would have told Ilya to breathe. She would have reminded him to calm down. He probably owed the woman a call, he thought absentmindedly. 

"Do you?" Ilya interrupted, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. His fingernails dug into his palms, grounding him, keeping him from completely spiraling. "Because right now, it feels like you think I'm some weak, pathetic mess. Like I'm too damaged to be on my own."

The word hung in the air between them - damaged - and the moment it left Ilya's mouth, he wanted to take it back. It was too honest, too raw, too close to what he actually feared about himself. He’d always been afraid that one day, it would be true. That he’d turn out exactly like his mother. Hell, it was already partly true. His brain didn’t work right, and everyone knew it. 

He watched Shane flinch like he'd been slapped, his face going pale, his eyes widening with hurt.

Shane stood there for a moment, seemingly frozen, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find words. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost wounded.

"That's not-" Shane started, then stopped, running both hands through his hair now, gripping the strands tightly enough that it had to hurt. His chest was heaving with rapid breaths, and when he looked at Ilya, his eyes were bright with unshed tears. "God, Ilya, that's not what I think at all."

But Ilya was too far gone now, the anger and frustration that had been building for days finally finding an outlet. His voice rose, echoing off the kitchen walls.

"Then what?" Ilya challenged, his chest heaving with breaths that made his ribs ache. "Why can't I go to rink? Why you want me to stay here, hiding?"

The silence that followed felt like it lasted an eternity. Shane just stared at him, chest rising and falling rapidly, tears now spilling over and tracking down his cheeks. His hands were trembling, Ilya noticed, and there was something wild and desperate in his expression that Ilya had never seen before.

When Shane finally spoke, the words exploded out of him with a force that made Ilya physically take a step back.

"Because I'm terrified!" Shane shouted, his voice cracking on the word. "Okay? I'm fucking terrified!"

The sudden volume shocked Ilya into silence. Shane never shouted, never lost control like this. Even during their worst fights over the years, even when they were still pretending to be rivals and hate each other, Shane had always been measured, controlled.

Shane pressed his hands to his face, shoulders shaking, and when he pulled them away, his cheeks were wet, his eyes red-rimmed and desperate. The sight caused Ilya’s heart to clench immediately, guilt swirling up in his gut.

"I spent two days thinking you were dead," Shane continued, his voice breaking. The words came out choked, barely intelligible through his tears. "Two days of not knowing if I'd ever see you again, if I'd ever get to tell you I loved you one more time. Two days of imagining your body in some morgue in Moscow, or buried in an unmarked grave, or just... gone. Just completely gone from the world."

His voice cracked completely on the last word, and he had to stop, pressing his fist against his mouth to stifle a sob. Ilya watched, frozen, as Shane visibly fought for control, his whole body trembling.

"And now you're here," Shane continued after a moment, his voice thick and wet. "And you're safe. And you're alive. And I just—"

He broke off, one hand coming up to press against his chest, like he was trying to physically hold his heart together. When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper.

"I just need you to be okay," Shane said, the words so raw and honest they felt like they'd been carved out of him. "I need to know you're okay. And I know that's not fair, I know you're going through something I can't even imagine, but I'm so scared, Ilya. I'm so fucking scared that if I let you out of my sight, something's going to happen. That I'm going to lose you again."

The anger drained out of Ilya all at once, leaving him feeling hollow and ashamed and incredibly, overwhelmingly guilty. He'd been so focused on his own fear, his own need to prove he wasn't broken, that he hadn't fully considered what Shane had been going through. The helplessness of waiting, of not knowing, of being half a world away while Ilya fought for his life.

Shane had been the one who'd had to sit in Ottawa, checking his phone obsessively, calling over and over with no answer, imagining the worst. Shane had been the one who'd had to face the possibility of a future without Ilya, who'd had to feel his world crumbling apart while being completely powerless to stop it.

And Ilya had just accused him of thinking he was weak.

"Shane," Ilya said softly, his own voice rough now. He took a tentative step forward, reaching out slowly, giving Shane time to pull away if he wanted to. "Solnyshko, I'm sorry. I didn't—"

But Shane was shaking his head violently, backing up until he hit the counter, his hands coming up to cover his face again.

"No, I'm sorry," Shane interrupted, his voice muffled by his hands. When he lowered them, his face was blotchy and red, tears still streaming down his cheeks. "You're right. You're not a child. You don't need me hovering over you like some overprotective-"

He gestured vaguely, unable to find the word, his hand falling back to his side limply. He looked exhausted suddenly, like all the fear and stress of the past week had finally caught up with him all at once.

Ilya closed the remaining distance between them, his hands coming up to cup Shane's face with a gentleness that contradicted the anger from moments before. Shane's skin was hot and wet under his palms, and Ilya could feel the rapid flutter of his pulse in his jaw.

"You're scared," Ilya said, meeting Shane's eyes and holding his gaze. "You're allowed to be scared. I'm scared too."

It was the first time he'd admitted it out loud, even to himself. The fear that had been his constant companion since Moscow—fear that he'd never feel safe again, that he'd always be looking over his shoulder, that what happened had broken something fundamental inside him that couldn't be fixed.

Shane's hands came up to cover Ilya's, holding them against his face like an anchor, like Ilya was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. His fingers were trembling, cold despite the warmth of the kitchen.

"I thought I lost you," Shane whispered, his voice so raw it hurt to hear. "I thought- when you didn't answer your phone, when no one knew where you were- I thought I'd lost you, and for two days I was so scared I couldn’t even breathe.” 

His voice broke completely on the last words, and Ilya pulled him into a hug, careful of his ribs but needing the contact, needing to feel Shane solid and real against him. Shane came willingly, his arms wrapping around Ilya's waist with desperate gentleness, like he was afraid Ilya might disappear if he held on too tight.

Shane buried his face in Ilya's neck, and Ilya could feel the hot wetness of tears against his skin, could feel the way Shane's whole body was trembling. One of Shane's hands fisted in the back of Ilya's hoodie, holding on like Ilya was the only thing keeping him upright.

"You didn't lose me," Ilya murmured into Shane's hair, pressing his lips against the crown of his head, then his temple, anywhere he could reach. "I'm here. I'm right here."

He held Shane tighter, feeling his fiance's heartbeat against his chest, rapid and strong. Alive. They were both alive, both here, both together. That had to be enough.

They stood like that for a long moment, just breathing together, Shane's breath gradually evening out against Ilya's neck, his trembling slowly subsiding. Ilya ran one hand up and down Shane's back in slow, soothing strokes, the way Shane had done for him countless times over the past few days. The kitchen was silent except for their breathing and the distant hum of the refrigerator.

Finally, Ilya pulled back enough to look at Shane's face. His eyes were puffy and red, his cheeks still wet, his nose running slightly. He looked completely wrecked, and Ilya felt another pang of guilt at being the cause of it.

"I need to do this," Ilya said quietly, gently, making sure Shane could see the sincerity in his face. "I need to see the team. I need to start feeling like myself again. And I can't do that if I stay locked away in hiding."

He reached up to wipe away the tears on Shane's cheeks with his thumbs, the gesture tender and apologetic.

"But I’m sorry I’ve been– so busy thinking about me, that I forgot you were scared too," Ilya continued, holding Shane's gaze. 

Shane let out a shaky breath, his hands moving to grip Ilya's hips, like he needed to keep touching him to believe he was real.

"Come with me?" Ilya suggested, his voice soft, almost pleading. "We go together?"

Shane's eyes searched his face for a long moment, and Ilya could see him weighing the options, considering the risks, still trying to protect Ilya even now. Finally, something in his expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.

"Together," Shane agreed, his voice still rough from crying.

The words felt like a promise, like a vow. No matter what happened, no matter how hard things got, they would face it together.

Ilya pressed a kiss to Shane's forehead, lingering there for a moment, breathing in the familiar scent of him. Then his nose, making Shane's eyes flutter closed. Then finally his lips—soft and gentle and full of love, an apology and a promise all at once. Shane's lips were slightly swollen from crying, and Ilya could taste salt from his tears, but he'd never tasted anything sweeter.

"I love you," Ilya said when they pulled apart, his forehead resting against Shane's. "Even when I'm being an asshole."

Shane let out a wet laugh, the sound watery but genuine. He reached up to cup Ilya's face, his thumb tracing gently over the fading bruise on his cheekbone.

"Especially when you're being an asshole," Shane corrected with a watery smile. "That's how I know you're feeling better."

Ilya huffed out a laugh, the sound surprising him. It felt rusty, unpracticed, but real. Shane's smile widened at the sound, his eyes lighting up with something that looked almost like hope.

The drive to the arena felt both too long and too short. Ilya sat in the passenger seat of Shane's car, watching the familiar streets of Ottawa roll past the window. The city looked the same as it always had—the same stores, the same trees, the same people going about their lives—but somehow everything felt different now. Like Ilya was seeing it all through a new lens, one colored by fear and trauma and the knowledge of how close he'd come to never seeing any of this again.

His leg bounced restlessly against the floor of the car, a nervous energy he couldn't quite control. His fingers drummed against his thigh in an anxious rhythm, tapping out a pattern that matched his racing heartbeat. Every few seconds, his hand would move to his ribs, pressing gently against them as if to reassure himself they were still healing, still there.

Shane kept one hand on the wheel and the other on Ilya's knee, trying to still the nervous movement. The weight of his palm was warm and grounding, and Ilya focused on it, using it to anchor himself in the present moment. Every so often, Shane would glance over at him, checking in without words, and Ilya would manage a small nod in return.

They hit a red light, and in the silence, Ilya could hear his own breathing - too fast, too shallow. He forced himself to slow it down, to breathe deeply despite the protest from his ribs. In for four counts, out for four counts, the way Galina had taught him.

"They're going to be happy to see you," Shane said as they pulled into the parking lot, his voice gentle and reassuring.

Ilya nodded, not trusting his voice. His throat felt tight, his mouth dry. Now that they were actually here, now that he could see the arena looming in front of them, the reality of seeing everyone - of facing the team after everything that had happened - felt overwhelming.

What if they looked at him differently? What if they blamed him for the media circus, for dragging the team into a scandal? What if they thought he was too damaged to lead them anymore? What if they were mad at him for lying about Shane, for betraying them? 

Ilya took a deep breath, then nodded again, more firmly this time.

"Okay," he managed, his voice rough. "Let's go."

They climbed out of the car, and the cold Ottawa air hit Ilya's face, sharp and bracing. It was nothing like the brutal cold of Moscow, but it still made him tense for a moment, phantom memories of that night flickering through his mind. Shane was at his side immediately, hand finding Ilya's, squeezing gently.

Together, they walked toward the arena entrance.

The arena was quiet as they walked through the halls, their footsteps echoing off the concrete walls. Most of the team wasn't due to arrive for another hour, the hallways empty and still in that particular way of large buildings before they filled with people. The familiar smell of the place - ice and rubber and that indefinable scent of hockey rinks - hit Ilya's nose, and something in his chest loosened slightly.

This was his place. His arena. His team.

They passed the locker room, dark and empty, and continued toward the offices. Ilya could see lights on in some of them - the equipment managers were probably already here, and the training staff, getting everything ready for practice.

Wiebe's office light was on at the end of the hall, a warm glow spilling out into the corridor. They could hear voices coming from inside - Wiebe's low rumble and someone else, maybe one of the assistant coaches. Shane knocked, and there was a pause in the conversation before Wiebe's familiar "Come in!" echoed through the door.

When they entered, Wiebe was behind his desk, papers spread out in front of him - probably game footage notes or practice plans. But he stood immediately the second his eyes landed on them, his chair scraping back against the floor. His eyes went wide as they focused on Ilya, and for a moment, he just stared, like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

Ilya watched a complex series of emotions play across his coach's face - shock, then relief, then something that looked suspiciously like the beginning of tears before Wiebe blinked them away. His jaw worked for a moment, like he was trying to find words and failing.

For a long moment, no one moved. The office was silent except for the soft hum of Wiebe's computer and the distant sound of someone working in another part of the building. Then Wiebe was around the desk in three long strides, his usual careful composure completely abandoned.

He pulled Ilya into a hug that was firm but careful, his arms wrapping around Ilya's shoulders while being mindful of his healing ribs. Wiebe was a big man - not as tall as Ilya, but broad and solid - and being held by him felt safe in a way Ilya hadn't expected. Like being protected, like being claimed.

"Christ, Roz," Wiebe said roughly, his voice thick with emotion he wasn't bothering to hide. "You scared the shit out of me, kid.”

Ilya's throat tightened unexpectedly, his arms coming up to return the hug. While Wiebe had always been a bit more affectionate than most coaches Ilya had met, and while a lot of guys on the team saw him as a sort of father-figure type, he’d never been quite so open with his affection before. 

But right now, he was holding Ilya fiercely, as though daring anyone who wished to mess with him to get through Brandon Wiebe first to do it. One of his hands came up to cradle the back of Ilya's head, the gesture achingly paternal in a way that made Ilya's eyes burn.

"I'm okay," Ilya managed, his voice muffled against Wiebe's shoulder. The fabric of his shirt smelled like coffee and the mint gum he was always chewing. 

His arms tightened around Ilya for just a moment before he pulled back, though he kept his hands on Ilya's shoulders, as if he needed to keep touching him to make sure he was real. When he finally let go, Ilya could see that Wiebe's eyes were suspiciously bright, slightly red around the edge before the coach swiped quickly at his face with the back of his hand.

“Course you are,” he said, clearing his throat roughly as he clapped Ilya on the shoulder. “Nothing keeps you down, huh?”

Wiebe's eyes roamed over Ilya's face with the same intensity he used when reviewing game footage, taking in every detail. The fading bruises, the shadows under his eyes that no amount of sleep seemed to fully erase, the way Ilya was holding himself just slightly off-kilter to favor his ribs. His expression flickered between relief and anger - probably at whoever had hurt Ilya - before settling back into concern.

"How are you feeling?" Wiebe asked, his voice still rough around the edges. "Really?"

It was the same question everyone had been asking, but from Wiebe it felt different. More genuine, more specific. Wiebe had always been able to read his players, to see through their bullshit and their tough-guy posturing to what was really going on underneath.

"Better," Ilya said honestly, meeting his coach's eyes. "Sore. Tired. But better."

It wasn't the full truth - he was also scared and jumpy and having nightmares and struggling to feel like himself - but it wasn't a lie either. He was better than he'd been four days ago. That had to count for something.

Wiebe nodded slowly, studying Ilya's face for another long moment like he was trying to decide if he believed him. Finally, he seemed to accept it, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

"You don't need to be here," Wiebe said, his voice gentle but firm. "You can take all the time you need. The team understands. I understand."

The offer was genuine, Ilya could tell. Wiebe would give him weeks, months even, to recover. Would hold his spot on the roster, would fight anyone who suggested otherwise. But that was exactly why Ilya needed to be here. Because Wiebe believed in him, even now.

"I know," Ilya said. "But I wanted to come. I needed to see everyone."

As if on cue, voices echoed from down the hall, getting louder as the players started to arrive for practice. The familiar sounds of a hockey team—loud laughter, chirping, someone's music playing from a phone, the clatter of equipment bags hitting the floor. The sounds of home.

Shane squeezed Ilya's hand, a silent question—do you want to go out there?—and Ilya squeezed back. Yes.

They made their way to the locker room, Shane's hand never leaving Ilya's. As they got closer, the voices got louder, more distinct. Ilya could pick out individual players now—Haas's booming laugh, Bood's quieter chuckle, Hayes saying something about last night's game on TV.

The moment Ilya stepped through the door, the noise cut off abruptly, like someone had flipped a switch. Every head turned toward him, conversations dying mid-sentence, hands freezing in the middle of untying skates or pulling on gear. The locker room, which had been full of energy and noise just seconds ago, went completely silent.

Ilya stood in the doorway, very aware of Shane at his side, of every eye in the room fixed on him. For a long, awkward moment, no one moved. No one spoke. They just stared, and Ilya fought the urge to turn around and leave, to escape back to the safety of the car.

Then Haas was there, rising from his stall so quickly he nearly knocked over his water bottle. The kid crossed the room in quick, determined strides, his usually cheerful face twisted with emotion in a way that made him look even younger than his nineteen years. Before Ilya could brace himself, Haas was pulling him into a hug that knocked the air from his lungs - both from the force of it and from the unexpected emotion of it all.

They’d hugged before, of course, on the ice after a goal, or a casual one-armed hug at a team barbeque, but this was different. This was desperate and tight, like Luca was trying to convince himself Ilya was really there. 

"Fuck, Cap," Haas said, his voice breaking just a bit. "We thought—shit, we thought—"

He didn't finish the sentence, couldn't seem to find the words. To Ilya’s horror, as a wetness leaked through his shirt where Haas had buried his face, he realized the kid was crying. 

Ilya's chest tightened, his arms coming up to hold the younger player more securely. He could feel Luca shaking against him, could hear the hitching breaths as the kid tried to get himself under control.

"I'm here," Ilya murmured, hugging the kid tightly. "I'm okay, malchik."

The guys had, more than once, teasingly informed Ilya about how much their young rookie looked up to him. And while he’d logically known that was true, he’d never really considered it much before. But, back when he’d been eighteen and far from home, just like Luca, if any of the Bears had treated him with the same consideration and affection he treated Haas with, he probably would’ve grown incredibly attached as well. 

"I'm sorry," Haas said, roughly wiping at his face with the back of his hand, clearly embarrassed by his emotional display as he pulled back. "I'm sorry, I just—"

"Hey, kid, come here," Bood's voice cut in, gentle but firm. The veteran player had stood up from his own stall and moved closer, his hand landing on Haas's shoulder and giving it a squeeze. "It's okay. We were all scared."

Bood's voice was carefully controlled in that way that meant he was feeling more than he wanted to show, but when he looked at Ilya, he could see it in the man’s eyes. He gave the younger player's shoulder another squeeze before gently tugging him back a step, putting some distance between him and Ilya while still keeping a supportive hand on him.

Hayes stood up from his stall, pausing to ruffle Luca’s hair – something that always made the kid glare at the older man – before moving to yank Ilya into a tight bear hug. Not quite as forceful as his usual ones, but with more strength than anyone had dared to touch Ilya with since he’d been back. 

The pain in his ribs was more than worth it. 

“Glad to have you back, Cap,” Wyatt informed him as he pulled back, grinning, relief clear in his eyes. 

Ilya nodded slightly, the movement a bit shaky from his emotions swirling around in his chest, but Hayes, like always, seemed to sense when a shift in mood was needed. 

"Man, you really know how to make an exit," Hayes said, and the absurdity of it - of joking about Ilya nearly dying, of trying to find humor in something so terrible - was so perfectly Hayes that Ilya felt something loosen in his chest. This was okay. This was allowed. They didn't have to tiptoe around what happened.

"And an entrance," Troy Barrett added from his stall, gesturing at Ilya with his stick, a crooked grin on his face. "Coming back from the dead and shit. Very dramatic."

The casual swearing, the irreverent tone - it was so normal, so perfectly them, that Ilya felt himself relaxing incrementally. They weren't treating him like he was broken. They weren't walking on eggshells. They were just... themselves.

"What can I say," Hayes continued his line of jokes, warming to the theme now, his grin becoming more genuine. "Russians know how to make everything a production. Can't just have a normal coming out, has to be international news. Can't just get on a plane home, has to escape across Europe like some kind of Cold War spy."

He was gesturing wildly now, really getting into it, and a few of the other guys were starting to smile despite themselves. Even Haas managed a watery laugh, though he was still wiping at his face. The tension in the room was easing, the heaviness lifting bit by bit.

"Next time, I try to be more boring," Ilya said dryly, and then he heard it – his own voice making a joke, the words coming out naturally, without effort. And something in him settled, clicking back into place. He was still himself. Bruised and battered and traumatized, yes, but still himself. Still Roz. Still their captain.

As he watched Ilya with his team, it was like a weight had been lifted off of Shane’s chest. He was just so at ease with them, at home in a way Shane had never been in the Metros’ locker room. The easy banter, the casual touches, the way they orbited around him like he was the sun they all revolved around - these guys, Shane was certain, would have his fiance’s back no matter what. 

"Please don't," Hayes said with a theatrical shudder, pressing his hand to his chest in mock horror. "Boring doesn't suit you, Cap. You'd probably break out in hives or something."

He wasn’t totally wrong there. Ilya had a flair for the dramatics, and Shane knew the man couldn’t tolerate even a few minutes of boredom. With Ilya around, life would always be interesting. 

"Though maybe aim for like, moderately exciting instead of 'feared for your life'?" Troy suggested, raising his eyebrows.

“Although Hollander was gonna have the best tragic backstory for dating apps,” Hayes added with a completely straight face that would’ve made any comedian proud. “Widowed hockey player seeking…” 

Shane stiffened a bit, carefully watching Ilya for any sign of a poor reaction. He knew Ilya was used to these sort of crass jokes – he’d practically grown up in a locker room, after all – but maybe it was too much too soon. Of course, before he could intervene, Barrett decided to really go big or go home. 

“Right?" Barrett jumped in, shaking his head mournfully like he was genuinely disappointed. "Harris and I had like three guys lined up for him. Nice guys, too. Now he's stuck with your dramatic ass for the rest of his life. Poor Shane."

Shane watched Ilya's face, saw the moment the joke registered, saw his eyes widen slightly before his mouth twitched. The room around them froze for a moment in the painful silence that fell over them after Barret finished with his joke, everyone watching Ilya’s reaction tensely. And just when Shane thought Barrett and Hayes had gone too far, a sound escaped Ilya’s throat. 

A laugh. Ilya’s laugh. The most beautiful sound Shane had ever heard. 

It started small at first, more of a surprised huff than anything, rusty and unpracticed like an instrument that hadn't been played in years. But then it grew, becoming more real, more genuine, until Ilya was actually laughing, his head tilting back slightly, his eyes crinkling at the corners the way Shane loved. It clearly hurt his ribs a little - Shane could see him wince, his free hand moving to press lightly against his side - but he didn't stop, didn't try to hold it back.

Bood grinned at the noise, relief shining in his eyes. 

“There he is,” the man announced softly, taking the laughter as proof that the man they all loved so much wasn’t still stuck in some alley in Moscow, pride in his voice at Ilya’s strength. 

Ilya’s laughter was like a dam breaking. Around them, the room erupted. Hayes let out a startled bark of laughter, loud and genuine, his hand relaxing on Haas's shoulder. Dillon was grinning, shaking his head at the ceiling like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Even Haas cracked a real smile this time, his shoulders finally relaxing from the tight set they'd been in since Ilya walked in, though he still stayed close to Bood, like he needed the older player's steadying presence.

“Sorry to ruin your matchmaking plans,” Ilya shot back in that dry way of his, laughter still lining his voice.

"You should be," Troy retorted with a grin, his confidence returning now that he knew the joke had landed. "I was gonna get a finder's fee and everything."

Shane felt his own eyes burning, tears threatening to spill over as he watched Ilya laugh. It was the first time he'd heard that sound since before Moscow, before the alley, before everything fell apart. The first time he'd seen that spark of life, of joy, return to his fiance's face.

God, he'd missed that sound. He'd been terrified he'd never hear it again.

The tension in the room broke completely, shattering like glass, replaced by the warm, chaotic energy of a hockey locker room. Someone - Boyle, maybe - made another comment that Shane didn't quite catch, and the chirping started up in earnest now, the guys feeding off each other's energy, building on the joke, each one trying to outdo the last.

Ilya's hand tightened in Shane's, and when Shane looked up at him, his fiance's eyes were bright - not with tears this time, but with something that looked almost like hope. Like maybe, just maybe, he could be okay again. Like the person he'd been before wasn't completely gone, wasn't completely destroyed by what had happened in Moscow.

Shane grinned at him, blinking tears out of his eyes, and squeezed Ilya's hand back as hard as he dared.

"Yeah, there he is," Shane said softly, just for Ilya to hear, his voice thick with emotion and relief and so much love it felt like it might burst out of his chest. "There's my guy."

Ilya's expression softened, his thumb brushing over Shane's knuckles in that absent way he always did when he was feeling particularly tender. The laughter had faded from his face, replaced by something quieter, more intimate, like they were the only two people in the room despite being surrounded by his entire team.

"Here I am," Ilya agreed, the words feeling like a promise. Like a declaration. He was here. He was alive. He was home. And he was still himself—bruised and battered and traumatized, yes, but still Ilya. Still capable of laughing at inappropriate jokes. Still the man Shane loved more than anything in the world.

Around them, the team was gradually going back to their routines - getting dressed for practice, taping sticks, chirping each other about this and that. The locker room filled with sound again, but it was different now. Lighter. Easier. Every so often, one of them would glance over at Ilya, like they needed to confirm he was really there, really okay. And each time, Ilya would meet their eyes and nod, a silent acknowledgment of their concern, their care.

Shane watched it all, his heart full to bursting. This was Ilya's family. His real family. The people who'd been just as terrified as Shane when Ilya went missing, who'd shown up to support him without hesitation, who were treating him with exactly the right mix of care and normalcy. Who knew instinctively that what Ilya needed wasn't kid gloves and whispered sympathy, but this - the ability to laugh at something dark and terrible, to reclaim some power over what had happened through humor.

The Metros hadn't called once. Hadn't checked in, hadn't asked if Shane was okay, hadn't offered any support beyond Theriault's terse text demanding a meeting. But these guys - Ilya's team - they'd been there. They were still here.

Shane had never been more grateful for anything in his life.

Wiebe appeared in the doorway, his whistle already around his neck, practice plan tucked under his arm. His eyes found Ilya immediately, and he gave a small nod of approval before addressing the room.

"Alright, boys, on the ice in five," he announced, his voice carrying that particular authority that made everyone listen. "Roz, you're sitting this one out."

"Obviously," Ilya said, gesturing at his still-healing ribs with a slight grimace. "Unless you really do want my ribs to break."

"Smart ass," Wiebe muttered, but there was no heat in it. In fact, there was almost a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You can watch from the bench. Might do the boys good to have their captain around."

Their captain. Even after everything, even after the forced outing and the international scandal and nearly dying in Moscow and missing nearly a week of practice, Wiebe still called him their captain. Like nothing had changed. Like Ilya still belonged here, still had a place on this team.

Like he was still worthy of leading them.

"Thank you," Ilya said quietly, the words encompassing more than just being allowed to watch practice. Thank you for not giving up on me. Thank you for still believing in me. Thank you for making me feel like I still belong.

Wiebe just nodded once, understanding everything Ilya couldn't say, all the gratitude and relief and desperate hope that he was trying to convey. Then he disappeared back down the hallway, leaving Ilya alone with his team.

"Come on, Cap," Bood said, his hand landing briefly on Ilya's shoulder as he headed toward the door. "Let's go remind these idiots how to play hockey."

Haas fell into step beside Ilya as they made their way to the ice, the younger player still sticking close like he didn't want to let Ilya out of his sight. He didn't say anything, but every few seconds, his eyes would dart over to make sure Ilya was still there.

"You okay, malchik?" Ilya asked quietly as they walked down the hallway.

Haas nodded, but his eyes were still red-rimmed, his face still blotchy. "Yeah, I just—" He swallowed hard. "I'm really glad you're back, Cap. Really glad you're okay."

"Me too," Ilya said honestly, reaching out to ruffle Haas's hair the way he always did, earning a small smile from the younger player.

And as they made their way to the ice, surrounded by his team - his family - trading chirps and jokes and casual touches that said we're glad you're here, we were worried, we missed you, Ilya felt something he hadn't felt in days.

Hope.

He wasn't okay yet. He still flinched at unexpected sounds, still had nightmares that left him gasping awake in a cold sweat, still felt the phantom ache of boots connecting with his ribs every time he moved wrong. 

But he was here. He was home. He was surrounded by people who loved him, who'd waited for him, who were glad he was alive.

And that, Ilya thought as he settled onto the bench next to Shane, watching his team take the ice with their familiar pre-practice routines, was enough for now.

Shane's hand found his, their fingers lacing together automatically, and Ilya squeezed back. They sat there together, shoulder to shoulder, watching the Centaurs warm up. Watching Ilya's team.

"Thank you," Ilya said quietly, turning to look at Shane. "For bringing me here. For understanding."

Shane turned to meet his eyes, and the love Ilya saw there—fierce and protective and unwavering—took his breath away.

"Always," Shane said simply. "We're in this together, remember?"

"Together," Ilya agreed, the word feeling like a promise, like a vow.

And as practice started, as he watched his team move across the ice with the familiar grace of players who'd spent their lives on skates, Ilya let himself believe it.

He was going to be okay. 

He might not be right now. But he was going to be.

And that was more than enough to start with.

Two weeks later, they finally made it to the cottage.

It had taken time - time for Ilya's ribs to heal enough to make the drive, time for the initial media frenzy to die down, time for Farah to finalize Shane's trade to Ottawa. Time for both of them to feel ready to leave the safety of Shane's parents' house.

But eventually, they'd packed up the car and made the drive north, leaving the city behind for the quiet solitude of the lake.

The cottage was exactly as they'd left it - warm and familiar and theirs. Anya had immediately claimed her spot on the rug in front of the fireplace, and Ilya had started a fire while Shane unpacked their bags.

Now, as evening settled over the lake, they lay together in their bed. The same bed where they'd spent countless stolen weekends, where they'd whispered plans for a future that had seemed so far away at the time. Where they'd talked about coming out, about getting married, about building a life together that they didn't have to hide.

That future was here now. Messy and complicated and not at all how they'd planned it, but here nonetheless.

Snow was falling outside the windows, fat flakes drifting down from a gray sky, blanketing the world in white. Shane had insisted on leaving the curtains open so they could watch it fall, and Ilya was grateful for it.

He was curled against Shane's side, his head resting on Shane's chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath his ear. Shane's hand carded through his hair in a familiar, soothing rhythm that never failed to make Ilya melt, and Ilya let his eyes drift half-closed, content to just exist in this moment.

The cottage was warm - almost too warm, with the fire crackling in the other room and the heavy duvet pulled up around them and Shane's body heat radiating against Ilya's side. But Ilya welcomed it, soaking in the heat after too many nights spent cold and afraid. After Moscow, where the cold had seeped into his bones and refused to leave, he didn't think he'd ever take warmth for granted again.

"You okay?" Shane asked quietly, his fingers never stopping their gentle movement through Ilya's curls, carefully working through any tangles with practiced ease.

"Mmm," Ilya hummed, not quite ready to form words. He was more than okay. He was here. He was safe. He was home.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, silent and steady. Ilya watched it through the window, mesmerized by the way the flakes caught the last of the fading light as they drifted down. Each one unique, delicate, softly landing on the ground to join the others in covering the world in white.

It looked different here than it had in Moscow. Softer, somehow. Less sharp. In Moscow, the snow had been harsh and unforgiving, exposing him, leaving tracks for anyone to follow. It had been cold and brutal, the same snow that had fallen on his mother's grave, the same snow that had mixed with his blood in that alley.

But here, in Ottawa, in this cottage with Shane's arms around him and warmth seeping into his bones, the snow was different. Here, it covered the world gently, quietly, like a blanket being laid carefully over the earth to tuck it in for the night. It muffled sound, created a peaceful hush, made everything clean and new. It was peaceful. Beautiful, even.

Ilya watched another flake drift past the window, following its path until it landed softly on the growing pile on the windowsill. Then another, and another, each one adding to the blanket of white.

Maybe his mother had been right after all. Maybe snow could make the world new again.

"I love you," Shane murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of Ilya's head, lips lingering there for a moment. 

"Ya tebya lyublyu," Ilya replied, his voice soft and content. "So much."

Shane's hand moved from his hair to trace gentle patterns on his back, over the t-shirt Ilya wore - Shane's t-shirt, like most of the clothes he'd been wearing lately. He found comfort in them, in smelling like Shane, in being wrapped in pieces of him. This one was particularly soft, worn thin from years of washing, and it smelled like Shane's detergent and soap and something indefinably him.

"What are you thinking about?" Shane asked.

Ilya opened his eyes fully, looking out at the falling snow. The flakes were coming down heavier now, thick and fast, accumulating on the deck railing outside, on the trees that lined the lake, on everything. By morning, the world would be completely transformed, buried under inches of fresh powder.

Something tugged at his memory—a feeling more than a thought. This moment felt familiar somehow, like déjà vu, like he'd lived it before or dreamed it. The warmth, Shane's heartbeat, the snow falling outside. But the memory was slippery, just out of reach, and Ilya didn't try to chase it.

"That I'm home," Ilya said finally, simply.

"Yeah?"

"Da." Ilya burrowed closer, feeling Shane's warmth envelope him completely, surrounding him like a cocoon. Shane's hand resumed its gentle movement through his hair, and Ilya let his eyes drift closed again, focusing on the sensation. On the warmth. On the steady rhythm of Shane's breathing, the rise and fall of his chest.

On being here, being alive, being safe.

"I'm glad you're here," Shane whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm so glad you made it home."

"Me too," Ilya said, his eyes growing heavy, exhaustion finally overtaking him—but the good kind this time, the kind that came from being safe and loved and home. Not the exhaustion of fear and running and survival, but the peaceful tiredness of someone who could finally rest.

Shane's heartbeat thrummed steady beneath his ear, and Ilya let himself sink into the sound, into the warmth, into the safety of being exactly where he belonged. Each beat was a reminder that they were both here, both alive, both together. That they'd survived.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, covering the cottage, the lake, the world in a blanket of white. It would still be there tomorrow, and the day after, and all through the winter. The world would be white and clean and new, at least on the surface. And underneath, slowly, Ilya would heal.

Shane's fingers continued moving gently through his hair, and Ilya felt absolutely comforted by the knowledge that everything in their little world was exactly as it should be.

He was home.

He was safe.

He was loved.

And for the first time in his life, Ilya believed it might be true.

He watched the flakes drift past the window, each one catching what little light remained, and felt something settle in his chest. Peace, maybe. Or at least the beginning of it.

Because snow no longer reminded him of loss, or cold, or fear, or Moscow.

Snow reminded him of this. Of Shane's arms around him. Of safety and warmth and love. Of the cottage and the lake and their future together.

The snow always reminded him of home.

Chapter Text

just posted a new fic revolving around Ilya and Petrov if anyone's interested! your presence has gone through me (like needle through a thread)