Chapter Text
There was a man standing in Shane’s house. There was a man standing in Shane’s house.
The paparazzi are really getting bold, Ilya thought, his hands curling into fists.
“Shit!” said Shane
Ilya realized that he had seen that man before.
“Your father, yes?” Ilya asked. He felt sick. Shane looked even worse than he felt.
“Yes! Fuck! Shit! OK. ... Fuck!”
“Should you…?”
“Yeah,” said Shane. “OK. I’ll just—you wait here.”
Ilya waited. On the dock. At Shane’s cottage. While Shane ran off to talk with…his father. Ilya flinched. Shane’s father. Whom Shane liked. Shane said nice things about his dad. His dad read the New Yorker, and Shane liked that. Yuna was a little famous in hockey player gossip for being an ever-present force of nature. Shane’s dad—what was his name?—was…not. Sometimes people talked about “Hollander’s parents”, but they really meant “Yuna Hollander and her shadow.”
Had Shane…had Shane ever hinted at violence from his father? Ilya tried to remember any hints from the rare facts Shane had let drop about his family over the years, but his memories were scattered and elusive.
Then again…Ilya had never told Shane about the violence in his family.
And then Ilya was moving toward his Shane.
“Shane?” he called. No answer. He jogged the last few steps and threw the front door open. “Hollander!”
Shane was standing alone in his front yard, looking lost and scared.
“He was already gone?” Ilya asked. That was…good. Maybe? It was good when fathers took their rage away from the house. It might cause other problems, later, but that was later. And he might even cool down and not be angry any more. It could happen.
“Yeah,” said Ilya’s lovely, gentle boyfriend. “This is baaad.”
Then again, sometimes, the cost of later was not worth the reprieve of now.
“You should go. Talk to him.”
Before he gets drunk.
No, no, idiot, Ilya scolded himself. That’s not Shane’s father.
“Yeah,” said Shane. “Shit! Yeah, I should. Probably best to do it now.”
Before he calls Ded, his father, who will tell him that he is worthless and his children do not respect him.
No! This is not Ilya’s family! Shane’s family are restrained and quiet and awkward. Like the little family in that movie Svetlana made him watch about the Greek wedding. A snort of laughter burst out of Ilya.
“It’s not funny!” Shane snapped.
“A little funny.”
Shane gave him an exasperated look, but then he let out a small chuckle. “Jesus Christ! So much for easing them into it.”
“Maybe he did not notice.”
They laughed together.
“What am I going to tell them?”
Nothing, Ilya thought. You are going to run and keep on running. You are going to hide. Have you considered trying a different continent?
Shut up, Ilya told his brain. This is not about you and your stupid family. We already did the part of this vacation about you and your stupid family. This is about Shane’s family.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Ilya offered.
“I don’t know. Would you really do that?”
Sweetheart, I’m not sure you could keep me away.
“Yes,” said Ilya. “If it helps.”
“It might. It will be awkward as hell, but I’d like you to be there, I think.”
Awkward. Ilya could do awkward. Moving to a new country was awkward. Living in a new language was awkward. There were worse things than awkward.
“OK,” said Ilya.
“We should probably get dressed first.”
Ilya flinched as his brain flashed with the sound of leather striking bare flesh.
“Yes.”
Ilya raced to his gear bag and considered his options. Armor was an option. Thick jeans. A leather jacket.
But no. He was not…he was not a child. He was not going to dress like a scared child. He was tall and muscular and powerful. He would wear the opposite kind of protective camouflage. He stirred the contents of his bag and then pulled out his tightest shirt and shortest shorts. He put them on. The outfit emphasized the muscles of his broad chest and long legs, and it had no friendly colors—just black and charcoal gray, with a touch of caution-tape yellow. If they knew Ilya’s attitude on ice (and Ilya knew that the Hollander parents did), then the outfit might help someone think twice about starting something. And he looked very gay and slutty, by hockey standards. Which would make Shane, by contrast, look…normal to his boring family.
Ilya checked himself out in the hallway mirror. Flaming bodyguard, he named the outfit. Perfect.
He noticed Shane coming down the hall in a pale blue charity-camp t-shirt and super-hetero khaki cargo shorts. Yes! Clearly he and Shane were on the same page. Dangerous Disco Man and the Pseudo-Hetero Altar Boy, ready to divide and conquer.
“That’s not going to help,” said Shane.
Ilya looked down. Well…yeah. Maybe the shorts were a bit short. Maybe Ilya should also try for Pseudo-Hetero Altar Boy? He still remembered how to wear that disguise.
But Shane was pointing…at his shirt?
“Oh,” said Ilya, surprised. He had not paid attention to what was printed on the tight shirt, before. He peered down at the logo and then smirked at Shane. “Do they not know I play for Boston?”
“Come on!” Shane huffed. “Let’s get this over with.”
They drove through trees and trees and trees. Nice design, Canada, thought Ilya. Very interesting.
Shane parked and turned off the car. “OK,” he said in his Captain Voice. “Just let me do the talking,”
“No problem.”
Just let Shane do all the talking? Well…he was very good at handling interviews. Would this be like an interview?
“Fuck,” said Shane. “Maybe you should wait in the car.”
Ilya stomped down on the urge to laugh. Shane, my sweet darling Shane. You are hockey’s most famous non-fighter. I have seen you give way to squirrels on the sidewalk. There is NO WAY I am letting you go in there by yourself.
Shane looked at Ilya’s face. “No. No, never mind. Come on.”
Ilya jogged at Shane’s heels to the front door.
Would they open the door for Shane? Would they even acknowledge his presence? Ilya felt phantom snowflakes and found himself tracing the Moscow Metro route to his coach’s apartment in his mind.
Shane did not knock. He did not ring the doorbell. He just…he just reached out and opened the door.
Holy fuck, Hollander. Are you weirdos just walking in on each other doing weird shit all the time?!
But…it was a good sign, right? It was a good sign that Shane felt confident enough to do something extremely stupid like that.
Yuna and What’s-His-Name were sitting on a couch together. They stood up. Shane walked up to them and stood, within easy talking distance but outside of their reach. At least he did something right. Ilya let a breath out and realized he had been holding it while Shane chose his position. He posted himself at Shane’s shoulder.
The Hollanders babbled at each other in English, but Ilya was too busy to hear. Because he had just realized that there were two parents. And everyone said that Yuna wore the pants in this house. Not all moms were gentle like Ilya’s mama. His eyes darted back and forth between the two threats to his Shane. He kept his weight evenly balanced, ready to move in any direction.
Ilya checked himself. Was he standing straight? Was he making eye contact? His face was respectfully neutral? He rubbed his thumb over his fingers.
Stop fidgeting like a little girl. I thought I had two strong sons. Are you a little girl?
Oh, folding your arms like a tough guy, huh? You think you’re tough, you little punk?
Put your hands down. I’m not going to hit you. Do you want me to hit you?!
Oh, and now you’re going to cry, you little faggot? Why are you crying? Crying over nothing. Should I give you a reason to cry? No, don’t move. Stand there. You don’t get to leave until you can tell me why you’re crying.
So, Ilya held his hands as he had not for many years, one folded over the other, low on his body, still. Still. Abdominals tensed for a blow (although that was only one time). Slow, deep breathing. Slow, slow. No tears, no matter what happened.
“Ilya…Rozanov,” said Shane.
Oh, that was his cue. Uh… “Hi,” Ilya said, holding his voice low and steady. Maybe too low? It sounded weird to Ilya’s ears. Shane’s dad nodded at Ilya, looking…stunned? Sad? Not angry. Not violent. Not dangerous. Maybe Shane will not need…
“He’s visiting,” said Shane, “And he’s…we’re…uh…”
Ilya felt gears grind in his head. His Shane needed a different kind of help than he had been prepared for. He needed fucking English help. Dammit.
The word was important? Boyfriends? Seemed kinda childish. OK, um…something not too sexy. Something about love.
“Lovers,” said Ilya, placing a supportive hand on Shane’s shoulder.
“Nah, Ilya,” said Shane, shrugging his hand off. “That’s gross.”
Stupid fucking English. In what kind of language is the word for “people who love each other” gross?
“But…you hate him,” said Yuna, at a normal volume. Her eyes were a little damp, and her arms were still.
“No,” said Shane. “I…I don’t. I mean, sometimes I do, kinda. But mostly I…love him, actually.”
“You…what?” said Yuna, sounding lost.
But no one was yelling, or screaming, or posturing. Certainly, no one was hitting anyone, or throwing them out, or saying “You’re not my son,” or doing any of the other things Ilya had feared. It seemed like no one would be doing any of these things. Ilya felt some of the tension leave his body. He wanted the rest to leave. He wanted to melt down into a puddle. He wanted to get very drunk and cry for an hour. He wanted a hot shower. He wanted to fuck Shane. But Shane still looked afraid, and the interview was clearly not over, so it was not the time for any of that.