Chapter Text
When he appeared at the gate, Shane forgot how to breathe.
He’d seen a photo. Too many pixels and the colour printed was much too dull, but it was still him. Hair more golden than brown, skin more warm than pale, lips more pink and plush.
Bigger than expected. Not just physically, but the way he walked into the room felt commanding. Demanding that he hold presence in the long line of bodies, and the room didn’t argue, just let him take what he wanted.
Shane had tried to do the same thing; tried and failed. He held a presence, but not like this. This was confidence and self-assurance that Shane and his therapist had been working on. And he was getting there.
But this guy didn’t even try.
He felt his mother’s hand move up his bicep to rest on his shoulder, felt the warmth of her breath in his ear as she whispered.
‘That’s him. Ilya Rozanov.’
Chills. That’s what most people call it. But it felt more like an enveloping mist the way he felt it engulf his torso, along his spine, across his shoulders, down his legs. Just from putting a name to a face. An actual, real face, not some printed image on a form.
His father approached his other side, his hand lifting Shane’s elbow, the one that had dropped low without him noticing. Dropping with it the sign Shane held.
‘Privet, Ilya!’
‘Hello, Ilya!’
‘He should feel as welcome as possible, ’ his mum had said. ‘A home away from home. Imagine it the other way around.’
A whole day lost. Spent flying in the air across land and sea. To arrive somewhere where no one understood a word you said. Not until you searched through the words filed in your head for the right one. It may not even be there. What then?
It was a scary thought.
But this person didn’t look scared. And that made Shane a bit nervous. Not scared.
David, Shane’s dad, pushed him forward, along with Yuna, Shane’s mum and David’s wife. A unit. The Hollanders. Soon to be plus one.
They moved forward in their triad before his parents started waving at the boy (man?) in the gateway. Shane didn’t have to wave; his hands were occupied.
‘Smile, Shane! Nice and welcoming.’
Just smile and hold the sign. He could do that. Hold the sign nice and… straight. Level. Shane could do that.
He wouldn’t drop it or let it tilt or bend it, and, as their plus-one saw them and walked over, he wouldn’t stare awkwardly. He’d watch his face. But not too much because that might be rude. He’d look at his shoes. That way he could watch as… big feet came closer, and closer, and…
Maybe he’d just… look around a bit, until they were closer. And then they’d be face-to-face.
Then he’d be forced to look at that ringlet poking out from under a navy toque. Or at the beauty mark halfway on his left cheek. Or maybe at the deep impression of his Cupid's bow.
And then he can watch as his tongue pokes out and licks his bottom lip as he opens his mouth to say, in a prominent accent, “Hello. I am Ilya. I live with you now.”
The mist from before still holds around Shane’s spine. It’s getting heavy now in the way that it did before it tattoos itself like a line down his back. Anxiety. That’s its name now.
He can feel it, just in the way that this is… awkward. Shane doesn’t know what to do. He’s not done this before; he’d never had a billeted teammate at his house before.
His mum rushes forward, grabs his arms and looks up at him. This 6 ft 1 or 2 or something 16-year-old. She’s impressed; Shane can see that. This guy has maybe 6 or 7 or something inches on Shane, and a good bit of bulk.
But Shane’s only 16, too, and has lots of growing to do and plenty of time. His coach said so, and his parents agreed.
It doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t like that his mum is impressed, or that she’s chatting and pulling Ilya into a hug while she’s on her tiptoes. And Ilya stands there and accepts it. Lips curling slightly at the corners.
Like he knows it’s awkward, but doesn’t have the decorum to feel the awkwardness and lets Shane feel it on his behalf.
And Shane feels awkward.
Feels it as his dad comes forward now and makes Ilya laugh with something he said. Because, apparently, David is funny in Russian now. David shakes his hand and pulls him into a comfortable half-hug with a pat on the shoulder.
It’s all too sudden that they’re staring at Shane. Still standing with his sign and practised smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
But it’s okay, because he’s done this before. Can let the sign fall to his side, hold out his hand to shake. And he can definitely introduce himself.
“Shane Hollander.”
He can make eye contact, too, at the same time. He can look into those round blue eyes, see the flecks of grey and the shadows of his lashes.
But he might just forget to let go of his hand. A handshake that’s just a second or two too long.
Yeah. Shane can be awkward. He can’t not be.
On the way home, Shane tried to read. It was hard. The road was bumpy, making sentences jump, and words merge. It was loud, too. The radio was on low, and the rest of the car was talking over it. His parents tried to get to know Ilya, asking lots of questions.
‘Have you been to Canada before?’
‘Is it colder in Russia?’
‘Are you excited to meet the junior team?’
‘Do you play other sports?’
‘Do you follow any diet plans?’
‘What’s your favourite food?’
His responses meant that he understood, but that he wasn’t the most forthcoming.
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’
‘McDonald’s.’
Shane listened as his eyes fixated on his book, before losing focus and looking out the window. By some cruel magic, or trick of the light, he was met with his reflection, and along with it, Ilya's profile where he sat beside him in the backseat, looking forward at the road.
He focused on the window, mainly on the profile in the reflection. No one was going to judge him for looking out the window.
It was hard to make out colours with the trees blurring past, so he concentrated on the outline. The round curls that covered Ilya’s head now that he’d taken the hat off, the heavy brow, sharp nose and jaw. He certainly wasn’t bad to look at. He was maybe even a pleasant view.
Shane looked more closely and saw the sunken cheeks and lines under his eyes.
“Are you tired?” Shane didn’t recognise his own voice. But Ilya's head turned, eyes meeting his in the window.
Then they were just looking out the window, but at each other. Eyes locked as he nodded. “Yes, very tired and hungry. I did not do good sleeping and eating on the um… the aeroplane.”
From the front seat, Yuna couldn’t hide her smile or soft hum of excitement at an actual answer. “Well, no worries! David, let’s divert to McDonald's before we head home. Then, Shane, maybe you can show Ilya his room and the bathroom so that he can wash up and rest.”
“Sure, Mum.”
They take the drive-through, ordering plenty of food. A meal for David, a large meal and extra sides for Ilya, and a portion of fries for Yuna. Shane doesn’t get anything.
‘I don’t think you can eat anything here, Shane. Maybe a drink?’
He’s fine with that. It’s been this way as long as he can remember, and it doesn’t really bother him. He’ll eat when they get home. He’ll feel better that way.
His parents swap seats so that Yuna is driving now, and David eats in the passenger seat.
Ilya eats his food silently. He looks pleased. His shoulders were doing a little wiggle.
It’s quiet now. Shane reads his book.
It’s not long before they pull in the driveway. “Tadaa!” Yuna announces “‘Mi casa es su casa’!”
“That’s Spanish, Ilya.” David clarifies, “It just means our house is now your house as well”
“‘Meek casa soup casa’?”
“Almost, but it’s fine. We can revisit it once you’ve rested up. Shane, help with the bags, will you?”
“Sure”, Shane slides out of the car door and makes his way to the trunk. He pulls out the medium and large suitcases and waits for Ilya to come around with his bag on his shoulder. “I’ll take the big one, you take the small one.” And with that, he turns and heads to the front door. Hearing wheels and footsteps follow behind him.
They make their way in and up the stairs, turning right further down the hallway. (Not left towards his parents' room and study.)
Shane stops at his door and points at it over his shoulder. “My room,” he flips his hand, pointing to the door opposite his, “your room,” and finally gestures to the slightly open door at the end of the hall, “bathroom”.
They leave the cases at the door and head towards the bathroom, Shane leading. Then Ilya walks in; Shane is standing in the shower doorway and is gesturing again, first at the controls, then around the room.
“Left for hot, right for cold. Clean towels in there. Don’t leave clothes on the floor. Put them in the laundry basket.”
“Laundry basket?”
“You wear clothes, clothes get dirty, clothes need cleaning. Put them there.”
“Okay.”
Through all of this, Shane still hasn’t looked at him. It’s honestly quite a feat. But after they met eyes in the car windows, he’s not sure he wants to do it again. Not quite so soon.
He’s keeping his back to him or looking around, even at his own feet. Anywhere to avoid eye contact. It just wouldn’t feel right; he’d feel the mist ache in his spine again.
Shane slides past him, making one final stop before leaving the room. Two small tubs rest on a side cabinet, one already filled, the other empty.
“Blue for me, yellow for you. For your things you don’t want to leave in the shower.”
Shane leaves the room, followed by Ilya. Stopping outside their doors. He needs to finish the ‘tour’; this is probably the best time to finally meet Ilya’s eyes and wish him a good evening.
But he can’t.
So he settles on a trick he sometimes does, and looks up at Ilya, and slightly to one side, just past his ear, to the empty space above his shoulder.
“You can use anything in there you need until Mum takes you shopping. She’ll catch up with you in the morning.”
He doesn’t anticipate that Ilya might tilt his head until he does it.
He’s making Shane look at him. He’s smiling while doing it. Open-mouthed with his tongue hooked behind his teeth. He looks smug. His teeth look sharp. He looks predatory.
Shane looks away before he can even think. Takes a step back and turns toward the stairs before anything happens.
“G’night”, he bids
“Good night, Shane”
Stopping halfway down the staircase, Shane has to remind himself to breathe. His cheeks feel hot and flushed. In embarrassment and embarrassment only. (Or so he tells himself.) His chest feels like it’s rattling. Like it’s hollow except for his heart just beating around in there. As he looks down, his hands are shaky.
Okay. Time to think logically. He’s flushed because he’s embarrassed - that much was established. His heart was beating because he forgot to breathe. And he forgot to breathe because that was something he did sometimes. Especially when he felt anxious, and he had felt anxious today.
There was a stranger in his home. He was going to be a bit unsettled.
The shaky hands were due to hunger. Everyone else had eaten or had a snack, and it was past their usual dinner time now, so it was completely logical that he would be hungry.
Shane remembered to breathe again, rolled his shoulders, and shook his hands out. Composed. Then, finally, he headed downstairs and into the kitchen.
His mum was there, in front of the range, with a skillet cooking something for herself and Shane.
“Hey, Hon’”, she called, registering him from the corner of her eye. “Just doing some chicken, rice, and salad for dinner. I hope that’s okay with you?” It was. So he nodded and smiled softly, leaning on his shoulder in the doorframe, hands sliding into his pockets. “A verbal answer would be nice. And how was Ilya? You showed him upstairs?”
“Yes, Mum. Sorry. That sounds nice. I showed him his room and the bathroom, and just… where he can put his things. Y’know, I thought he might be too tired to go into too much.”
Yuna glanced at him with a smile, “Thank you, Honey,” before turning away from him and the range. She grabbed a glass and shook something into it before filling it with water. “Think you can do one last thing for me?”
“Sure-”
“Great, just take this up to Ilya. Water and electrolytes; it should help him rest and re-energise for tomorrow.”
Shane really wished he had waited to hear what the ‘thing’ was before he agreed to it. The drink was pushed in front of him to grab before he could even second-guess or change his mind. So, he just turned and made his way, slowly, begrudgingly, up the stairs.
Usually, he ran up the stairs in 3 seconds flat, but he was really pushing for time here. It was reasonable; however, he needed some time to rehearse.
We thought you might be parched, so - no.
You look dehydrated. Here’s - no.
Do you like…water? No.
Alternatively, he could give him the water without saying anything. He could climb him like a tree and pour the water into his open mouth.
No. No, we are not thinking like that.
There wasn’t a real plan by the time he reached the door. That was okay.
New plan: he was going to breathe and then knock.
Breathe in, 2, 3, and what was that smell?
Without thinking, Shane knocked on the bedroom door and waited to hear an answer. Instead, he heard a thump and a gasp like someone was hurt - so he just opened the door anyway.
“Ilya?” he called. Ilya was there, standing by the window. One hand tucked under his armpit, while the free hand pushed the window closed. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I just-” Shane came into the room and placed the glass he held on a coaster on the desk. He sniffed again; it was definitely stronger in here. Like an old, smoky- oh.
Without needing to consider it even further, he strode towards the window and looked at the half-finished cigarette on the sill outside. He looked at Ilya, straight in the eyes now.
Now he did look awkward and embarrassed, even as he nursed his hand with pinched pink fingers. And damn right he should look that way.
Shane was angry - disrespected. Despite their size, he grasped at Ilya’s shirt and yanked him forward before shifting the momentum to turn and push him back into the wardrobe. They were both hockey players. Both recognised the check and its meaning.
Their chests were touching where Shane had Ilya pinned, using both his strength and bodyweight. Ilya had the decency to look surprised at the smaller boy against him.
“Now listen here, Rozanov. I’ll cover for you this one time and never again.
We’re going to go downstairs and ask my Mum where you can smoke. She’s going to look shocked, but she’ll say the back door or out in the garden - maybe even the gazebo, because she likes you so much, even though she’ll be disappointed.
You’re going to go out there, have a smoke, then come back and drink all that water I just brought up for you. Then bedtime. Got it?” Shane finished on a snarl, pushing again with his hand against the other boy's chest, just to punctuate. Got it?
But Ilya just stared. The surprise left his eyes and morphed into something. Something bright and interesting. He pushed forward against Shane, trying to make it seem effortless - but it was no small feat. His hands came up and wiped the other boy off his chest.
They stood separate now, a hostile energy between them.
“Got it, Hollander.” Yet again, Ilya Rozanov looked untouchable.
With his stomach in knots, Shane picked at his dinner, the way that would usually irritate his Mother as she sat opposite him.
But she wasn’t interested right now, muttering at Shane. ‘I will never understand why such promising athletes would smoke, of all things.’
She didn’t want him to listen; she just wanted to clear her mind and talk to someone. So Shane didn’t really listen to what she had to say. He’d heard most of it before.
He just stared over her shoulder, out the dining room window, to the gazebo. It was darker now, but the fairy lights were on. Lighting up Ilya as he crouched down by the gazebo. Smoke was blowing up into the sky. Not up into his eyes, or down and away from his eyes. But up and away, enough to not disturb the Hollander’s cat, which he was now stroking at his feet.
Ilya’s door was closed when Shane went to bed at 10 pm. He tried to be quiet when he walked past and into the bathroom.
It was unnerving how different it looked. Not massively. Ilya hadn’t swapped out the linoleum or painted the walls.
But there were little touches. The yellow tub, now filled with a few items; the shower, a few extra bottles on the shelf; a damp flannel drying on the radiator; a damp toothbrush, in the same holder as Shane’s. The bathroom was rarely used. Only by guests who had reason to come up the stairs; otherwise, it was Shane’s. To share it was slightly unnerving.
Getting ready for bed was different. Washing his face and hands like normal. Brushing his teeth while glaring at the extra toothbrush. Realising that they were going to share the hand towel.
His stomach somersaulted.
Oh, why did that do something to him?
The day had shaken Shane up. He’d felt things that he should not have felt. No matter how on the surface they were, he had to swipe them off before they permeated.
As he quickly came to realise, the Hollanders were very welcoming and comfortable. It was no surprise that Ilya’s new room had a beautiful matching desk and wardrobe; the chest of drawers, bedframe, and side table were in a similar style. The carpet wasn’t new, but it hadn’t seen much traffic and had been well kept. The only real damage was where the double bed had been moved against the wall, leaving divots in the pile.
In all of the few hours he’d been there, he felt more at home than he had anywhere in the last 4 years.
After washing up and climbing into his new bed (the deep mattress seemingly heaven-sent), it took him barely 5 minutes to give in to that feeling of rest and safety.
When he awoke, only a few hours later, it was pitch black. His throat felt dry, and he was still exhausted, but his body was not as achy as it sometimes felt.
‘Drink all that water I just brought up for you.’
He hadn’t. Not even had he looked at the glass as a small act of rebellion. But now, as he climbed from the bed and reached for it, he realised that this small act of rebellion was actually kind of pitiful, and the fool was him.
The glass was cold, and the water colder. It just made it more refreshing as he gulped down the full glass, barely registering the soft, fruity taste.
When finished, he placed it back on the desk and looked at the closed bedroom door.
Open me. It called to him. So he did, and felt soft fur rub across his calf, tiny little toes tapping on his own feet. It was only brief; then they left. Inspired, Ilya moved a pair of trainers from the end of his bed to prop the door open, before moving to climb back into bed.
He reclined down onto his back, barely pulling the cover over him, before the tiny toes were back on him, climbing onto his chest. They started kneading away at the bottom of his ribs, a deep purr vibrating through his arm as he rested his hand on her side.
He fell asleep with his fingers gently scratching at her side, not 2 minutes after he lay back down.