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November, 2017
Ilya was a fuckhead in every sense of the word. He wasn't a bonehead, though. He was very smart, smarter than Cliff. Though that wasn't exactly a high bar to pass.
Cliff had yanked Ilya out of way too many stupid situations that his dick had led him into off the ice, his mouth had led him to on the ice, and his Shane Hollander sized hate-boner had led him into in every sphere of the world.
Pounding his fist into the padding of a defencemen he could see Shane Hollander grabbing the back of Ilya's jersey and yanking him away. It was a little weird, to Cliff, that Shane Hollander and Ilya were always buddies when fights broke out that didn't include either of them.
He supposed it was smart, the star players of both the teams were great deterrents to keep their teammates from drawing Hollander and Ilya into fights that didn't involve them.
But it was also fucking weird.
He'd asked a couple years ago and gotten blown off by a pretty pissed Ilya, so he wasn't intent on repeating that.
When a second fight broke out that didn't involve Cliff he found himself being shouldered by Hayden Pike who was watching the fight with vague interest.
"You ever notice that Hollander and Roz always buddy up?" Cliff asked him, resting an arm on Pike's shoulder. Pike was a pretty stand up guy, especially by hockey standards. He also had a mean right hook.
"What?" Pike looked over at Hollander and Ilya. Ilya was basically draped over Shane's back, his chin on Shane's shoulder as they both watched the fight. "Huh."
"Weird, right?"
"Eh." Pike shrugged. "They're about the same size, they're pretty much always next to each other on the ice. Quick grab." He frowned and tilted his head to the side. "Is Rozanov always that..."
"Affectionate?" Cliff suggested. Pike nodded. "Yeah, pretty much. It pisses some guys off, Hollywood doesn't seem to care, though."
Pike scoffed. "Yeah no, Shane's like an affection sponge. He babysat this weekend so Jackie and I could celebrate our anniversary. Came back to find him asleep on the floor of the nursery with the other three kids on top of him. Like a pile of puppies."
"Ilya keeps stealing teammates dogs," Cliff muttered.
"Stealing?"
"Shows up, uses the plant pot key, takes the dog to the dog park, brings the dog home. All before anyone realizes the dog is gone."
"How the fuck do you know-?"
"He posts pictures of the dogs to his Insta stories," Cliff answered. "And tags the guys."
"Fucking hell, that's a whole other level of desperate," Pike chirped.
Cliff wanted to ask what he meant by that, but the whistle blew and the fight was over.
May, 2018
When Shane was eight Yuna went looking for the family copy of that morning's Toronto Star to fill in the crossword. Like every morning she had dropped Shane at school, David had done the Sudoku before heading into work, and Yuna had a few hours to herself before she had to return to soft-managing the peewee leagues at the local rink. Really, their schedules were all a mess. And Yuna was happy to do it.
Especially when she had the chance to sit down and challenge her brain for a bit, first.
Except on that particular day someone had filled in the boxes with bright green pencil crayon.
Someone.
Someone who had gotten the answers almost entirely right, except for one column that was left blank.
She thought of the concerned face Shane had made when Yuna had sat him down after school and explained that she liked to do the crosswords after dropping him off. He'd been apologetic, had hugged her and apologized extensively, and had looked at her with wide, sparkling, teary eyes and cradled the book of crosswords she'd gotten him.
She thought of it because Shane was sitting in his usual place in their Ottawa home's living room, book of crosswords open in his lap, pen in hand and the end of it between his teeth. Exactly how he'd sat with that first book she'd gotten him.
Except now Shane was sitting in Ilya's lap.
Ilya was fast asleep, sitting in Shane's chair with his face nestled in the crook of Shane's neck. It was play-offs season, both Boston and Montreal had been knocked out of the first round of the play-offs. The township the cottages belonged to had been having brownouts. So Shane and Ilya were having solar panels installed on the roof of their cottage and Yuna and David's.
So they were in Ottawa for a few weeks, and Yuna had noticed a few things about Ilya now that she had him living under her roof for several days straight.
The first day she had chalked it up to the relief Shane had expressed feeling that they neither had to hide nor hold themselves back from outward expressions of affection. The second day she had assumed the near constant touching would start to lessen up.
It hadn't.
It wasn't graphic touching. It was Ilya's fingers in the pocket of Shane's hoodie, it was his chin tucked over Shane's shoulder, it was his head in Shane's lap as they sprawled on one of the couches. It was Shane's fingers tangling in the hems of Ilya's shirts, it was his leg pressed up against Ilya's as they ate at the table, it was his nose pressed up against the vertebrae of Ilya's neck, it was his fingers idly winding Ilya's curls around his fingers.
Shane had always loved tight hugs, when he was a child Yuna had been able to fully wrap him in her arms and squeeze him as tight as she could. She hadn't been able to do that since he was 10. She had caught a private moment, though, of Shane sitting out in the backyard in the early morning. Ilya had carried out one of the fluffy baby yarn blankets from the basket next to the TV couch and wrapped it around his own shoulders before sitting just behind Shane and wrapping his blanket-covered arms around him. Yuna had watched Shane's head lull back onto Ilya's shoulders, had watched him melt the way he had as a child, and known.
Hockey was a contact sport, Shane was a boy who thrived on physical affection. These were facts Yuna knew well.
Hockey was a very rigid, conservative culture, Shane was a boy who struggled to break convention especially for selfish reasons. These were also facts Yuna knew well.
Ilya Rozanov was known to be loudly affectionate with his teammates. Ilya Rozanov was known to weaponize affection and closeness on the ice.
And yet.
Yuna watched Ilya love her son quietly. She watched Ilya love her son in safety. She had watched a game, Boston vs. Montreal, in Montreal. She had watched Ilya weaponize his reputation, weaponize the cultural constraints and rules of the game, to push into Shane and hold tight when a fight broke out.
Shane was a spectacular player, but she watched him come alive after that game, as the boys took her and David out for a very late dinner after the game. They had been, actually, talking about the Foundation. But she had known that when Shane offered to drive Ilya back to his hotel instead of getting an Uber it was entirely for show.
Shane needed physical touch like he needed air. Yuna liked Hayden Pike for that very reason, he was affectionate without having to ask or be asked.
But Yuna liked Ilya for noticing the ways Shane needed him. Setting down the two mugs of herbal tea on the table she looked at Ilya, fast asleep, wrapped around her son, and considered it one of the most mundanely precious things she had ever had the distinction to bear witness to.
March, 2019
"The Cens are in LA right now, right?" Rose said the second Ilya answered the phone.
"What?"
"LA. Now. You. Yes?"
"Yeah?"
"Which hotel, I want In-and-Out and none of my LA friends will go and I need animal style fries."
"Are you... Warning me you are bringing in-and-out to my hotel?" Ilya asked.
"Yes."
"O...kay?"
"I'll get Frosties from Wendy's-"
"Deal."
Rose knocked on Ilya's hotel room door with her the toe of her boot. He opened it and looked, honestly, kind of a wreck.
"Glad I got the extra-large Frosty," Rose said as she walked in.
"Landry-" Ilya started.
"You don't have to talk about it, you just have to eat the food," she said, setting the two take-out bags on the laminated wood hotel table. "But if you wanna talk, I'll listen."
Ilya sat at the table with her and ate the greasy processed fast food. It wasn't until the frosties were mostly gone that Ilya said anything.
"Why are you like this?" He asked.
"Like what?" Rose asked, head tilted to one side as she sipped the legally not a milkshake.
"Nice."
"... Because I try to be a decent person?"
"Why are you nice to me?"
"I don't follow."
"Shane-"
"Ah. Yeah, no, Ilya, sweetheart, like 90% of my ex boyfriends have figured out they're gay while dating me." She shrugged. "Risk of the trade. Why?"
"I have a... Friend? Ex? I don't know. Is complicated. He is rocketing to rock bottom and showed up at my house when Shane was there and he was..."
Rose reached out and set a hand on Ilya's shoulder. Ilya looked at her hand like it was a bomb ticking down. "Are you okay?"
"What?"
"Having someone you cared about hit rock bottom is hard."
"He is... One of two people I talk to, from Russia. And I do not really talk to him. He is not... Safe." Ilya was stirring his frosty with a quickly disintegrating paper straw. Rose reached into her purse, pulled out one of her wrapped plastic straws, and dropped it into Ilya's drink, pulling the paper straw and dropping it into one of the empty take-out bags. "I don't... He is... Base reaction, with Shane. He was... I do not know word. Like he automatically deserved my attention and touch just because he thinks he knows me."
"Entitled?" Rose suggested. Ilya looked lost. "He thinks your attention belongs to him."
"Yes. Entitled. He has always... We were 14, the first time, and it was nothing like with Shane. Shane is soft, Sasha was... Sharp and mean and demanding."
"Ilya," Rose said softly.
"Do not pity me," Ilya said, harsh, bordering on mean.
"I'm not pitying you, Ilya, I'm worried about you."
Ilya frowned. "Why?"
"I mean, you're a person who loves Shane for all his weird quirks. Shane's probably my best friend. Therefore, transitive property of friendships, you're my friend too. I care about my friends, Rozanov." She sucked up the last of her frosty, letting the loud noise echo in the quiet hotel room, filling the void of sound left by Ilya's confusion. "Shane's a tactile person, he doesn't know how to seek out what he wants, except with you."
"What?" Ilya tilted his head like a dog hearing a squeaky toy.
Rose held up her hands. "Okay, I'm going to give an example from when Shane and I were dating and I'd like you to not rip my head off in a jealous rage 'cause I've got a night shoot." Ilya nodded once, eyes narrowed, and Rose continued, "Shane likes to have constant contact, right?" Ilya nodded. "But figuring out how to ask for that is hard for him, so he goes these long stretches of time with like, no physical contact outside of checking on the ice and maybe stretching out in the gym with one of his teammates. But none of that is really the same, because what he wants is for you to but like, your whole body weight onto his shoulders. The amount of time we've spent together where I'm just fully leaning on him is insane."
"Does not help rumours," Ilya grumbled.
She frowned. "Does it bother you?"
"Yes... No... Is..." Ilya huffed an annoyed sigh. "You can do that, lean on him, in public. People do not care. I cannot. Not anywhere outside of safe location. Not anywhere we could be seen." His nose wrinkled and he stabbed the plastic straw into the cup. "And Sasha comes in rare time I have to touch him and fucks everything up and I had to call Sveta to come get him out of my fucking house and that made Shane jealous and I just..." The cup was put down on the table with an echoing dull clunk noise. Somehow it didn't break. "If Sasha is in right mind he will not say anything, but he has been using since we were 14 to dull all the pain that comes with," Ilya made a half circle with his spread hand in the air, ending with his palm to the window, "everything."
"Oh," Rose said.
"Yes. Is... Hard."
"Ilya, can I give you a hug?" Rose asked.
"What?"
"You seem like you could use a hug, and Shane's in Denver so. Can I hug you?" She asked.
Ilya looked at her like he was trying to dissect her motives, like he was trying to dissect her, with his mind. Then, after a few even breaths, he nodded.
Rose hugged Ilya and Ilya stiffened for a moment. Then he went almost completely boneless and Rose shifted her arms to cradle the back of his head with one hand as his forehead fell against her shoulder and the other arm wrapped around his broad shoulders. She didn't mention he was crying, didn't mention it the passing time. She held him as long as he needed to be held.
"You could be a little more a bitch," Ilya mumbled hoarsely against Rose's shoulder.
"Oh, I'm capable of being a bitch, you just don't deserve it," Rose replied honestly.
"You're the fucking worst, Rosie."
"Rosie?" She repeated. "Really?"
And then Ilya's shoulders were shaking with laughter.
And then Rose was laughing.
And Ilya was still leaning into her.
"Y'know," she mused aloud, "you're probably more touch-starved than Shane."
Ilya hummed. "Probably."
"Probably," Rose pitched her voice down and did a very bad Russian accent.
"You are never allowed to meet Sveta, my confidence would not survive," Ilya declared.
"Oh no, getting rid of your inflated ego-"
"Shane finds it very sexy."
"Yet another thing I don't understand about queer guys apparently."
Ilya dissolved into a full on giggle fit, dragging Rose with him.
June, 2019
Shane arrived at the cottage last, out of the two of them. Which was entirely because he thought flying to Ottawa to drive up to the cottage with Ilya was stupid.
Except now...
Now he'd been driving for almost five hours and he had sat in complete silence without any music playing and without Ilya to talk to or fiddle with the radio dials as they entered and exited tower range.
Ilya didn't meet him at the door, but the smell of something dill-y and garlicky and definitely pickle-y did greet him.
He lined his shoes up at the door next to Ilya's, hung his raincoat next to Ilya's, dropped his suitcase next to Ilya's, and walked into their kitchen.
Ilya was at the stove, tablet propped up by it's folding cover with a recipe blog open on it.
Shane stepped right behind Ilya, looping his arms around Ilya's hips and pressing the end of his nose to the space between Ilya's C3 and C4 vertebrae.
"Rasolnik," Ilya offered as explanation. "Is pickle soup, lots of good things, put some chicken in too. Good rainy day meal."
"Are you making me Russian soup?" Shane mumbled, slipping his hands under the hem of Ilya's loose-fitting polo shirt, spreading his fingers over as much of the skin of Ilya's stomach as they could cover.
"Yes," Ilya answered. "Is barley and pickles and carrots and meat and bone broth from store in Ottawa you like."
"Ya tey-ba lew-blew," Shane spoke to the skin of Ilya's neck before brushing a kiss against his spine. "That's not even a little right."
"You have said it better," Ilya agreed and Shane could hear the fond, adoring smile in his voice. "Rasolnik sometimes is served with sour cream, so I have some. I do not like it with the cream, though."
Ilya put the lid on the pot and turned in Shane's arms, his own arms draping lazily over Shane's shoulders. "Is still stupid to fly to Ottawa?" He asked.
"No," Shane grumbled, leaning forward so Ilya's lips brushed his forehead before they both shifted, like puzzle pieces adjusting to fit perfectly together.
Ilya buried his face in Shane's hair, his fingers sliding up from Shane's hairline to cup the back of his skull like it was the most precious thing in the world. Shane's hands slid too, his right slid up to settle between Ilya's shoulder blades and his left slid to press into Ilya's spine.
They breathed, the soup simmered on low, and the rain pattered against the roof and the windows.
"Someday this won't be enough," Shane whispered. "I will need more of you."
"Will?" Ilya asked.
"Already do," Shane whispered. "At least we can be in public, now."
"At least I can touch you how I touch everyone else," Ilya agreed.
"Still not enough," Shane grumbled.
"It will never be enough for me," Ilya whispered. "Not unless I can cut you open and crawl inside and always be touching every part of you."
Shane sighed dreamily. "We should get cremated, when we die. At the same time, of course."
"Of course," Ilya agreed.
"Then they can mix us up and bury us together."
"Romantic," Ilya hummed. "Way too far away to help now."
"I know." Shane leaned his head back to look at Ilya. "I want to see you grow old, Rozanov."
Ilya kissed him, chaste and slow, before he pressed his forehead into Shane's. "I love you."
"I love you too," Shane whispered back, folding right back into place touching as much of Ilya as he could.