Chapter Text
In the past, Ilya treated the anniversary of his mother’s death as a day that was almost a secret, something for him to observe in complete solitude. He learned this in childhood, the first year after her death, when his father treated the day as almost aggressively normal. Thirteen-year-old Ilya suggested they visit her grave; he was told, in no uncertain terms, that this would be entirely unacceptable. Ilya had wanted to cry, as he had wanted to many times that past year, but he did not. Because he could be strong, even if he didn’t feel it. He would not cry.
The next year, when Ilya was fourteen, he snuck away to the cemetery after hockey practice. He doubted he would be missed, let alone that his father was aware of the significance of the day. Ilya had the date memorized, but he couldn’t say it was as important to anyone else.
He brought her flowers and a little flask of her favorite vodka (which he’d stolen from his father’s liquor cabinet. Alexei nicked shit from there all the time, so Ilya was confident he could do the same). Ignoring the cold, he took a seat on the frozen ground next to her headstone. Ilya tried a couple of small sips from the flask, but it made him feel woozy and weak, which he didn’t like, so he poured the remainder on the ground for his mother.
Sitting there, looking at her name etched in rock, Ilya felt the urge to talk to her. He looked around; The graveyard was mostly empty, only one old man walking around and the groundskeeper, who was preoccupied with some bushes near the entrance.
So Ilya decided to share his solitude with his mother. That’s what he was there for, after all.
“Hello, Mama,” he almost choked on the words. He was definitely going to cry, at least a little. Throughout the past year, ages thirteen-and-a-half-to-fourteen-and-a-half, Ilya had come to realize that nothing is actually wrong with crying itself; it was when other people saw him do it that seemed to cause issues. And right now, no one was here to bear witness. “I’m sorry I haven’t come to see you sooner.”
The apology, the recognition of how he had forced himself to pretend the grief was bearable when it really never would be, it broke the dam inside of him; tears spilled down his cheeks. Catching his breath at the sudden intensity he felt, Ilya laughed at himself, the absurdity of sneaking away from his life to visit his dead mother’s grave.
He told his mother everything. All the details of the past two years that she’d missed. He described how lonely he’s felt, how unbearable his father was, how much worse Alexei had become, how intense hockey was now, how that was maybe a good thing, because he was great at it and it was really good at distracting him from all the chaos in his head, at least for now. He let himself cry without wiping the tears away immediately, and then, when he finished saying anything and everything he wanted to say, Ilya told his mother he loved her, and trudged back through the falling snow to catch the bus home.
After that, Ilya kept going back to see her. Hockey and school kept him very busy, and it wasn’t often that he could sneak away from prying eyes, but he found the time. Often it was when he was out late with his friends, after they’d partied and drank themselves into a stupor, and no one would notice if Ilya got really sad and slipped away to visit his dead mother’s grave.
Once he started playing in the KHL, he wasn’t always in Moscow on the date of her death. December was a busy month (as were most months, of course), and for three years in a row, actually, Ilya was not able to visit on the anniversary. Instead, in whatever city he was in (Minsk, Astana, Yaroslavl, in that order), he’d hole up in the hotel room and speak to no one. It sucked, but Ilya didn’t know what else he could do. He couldn’t just talk to his dead mom in the middle of a shared hotel room, and if he couldn’t speak to her, he didn’t ever really want to talk to anyone at all, especially not his teammates. Maybe Svetlana, but she wasn’t around.
In Ottawa, Ilya expects it to be somewhat like those days in Minsk, Astana, and Yaroslavl: lonely and long.
He contextualizes the anniversary in his game schedule before the start of the season. The Centaurs are meant to fly in late from a West Coast roadie the night before, so no practice on the anniversary. He checks Shane’s schedule too, which Shane has loaded into a shared calendar for them to easily plan when they can visit each other. So diligent, Ilya thinks fondly.
Shane will also have the day off, as well as the next. Which means Ilya needs to tell Shane or risk weirdly icing him out on one of the few whispers of time they can spend together – looping Shane in seems preferable, less painful in the long run. Shane will understand, Ilya thinks, that he must spend the day alone.
The conversation does not go as planned.
Ilya brings it up after their first game against each other, after he’s fucked Shane into the mattress so hard that Shane has fucking tears in his eyes from the earth-shaking orgasm that’s just rocked through him; his lips are red and swollen from kissing Ilya.
Ilya comes back from the shower, flops next to Shane on their bed – the bed in Ilya’s apartment has felt like theirs since they spent the whole summer here. “Next game, Centaurs will win,” Ilya coos, twisting his fingers into Shane’s hand. Shane smiles at him, looking blissed out and sleepy. He doesn’t say anything in response, which is maybe an indication of how tired he actually is.
“So,” Ilya clears his throat, getting an inch of nerves now. “I know is long time from now, but I was not sure of a better time. To tell you in person.”
“Tell me what?” Shane drops Ilya’s hand to push himself up to a seated position, the sleepiness snapped away. Okay, maybe Ilya could have phrased this better. Or picked a better time to bring it up. Fuck, okay, well, it’s too late to change those things now.
“I, ah,” Ilya winces and looks away, unable to meet Shane’s wide doe-eyes. “In December, is anniversary of my mother’s– ah– death.”
“Oh,” Shane’s whole face softens, the tension washing out of him; he reaches back for Ilya’s hand.
“December sixth. Is a day we have together. After my West Coast games, before you leave for Florida on the eighth. I checked.”
“Okay,” Shane is still wide-eyed and blinking, mind processing. “I– do you want to do something special? Cook something– or do something to honor her?”
The suggestion catches Ilya off guard. Something to honor her. Does he want that? He’s never quite done that before, besides a couple of sips of her favorite vodka, pouring a bit out for her. Ilya can’t quite picture it, something that he’ll feel like doing on such a fragile day.
“Or not,” Shane adds quickly. “Whatever you want, baby, I’m here for you. If you want to stay home and watch movies and order takeout, we can do that. Or we can have a nice meal, and we can talk about your mom. Or a hike, nature is really nice for– Ilya, are you okay?”
Ilya realizes he’s crying.
“Fuck, sorry,” he uses the heels of his hand to press into both eyes, the world fading to darkness when he does. He feels Shane’s hands on his shoulders, then all of Shane’s chest, and he climbs into Ilya’s lap, holds Ilya’s head into his chest.
“I’m sorry,” Shane says. “I don’t know what is best. You tell me what you want, okay? Anything you want.”
Ilya wraps his arms around Shane and squeezes, letting himself release a small sob.
“No, no sorrys,” Ilya manages to say. “Is just–” He pulls back slightly, lets Shane cup his chin and caress his thumb along Ilya’s jaw. His heart softening, Ilya closes his eyes and tries to breathe steadily.
“I have always been alone for it. I thought it was the only way to do it.”
Ilya shudders another sob. Shane’s fingers thread through his hair, petting and tugging lightly.
“Now,” Ilya continues. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to do it different.”
Shane presses Ilya’s head back into his chest tenderly. Keeping his arms wrapped around Shane, Ilya holds on for dear life.
“That’s okay,” Shane whispers into Ilya’s hair. “You don’t have to know. It will be hard no matter what, right? But maybe think about it a little, if you want to do anything. You have time. And if you want to do nothing, that’s okay too. I will be with you if you want. We can figure it out. Together.”
The words are so comforting, Ilya didn’t know words could be like that. The stress melts away, replaced by a burst of love and appreciation. Invigorated, Ilya flips Shane to pin him down on the bed. Shane gasps a little from the sudden movement, which Ilya fucking loves. He could fucking eat him. “Together,” Ilya leans in to whisper the word directly into Shane’s right ear. Ilya lets his teeth snag on Shane’s earlobe, tugging lightly before letting go. Shane fucking gasps again, looking up at Ilya with those wide fuck-me eyes.
“Together,” Shane murmurs, wetting his fucking lips, which he knows drives Ilya fucking crazy.
“Mm, malysh,” Ilya groans, biting his lip and moving one of his hands to thumb over Shane’s lips, pulling his bottom lip open. Shane looks so perfect like this (and when does he not?), underneath Ilya, growing hard from Ilya’s teasing touch, even though they just fucked less than, what? Five, ten minutes ago.
“Ilya, kiss me,” Shane whines, wiggling his hips ever so slightly. Fuck. In what world would Ilya ever say no to that? He presses his lips to Shane’s, hard.
We can figure it out together, Ilya recounts the words as he moves to suck on Shane’s neck. It turns him on even more, a passion that translates easily to Shane, who gasps out in pleasure and grips Ilya’s curls.
For about the millionth time since he moved to Ottawa, Ilya wonders wildly if he’s dreaming. Or if the whole first twenty-three years of his life, he was drowning. And now he has a liferaft. He has Shane.
December sixth, in true Ottawa fashion, is bitterly cold. It’s perfect, really, because it’s always cold on December sixth in Moscow, and Ilya couldn’t imagine the day any other way. He is relieved he’s not in California anymore, not for this day.
He sleeps late, of course, and Shane is already up, his side of the bed cold. From down the hall, Ilya can hear the clatter of dishes in the kitchen.
Shane had been here, at Ilya’s apartment, when Ilya arrived home from the airport late last night. Ilya had known, in theory, that Shane would be there waiting for him; they had texted earlier, established the plan. But seeing Shane in person, after nearly three weeks of long distance, of surviving off texts and video calls, it was something else entirely. Shane was standing in his entryway, wearing one of Ilya’s Centaurs sweatshirts, those slutty little sport shorts (Ilya’s favorites on him), and his fucking glasses, so clearly dressed to be as irresistible as possible. And it worked, of course. Ilya’s brain almost short-circuited. Thank god it didn’t, so Ilya could instead pounce on his boyfriend.
It had been so late at night, and Ilya was so fucking tired, that they had frantically gotten each other off and then promptly passed out twisted up in one another’s arms.
And now, Ilya stares at the ceiling and wonders what on earth to do today. He’s been thinking about it, of course, for the last two months. But his task is to design the best way to have a sad day, and he’s really not sure how to do that. He has no idea, actually.
“Oh, good, you’re up.”
Ilya lifts his head to see Shane standing in the doorway, wearing an apron like he’s on the Great British Baking Show or something. He looks so fucking cute in an apron, it’s unfair that he’s on the other side of the room right now.
“Hi,” Ilya smirks, pushing himself onto his forearms to get a better view. Predictably, Shane blushes.
“Hi,” he says. Ilya wants Shane to come to the side of the bed, so Ilya can reach out and grab him and drag him back to bed. But Shane knows that (from experience), and he keeps his feet firmly planted in the doorway. He must mean business. Business Shane.
“I’m making pancakes,” Shane says, eyes bright. “And I’ll start your coffee now.”
“Pancakes?” Ilya tilts his head to the side in question.
“Yeah,” Shane nods. “I figured you should have some good things on a sad day. Your mom would want that too, I think. And I know how you love pancakes.”
It’s true, it’s one of Ilya’s favorite foods in North America, and Shane never wants to have them because of his stupid performance diet. So it does make Ilya happy that Shane is making pancakes for breakfast. And yeah, his mom would like Ilya to have good things on a sad day. Shane is really good at this. Fuck, he loves Shane so much.
“That okay?” Shane teeters in the doorway, not able to read Ilya’s silence.
Ilya lies back, flat on the bed. “Yes, very okay,” he says to the ceiling, so he doesn’t cry. The day has just fucking started, he can stave off the waterworks for a little bit at least.
“I love you,” Ilya says wetly, eyes still on the sky.
“I love you,” Shane says. “And I’m covered in flour, and I need to get back to the kitchen, otherwise I’d give you a hug right now.”
Ilya laughs and rolls over onto his side. “Go, I will brush my teeth and join you.”
After pancakes, Shane suggests a hike.
“I know what you’re going to say, yes, it’s more exercise on a rest day, but that’s not why I’m suggesting it. Nature is, like, healing? And there’s another trail we haven’t tried, like ten minutes from the place I took you in the summer, you remember? We had a good time then, even though you complained the whole time.”
“Yes, hike is good,” Ilya agrees easily, not even countering the (false) claim that Ilya complained “the whole time” on their previous hike. Shane gives him a disbelieving look.
“Really?”
“My mother loved nature. I think she would like me exploring Canadian wilderness with my pretty Canadian boyfriend.”
Shane wrinkles his nose like this annoys him, but the pleased tilt of his lips suggests otherwise. He fucking loves it when Ilya calls him pretty, and Ilya knows that. “Well, it’s not quite wilderness,” Shane counters.
“Whatever,” Ilya rolls his eyes and leans over to grip Shane’s knee. “Maybe you make me feel less sad before we go?” Shane gives him an incredulous look.
“You don’t have to phrase it like that,” Shane sounds a little offended. Oops, Ilya’s half-joke is not well-received. Or maybe it was never really very funny.
“Mm, don’t be mad,” Ilya coos instead of dampening the mood with an apology, and lets the hand on Shane’s knee rise up to his thigh. Shane’s wearing the slutty shorts again, amazing. Shane frowns. “I’m not mad,” he says, and this must be true because then he’s suddenly on his knees in front of Ilya, eagerly pulling down Ilya’s waistband. Definitely not mad.
The trail is a mild two miles, but it’s almost entirely uphill. Ilya is sweating and breathless, and honestly, a little annoyed that he agreed to this idea, when they stumble onto an overlook. Stretched out in front of them is the forest below, some trees still clinging to their brightly colored leaves, and a lake, sparkling brightly in the sunlight. A breeze lightly blows by, cooling the sweat on Ilya’s neck. Ilya takes a slow breath of fresh air.
His mother would like this. All of it. The hike, the woods, Canada. Shane. She would love Shane, like Ilya loves Shane.
“I told you it would be worth it,” Shane says proudly. Ilya doesn’t remember Shane saying that at all, but he assumes Shane probably thought it and didn’t say it aloud. He was always doing that – claiming to have reminded Ilya of things, turning conversations in odd directions because he forgot to loop Ilya in on his thought process. It was endearing, mostly, when it wasn’t a source of confusion.
Besides, this time, he’s right. The view is worth it.
They sit on a rock and share a bottle of water between them, because Shane brought one and, of course, Ilya didn’t. While they’re sitting there, enjoying the relative peace, a middle-aged man and woman come up the trail.
“Hello there!” the woman calls. She’s wearing a wide-brimmed fishing hat and big sunglasses.
“Hi!” Shane responds brightly, used to this casual niceness between strangers in a way that Ilya hasn’t quite gotten the hang of, especially not in English.
“Wow!” The woman catches sight of the view, distracted from greeting Shane. The man trails behind, clad in a hat and sunglasses identical to the woman’s. “Damn,” he says in response to the view. Ilya can’t help it; he laughs.
Everyone is in good spirits, and they all laugh along.
“Excuse my language, boys, my friend here just dragged me up a mountain, and I’m only now realizing it was worth it,” the man says with a crooked smile. The woman doesn’t even respond; she’s busy trying to take a photo of the view with her phone.
“That’s what I said too,” Ilya grins, tapping the toe of his sneaker to Shane’s. Shane glances at their shoes and then at Ilya, blushing. It really baffles Ilya, the minuscule things that make Shane’s cheeks turn pink.
“Smart man,” the woman says to Shane. “Michael here won’t do any physical exercise unless there’s a reward. In this instance, the reward is the view!”
Ilya silently hopes this will be the last of their conversation, but it seems the woman is determined to befriend them.
“So what do you boys do for work that allows you to be out here midday on a Tuesday?”
Shane continues to take the conversational lead. “We’re hockey players,” he says, almost bashful in admitting the fact. Ilya watches the strangers’ faces for any sign of recognition. It’s unlikely they would know Ilya unless they are active Ottawa fans, but Shane Hollander is a household staple across the country, especially in his hometown. It’s not uncommon for people to stop him for a photo.
But no awareness comes across these people’s faces.
“Oh yeah?” Michael says. “I’m not much of a sports person, not since my husband died. He was a baseball nut, though, no hockey.”
This man is just dropping personal lore left and right. Husband? Dead husband?
“Oh, I’m sorry for your loss,” Shane replies politely. The man waves him off.
“Thank you, that’s kind. It was years ago now.”
“My mother died eleven years ago today,” Ilya says automatically, to no one in particular, because suddenly it feels so crazy not to say it. Shane is looking at him, obviously trying to gauge how he’s doing, but Ilya can’t return his gaze, not without the risk of crying in front of strangers. Instead, he studies a rock nearby.
“Oh,” the woman’s shoulders drop. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” Michael, too, seems sobered by the information. For a moment, they all just stare out at the view. It’s almost serene, if not a little awkward.
“Well, we’re going to keep climbing. You boys have a nice time. I’m sure your mother would love this view,” the woman smiles sympathetically at Ilya. Behind her, Michael nods in agreement.
“Thank you,” Ilya says seriously, and as relieved as he is when they disappear back into the woods, he feels lighter having had the interaction. A friendly woman and a man with a dead husband, who now know about Ilya’s mother, even just that she existed. It feels poetic in a way that sits right in the front of Ilya’s chest, steady and persistent. Grief, he thinks to himself, is maybe meant to be shared. Ilya has been doing it wrong all along, maybe.
“Want a snack?” Shane asks, pulling trail mix out of his bag. “You can pick out the M&M’s if you want.”
Wow, Shane really must want Ilya to have a good time if he’s suggesting that.
“Is fine, malysh, I eat nuts too,” Ilya says, smirking at Shane happily. It was an easy setup. Shane’s cheeks burn.
“Whatever, dude,” he sputters, and then turns a little serious. “How are you doing? I…” Shane trails off, seemingly uncertain about which words to choose next. Ilya decides to save him from the agony, so clearly working up on his face.
“Is hard day, yes. But is good version of hard day, I think,” Ilya reaches over to Shane to stroke his thumb on Shane’s wrist; a small thing, something easy to brush away if someone walked up the trail. “Thank you, Shane. For pancakes and hike and being here. It means a lot.”
“Of course,” Shane says emphatically. “Ilya, of course. Anything you need, ever.”
Ilya sighs. “She would have loved you.”
“Really? You think so?”
Ilya stares out at the forest, then closes his eyes as a gust of air hits his face. “Of course. You are very easy to love, moya lyubov.”
“You are too,” Shane volleys it back instantly. “You know that, right? I feel like you don’t know that. You are easy to love.”
“Mm,” Ilya hums noncommittally.
“You are so open, baby,” Shane continues. “The Centaurs loved you, instantly. Remember Marleau? He’s obsessed with you, dude, just from meeting you briefly at the Olympics. Connors and Vaughan, too. And my parents liked you immediately. You’re so good with people. Better than me.”
Shane takes a breath; he has a distant look on his face like he’s not done speaking yet, so Ilya remains silent.
“And I… I thought about you for years after we met, that’s how easy it is to love you.”
Shane thought about him for years after they first met?
“You…” Ilya lets the sentence trail off, gazing at his boyfriend. Fuck, how did he ever get so lucky? A lifetime of pain, and then all of a sudden, Shane Hollander walks down a hallway and finds Ilya, and Ilya’s life improves exponentially. Maybe some of that was Ilya getting it together; finally taking care of his deteriorating mental health, moving to a city where his worst memories don’t haunt him every day (some days they still do, you can’t win them all). But Shane is here for all of it. A steady, guiding force.
“I thought of you, too,” Ilya finally says, heart flayed open. “After we met. I watched your clips. I tracked your career. I thought of you too.”
Wide-eyed (fuck, it’s sexy when he does that look in public), Shane looks just as raw and exposed as Ilya feels. He opens his mouth to speak, but Ilya leans over and presses his lips quickly to Shane’s before pulling away. Anyone could see, but also, was there even anyone around?
Shane is blushing furiously when Ilya pulls away.
“I-“ he starts, sucking in a gulp of air. “Same. Me too. With the watching clips and tracking career… I… When we were in Sochi, I was looking forward to playing against you. Because I wanted to see you. I wanted to run into you in the Olympic Village… so we could… talk, I guess.”
“Or fuck,” Ilya suggests. Shane bats his arm. “No, I wasn’t thinking about that, pervert. Or, maybe, a little, but fuck, Ilya, I thought I had an insane, obsessive crush on a straight man in another country. I didn’t think… I didn’t know you—“
“Also had insane, obsessive crush? Yes, I did. What can I say, your freckles are very pretty. Very nice, introducing yourself, telling me where I was supposed to smoke. Was also looking forward to playing you in Sochi. But we lost to fucking Latvia. So I had to move to Canada and reserve private ice time at Centaurs' rink to finally beat you.”
Shane smiles at him fondly, his eyes shining, agonizingly full of love.
“Hey,” he says, pulling Ilya’s total attention back to him. “I love you, Ilya.” Fuck, Ilya’s heart.
“I love you too, Shane.”
“Want to go back down?”
“No, let’s sit a little longer.”
Shane leans back on his hands, putting his hand on the rock, close to Ilya. Ilya shifts his hand slightly closer so he can lock their thumbs together. Ilya gazes out at the view and thinks of his mother again.
When they reach the trailhead, Ilya’s phone buzzes against his thigh with an incoming call. He pulls it out: it’s Alexei.
“Blyat,” Ilya curses and clicks decline.
Shane, by now, knows the situation. He doesn’t say anything about how Ilya should accept the call, or ask if Alexei is calling about their mother on the anniversary of her passing (he’s not, Ilya can guarantee that). Shane just rests a light hand on Ilya’s shoulder and squeezes lightly before releasing. If they were alone, Ilya knows Shane would hold his hand tightly, rub circles on his back. But they’re in public, there’s a family nearby, a couple of young adults meandering around the parking lot. They have an audience.
Ilya hates that they can’t just be themselves in this random-ass park.
His phone starts buzzing again; Ilya reflexively clenches his jaw.
“Give me your phone,” Shane holds his hand out, and Ilya obediently sets it in Shane’s open palm. Shane swipes onto silent and then stows it in his bag.
“Let’s go home,” Shane says, a master of redirection. “We can couch potato for the rest of the day?”
“Mm, yes,” Ilya agrees, willing the tension to release from his shoulders. “Can we watch Fast and Furious movies?”
“Of course,” Shane says, even though Ilya knows he dislikes the series.
“Tokyo Drift?” Ilya suggests the only one Shane has yet to see.
“Whatever you want.”
Ilya’s already decided he’s going to work Shane open on the couch while the movie plays, a reward for being such a good, agreeable boyfriend. He’s earned it – though Ilya never needs a specific reason to fuck Shane.
“Race you to the car!” Ilya shouts, already scrambling ahead.
“Asshole!” Shane yells after him, floundering to catch up. They both ignore the dirty looks from the parents nearby, clearly within earshot.
Ilya wins, obviously, because of the head start.
“Asshole,” Shane breathes again, quieter this time. Ilya gives him a shit-eating grin.
“I think you like it.”
“Yeah, you dick. Shut up, let’s go home.”
Later, after fucking Shane, half-watching Fast and Furious: Tokyo Drift, and refueling after the sex with pepperoni pizza (which, crazy that Shane agreed to that and ate it with zero complaints, though he did make a very cute face of disgust at the grease), Ilya gets really tired.
“You can go to bed early,” Shane says softly, pressing his toes against Ilya’s from the other side of the couch.
“Is only seven o’clock,” Ilya argues. Shane shrugs, unconvinced.
And yeah, Ilya’s exhausted. He has that deep fatigue in his bones that’s usually either depression or grief (or both), and he just wants to bury his head in his pillow and feel Shane’s arms around him and rest.
“Okay,” he relents. “Will you come to bed with me?”
“Of course.”
And so to bed they go. Neither of them sleeps for a while, but Ilya gets to be the little spoon, Shane pressed up against his back.
After an hour, Shane whispers, “Are you awake?”
“Yes. You are okay?”
“I’m okay,” Shane says, and nuzzles his nose into Ilya’s neck. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” Ilya says, and he means it.
“Okay, good,” Shane sighs happily, his warm breath on Ilya’s skin.
It is good. It’s really good, even though Ilya feels grief and sadness and loss and all the big things, he also feels so held. So cared for. So loved.
He only wishes his mother could be here to see it, to know Shane. And though she can’t be here, in his heart, Ilya believes his mother is watching over them, him and Shane, and that’s a comforting enough thought that he can finally drift off to sleep.