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Chapter Text

It was snowing when the first cough forced its way out of Ilya’s chest. At first, he blamed the cigarettes—years of them, finally collecting their due. But then something tickled deep in his throat, sharp and wrong, and when he hacked it up from his oesophagus, he knew it was more serious.

There was something there. Small. Unidentified. Lodged where it had no right to be.

He didn’t know what it was—only that he was well and truly fucked.

Hanahaki.

The realization settled in with a bitter calm. He knew he didn’t have long. He knew this wasn’t ideal, and he knew, most of all, that the object of his longing would never love him back.

Ilya laughed weakly at the thought, the snow falling thicker around him, and wondered how something so quiet could end him so completely.

After hours of research—flipping through books (his mother loved flowers, and he always made sure to carry a floral directory wherever he went) and diving deep into the internet—he finally found the answer.

It was a lily bulb. A yurine—of course it had its own name in Japan.

The realization was almost funny. Only he would cough up seeds or starters instead of petals. It meant the love wasn’t just there—it was lodged, taking root, growing.

He was down bad for the man with freckles dusting his nose and rosy cheeks.

…

He needed a plan. He needed to pull away.

He had to stop this yurine from taking shape, from putting down roots and growing any further. That meant ending the hookups, the hotel room meetings—and it shouldn’t have been that hard.

Hollander had his Rose Landry now. The thought was curdled, bitter and unfair. How could he have been so stupid to let this start in the first place? Years ago, no less.

Why had he suggested the joint campaign with CCM at all?

And, as if on cue—as if Hollander could sense the spiral of thoughts and half-formed plans—his name lit up Ilya’s phone.

Two months of radio silence. Two months of a relationship splashed across every corner of the media.

Jane:
Are you excited for the All-Star Game?

Ilya:
No.

Short. Curt. Still an answer.

It was deliberate. Let Hollander think he didn’t care. Let him believe that Shane and Rose Landry didn’t ripple through Ilya’s world—that nothing was lodged in his chest, that he wasn’t coughing up yurine, that nothing inside him was trying to bloom.

Jane: 

But you will be there right?

I am so excited, I have been wondering what it would be like to play in the same team as you.

Ilya:

I will be there Hollander. 

Stop texting me.

Jane:

Ilya,

Nevermind, see you in Florida, yes?

read

He didn’t have the strength to read into it, not the message, not the intent behind it. Why was Hollander messaging him now? Why was he calling him Ilya?

Florida was three days away, and all he could do was hope the stupid disease wouldn’t wreck his plans. He should make an appointment, have it removed, cut it at the bud, and move on with his life.

But the second his fingers hovered over his phone, flashes of time spent with the man—sharp dark eyes, freckles scattered like constellations—crowded his mind and chased the thought away.

Later, he told himself.

After Florida.

He locks the screen.

Florida 2017

The weather is humid, the sun bright, and the hotel is nice—too nice, really, with the beach just steps away. He’ll be playing with Hollander, and that’s fine. As Svetlana said, he’ll be the one who steps back, who lets Shane take center stage.

Ilya is going to be good. He’ll see Hollander and remind himself, properly and firmly, that Hollander belongs to the beautiful Rose Landry, and that thought will settle everything.

He will be fine.

Never mind that he brought Svetlana with him as a precaution, a solid presence meant to act as a buffer—someone to stand between him and old habits if necessary.

He breathes in the salt air and tells himself this is a reset.
Florida will fix it.

…

So of course it happened like this.

He hid himself in the bar, comforted by the certainty that Hollander didn’t drink during play, didn’t drink during the season—didn’t belong here at all. It was supposed to be safe.

Shane Hollander strolled in anyway.

Casual. Unbothered. Breathtaking in a linen shirt and shorts that showed far too much for a man who was supposedly spoken for.

The yurine, apparently sharing Ilya’s sense of timing, chose that exact moment to make its presence known.

And that was how it went, how Shane Hollander found him in a bar he had no reason to enter, coughing into his fist. 

The man hurried over and dropped into the seat beside him, a steady hand coming to rest between Ilya’s shoulders, patting gently.

“You’re supposed to cut back on your cigarettes.”

“Hollander,” Ilya said, dryly, “are they out of ginger ale in your en-suite minibar?”

“I thought I’d come down, mingle, say hello.” Shane’s mouth curved, easy. “You look good.”

“Oh, this?” Ilya gestured vaguely at himself. “I thought, I get into festivities. It look good on me, da?”

“It does. So, are you excited? I am so excited. My parents would be here if they could, but they have a trip to Mexico, so I told them it’s okay. I’m really positive we’ll win.”

“I always look good,” Ilya said, unimpressed. “Yes, yes, like you tell me—you're excited. I get it.” His gaze flicked over Shane, slow and unguarded. “And you? You look like… what do you call it? Jump out of the magazine?”

Shane laughed, soft and pleased, leaning closer without even thinking about it.

“Jumped,” Shane corrected softly. “Jumped out of a magazine.”

“Da. That,” Ilya said. “Very… polished.”

His eyes traced Shane once, unashamed. “You dress up for someone?”

Shane shook his head, smiling. “No. I hired a stylist. I just wanted to look… better. Less always-in-sportswear.”

Ilya let out a short laugh. “Ah. Evolution.”

Shane’s smile turned playful. “Evolution, huh?” He tilted his head. “You still reading The New Yorker, or is that another phase?”

Ilya scoffed. “I read many things,” he said. “Not crime.”

A beat passed. Then, casual as anything: “Rose Landry not here?”

Shane’s expression barely shifted. “She’s great but, we weren’t compatible.”

Svetlana showed up a minute later, fresh from the pool, hair still damp, skin glowing like Florida hadn’t gotten the chance to ruin her yet. Her eyes lit up immediately.

“That’s Hollander,” she said in Russian, delighted. “I like him. Good player.”

“Da. I know,” Ilya replied dryly.

She turned to Shane without waiting for permission. “Hi, I’m Svetlana. Nice to finally meet you.”

“Shane,” Hollander said easily, offering a smile and a handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

They exchanged a few polite lines—weather, the game, the season. Hollander was good at this, Ilya noted. Effortless. Professional. Untouchable.

“Well,” Shane said after a moment, glancing toward the room, “I should go say hi to a few people. Enjoy your night.”

“Good luck,” Svetlana said brightly.

He nodded once at Ilya before moving off, swallowed almost immediately by the crowd.

Svetlana watched Hollander disappear into the crowd, then turned back to him, head tilting slightly.

“Are you nervous?” she asked.

Ilya shrugged, lifting his glass. “Is just bar.”

She didn’t look convinced. Her eyes lingered on him a second too long, sharp and assessing, and then something calculating flickered there—quick, deliberate.

“Hm,” Svetlana hummed. “Interesting.”

Ilya frowned. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Drink your drink.”

But Ilya knew that look. Svetlana had noticed.

…

The game went well. Of course it did, him and Hollander on the same team, the opposing team never really stood a chance.

Ilya scored two goals and set up two assists for Hollander. And in a moment he knew he shouldn’t steal—but did anyway—he leaned in after one of Shane’s goals and pressed a quick kiss to the side of his helmet. No one would notice. Hockey players were tactical like that. Touchy. Physical. It could pass as nothing.

Who was he kidding, though.

He wasn’t being clever. He was begging, scraping together whatever he could take from the moment, from the proximity, from the permission of the game itself.

“It was a good game,” Hollander said, eyes still on the water. “I hope we can be on the same team again someday.”

Ilya shrugged, aiming for indifference. “I’m always best,” he said. “Better than you.”

Hollander huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Sure. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Then, casually—too casually—he asked, “So… Svetlana. Is she—?”

Ilya turned his head slightly, watching him now. Ilya cut in before the question could finish. “Childhood friend,” he said. “Her father was the sports minister in Russia.”

Shane blinked. “Oh.”

“She’s American,” Ilya added, as if that settled it. “Just visiting.”

Hollander nodded slowly, relief or something like it flickering across his face before he smoothed it away. “Got it.”

Ilya looked back out at the water, pretending he hadn’t noticed.

“I looked up that word,” he said after a moment. “Compatible. I thought I know what it mean, but I want to be sure.” He glanced over. “So you and Rose Landry… not compatible?”

Shane hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Not in that way, I guess.”

“Mm.” Ilya let that settle. “What time you flying out?”

“Early. Columbus.”

“Same,” Ilya said. “Toronto.”

Another pause followed—longer, heavier.

“What room are you in?” Shane asked. “You rooming with Svetlana?”

Ilya kept his gaze on the horizon, voice even. “Yes. But not like that.”

“Oh.” Shane nodded. “I’m in 1221.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched, a smirk he didn’t fully allow. What a coincidence. Still—

“I can’t,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “I promised Sveta I’d accompany her tonight. Next time, maybe?”

Shane exhaled. “Ilya… I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Ilya asked.

“For last time. For freaking out. For leaving.”

Ilya shrugged. “You freak out over nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing,” Shane said quietly. “You know that.”

“Hollander,” Ilya said, finally turning to him, “it’s simple. We play. We met. We hook up. Simple.”

“You know it’s not,” Shane replied. “Don’t act like an asshole.”

Ilya huffed a short laugh. “I am always asshole.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Anyway, I need to go.”

“Ilya—wait.” Shane hesitated, then said, “I think I’m gay.”

Ilya froze.

Then he offered a small, genuine smile. “Da. I’m happy for you.” He clapped Shane once on the back. “Until next time, yes?”

He did it. He’d successfully turned Shane away.

It hadn’t been easy. The yurine was unforgiving, tightening in his chest as he walked back toward his room, cough after cough tearing its way out of him. He kept his head down, one hand braced against the wall when the spasms hit, breathing through the burn.

It was worth it, he told himself. Necessary.

By the time he reached his door, his throat was raw and his eyes watered, but Shane was gone, and the line had been held.

Chapter Text

The Yurine was growing.

It wasn’t just lodged anymore. It wasn’t dormant, waiting. He could feel it now—pressure, movement, something pushing where it shouldn’t, as if his body had decided to betray him completely. A tightness bloomed beneath his ribs, unfamiliar and unmistakably alive.

This wasn’t a bulb anymore.

It was sprouting.

Another cough tore through him, sharper this time, and he bent forward instinctively, fingers digging into the wall as if he could hold himself together by force alone. His throat burned, every breath shallow and careful, like drawing air past something fragile and sharp.

Svetlana swore under her breath and stepped closer. “Ilya,” she said, low and urgent. “This is not nothing.”

He shook his head once, stubborn even now. “Is fine,” he lied hoarsely. “Just… growing pains.”

But his body told the truth for him. Whatever had taken root inside him had decided it was time to grow, and it didn’t care about plans, or Florida, or how hard he’d tried to walk away.

“Ilya, this is Hanahaki—who is it?” Svetlana demanded, words spilling out in their shared language. “You have to tell them. Is it Jane? Where is your phone? I’ll call him.”

She was relentless, pacing, her voice sharp with panic—and with it, the truth slipped out. She had known. All this time, she had known that Jane was a him.

“Sveta, please.” Ilya reached for her wrist, weak but insistent. “They don’t want me. I don’t deserve them.”

She stilled, eyes burning.

“It’s fine,” he continued hoarsely. “We schedule operation, yes? I’ll be fine.” His grip tightened, pleading now. “And you won’t tell anyone, Sveta. Please. Sveta I miss my mom”

Her eyes brimmed with terror. “Ilya, no. Don’t say things like that,” she pleaded. “It will be okay—please, don’t do anything drastic.”

She swallowed, steadying herself. “We’ll schedule the operation. I’ll call my dad. He’ll help, and he won’t let anyone know. Okay?” Her voice broke at the end. “Please. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Ilya nodded faintly, because it was easier than admitting he wasn’t sure he could promise that. 

The idea of the operation made him sick.

The idea of living after—of forgetting the hotel nights, the freckles dusting rosy cheeks, the easy, flirty banter with Jane—was worse. The thought of it hollowed him out. He didn’t want to forget. He’d only said it to pacify Sveta, to make her stop looking at him like he was already gone.

He wanted to live. Yes. He did.

But for what?

He wasn’t like Hollander. Hockey was good, sure, but for Ilya it was just a job—an escape. Something to keep his hands busy and his mind elsewhere. When he was with the man with the dark eyes, he didn’t need to escape. He didn’t need distraction.

He just lived.

Forgetting all of that felt like another kind of death.

Maybe he would do the operation. Maybe, when time started closing in, he’d take everything he could get—every stolen moment, every memory—and keep it to himself.

“Sveta,” Ilya said quietly, “I will do the operation after season is over, da?”

He swallowed, forcing the words out. “We can do this. I just want to finish this season. I will win the Cup, and then I retire. I will do anything else, okay?”

“I will live like star,” he added, trying for lightness. “You work in marketing, yes? You want to be my agent?”

He managed a weak smile. “Book me many ads. Ambassador jigs. Everything.”

Svetlana raised an eyebrow. “You mean gig, Ilya. Not jig.”

He blinked, realizing the mistake, and let out a short laugh. “Ah. Yes. Gig. Everything.”

It sounded like a joke. It wasn’t.

Boston 2017

lily:

What are you doing right now?

Shane:

Nothing, I am at the hotel with Hayden.

Lily:

Pike?

Come over.

Shane:

Yes.

Is this the next time? We have a game tonight

Lily:

We’ll be quick.

You’re always quick with me ;)

Shane:

Ilya.

Don’t be an Asshole

Lily:

Hollander C’mon

Who is he kidding, the moment the messages barrage in Shane is already getting ready. He was out the door by the time Ilya types in the last messages. Ilya might be reverting back to the last name, but Shane knew whatever this is between them is not nothing. He got into the cab, rattled off Ilya’s address, and hoped he could reach him,  have a proper talk and what not.

He didn’t know what to do—didn’t know what this meant for their future—but he knew one thing: he liked Ilya. More than he had ever thought possible.

The cab stopped in front of a beautiful house—Ilya’s Boston residence. The last time Shane had been here, he knew he had hurt the man. He was here to make that up.

He knocked on the door.

And there he was—looking as handsome as ever, a little leaner, eyes gaunt. He looked sick, fragile even, but still impossibly beautiful.

Shane cursed under his breath. How does that even make sense?

“Hollander, what happened to we have a game tonight?” Ilya asked, frowning.

“I came anyway,” Shane said. “I thought we needed to talk.”

“About what?”

“About us, Ilya.”

Ilya hesitated, then muttered, “I don’t want to argue standing. Sit down first.”

Shane let out a quiet breath of relief and sat. Ilya disappeared briefly, then returned with a bottle of Shane’s preferred ginger ale. He had noticed. Shane felt a small, dangerous warmth bloom in his chest—hope, maybe, or something like it.

“Ilya,” Shane said, his voice tight, “I really am sorry about the last time I was here.”

“Hollander—”

“Shane,” he interrupted, leaning forward, voice softer now, “I like it when you call me Shane. I like you.”

“You hate me,” Ilya said, skeptical.

“I don’t,” Shane said firmly, holding his gaze. “I think I like you more than I ever thought was possible.”

For a moment, the world shrank to the space between them. Shane could feel it—the unspoken, the weight of all they hadn’t said—and it was enough to make him hold his breath.

“We can’t do this,” Ilya muttered, voice tight.

“But… do you want to?” Shane asked gently.

“Hollander—Shane, we can’t. You haven’t come out, I haven’t come out. My father is police, my brother is police. I won’t be able to go back to Russia if anyone ever finds out.”

Shane’s brow furrowed. “What would happen to you?”

“I really don’t want to find out,” Ilya said quickly, shaking his head. “Hollander, you don’t need to do this. Your life is hockey. Me? I’m just fun, da? You come to me, we have fun, we leave, we fight in the rink—yes?”

He looked at Shane, searching, desperate to make it sound casual—but Shane could see the fear beneath the words.

“Do you like me?” Shane asked quietly.

“Hollander, please—”

“Ilya—”

Just then, Ilya’s phone rang—once, twice, insistent and loud.

“You can pick it up if you want,” Shane said carefully.

“Its my brother, I don’t want,” Ilya replied, shrugging.

“Ilya—”

“Hollander, are we having fun or no?” Ilya cut him off, leaning back, eyes daring. “You said it yourself—we have game, da? So… bedroom? No?”

Shane blinked, stunned by the bluntness. The tension between them didn’t lessen; it shifted—sharper, hotter, impossible to ignore.

“Bedroom,” Shane muttered, Ilya then pounced having the confirmation.

They kissed, stumbling backward toward Shane’s room, leaving articles of clothing scattered in their wake. Ilya’s lips were urgent, desperate—like a man trying to take in everything at once.

“Ilya… please,” Shane gasped.

“Da,” Ilya murmured against him. “Hollander… tell me. What do you want?”

“You… please. It’s been a while,” Shane admitted, voice low.

Ilya responded immediately, trailing kisses across Shane’s chest, over his pecs, exploring like he was mapping every inch of him.

Shane could only let out soft whimpers, one hand clutching Ilya’s shoulder, the other threading into his soft curls, holding on as tightly as he could.

“Fuck,” Shane breathes, and Ilya kept going biting down the skin not hard enough to leave a mark but enough to elicit more noises, more whimpers. Until Ilya pulls back long enough to reach for lube in the bedside drawer, lips in shane’s and one finger teasing around his opening. The tip of one his fingers slip inside, its a bit tight fit. Its been awhile after all. It’s not enough and Shane makes his wishes heard and Ilya is always there to comply. Another digit slips inside and another, stretching him opens, teasing his prostate. 

It wasn’t enough.

Shane’s chest ached, a strange mix of longing and desperation, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from crying out. Every brush of Ilya’s touch, every press of his lips, left him wanting more, aching for more. He pressed closer, hands tangled in Ilya’s hair, needing the contact, needing the warmth, needing him.

Ilya’s breath fanned across Shane’s face, soft and steady, grounding him, and Shane clung to that, swallowing down the sob that threatened to escape.

“I… I can’t—” Shane whispered, voice breaking. “Please, Rozanov– Ilya in me, I need you in me”

“How do you want me Hollander? Tell me”

“I need you in me please please Ilya”

Ilya's eyes darkened with a mix of desire and longing as he gazed down at Shane, his fingers still buried deep inside, curling just enough to press against that sensitive spot one last time. A cough rattled in his chest, sudden and harsh, the Yurine, no longer a yurine is asking to be acknowledge. The stems of the lilies are growing around the walls of his lungs. Shane looked up at him, concern flickering in his eyes amidst the haze of pleasure.

“Are you okay?” Shane asked, his voice soft but edged with worry, his body still trembling from the building tension.

“Da, I just smoked too much before you came here,” Ilya replied, his English clear enough, the accent wrapping around the words like a gentle hold. He forced a small smile, withdrawing his fingers slowly, the slick sound echoing in the quiet room as he reached for the lube again. But the cough lingered in his throat, stems brushing against his tongue—delicate lily buds fragments that he swallowed down, ignoring the bitter tang.

Shane's hand came up to cup Ilya's jaw, thumb tracing the line of his stubble. “That doesn't sound like smoking. Ilya, talk to me. You're scaring me a little.” His hips shifted restlessly, still craving the fullness, but his gaze searched Ilya's face, seeing the strain behind the affection.

Ilya leaned into the touch, his free hand sliding up Shane's thigh, kneading the muscle there to ground himself. The stems pulsed with his heartbeat, a reminder of the unspoken confession choking him from within. He wanted to tell Shane everything—the flowers rooting in his chest because of feelings he couldn't voice, the fear that they’d consume him if he didn’t. But not now, not when Shane needed this escape as much as he did.

“I'm fine,” Ilya murmured, pressing a kiss to Shane's palm before guiding his hand lower, wrapping Shane's fingers around his own hard cock. “See? All for you. Let me make you feel good. Forget everything else.” He stroked himself once, twice, using the motion to slick up further, the head of his dick brushing against Shane's entrance teasingly.

Shane bit his lip, hesitation warring with desire, but the heat in Ilya's eyes pulled him under. “Okay... but promise you'll tell me if it's bad. I don't want to hurt you.”

“You won't,” Ilya assured, positioning himself carefully, the tip nudging in just enough to stretch Shane open. He pushed forward inch by inch, groaning at the tight welcome, his body shuddering as Shane's walls clenched around him. The penetration was slow, deliberate, letting Shane adjust to the girth filling him completely.

Shane gasped, head falling back against the pillow, his legs parting wider to take Ilya deeper. “Fuck, yes... just like that.” His hands gripped Ilya's shoulders, nails digging in as pleasure overrode the concern, at least for the moment.

Ilya bottomed out, hips flush against Shane's ass, and held still, savoring the connection—the way Shane's body molded to his, hot and insistent. Another cough built, but he turned it into a low moan, rocking gently to start a rhythm. His thrusts were measured at first, pulling out halfway before sliding back in, the drag of his cock against Shane's prostate drawing out whimpers that made Ilya's blood burn hotter.

The room heated with their movements, skin slapping softly, breaths mingling in ragged bursts. Ilya's hand found Shane's cock, stroking it in sync, thumb circling the head to smear the leaking pre-cum. 

Ilya thrust harder,  pace quickening, hips snapping forward with building force. Shane's moans filled the air, his body arching to meet each plunge, the earlier concern fueling a desperate edge to their joining. Ilya's cock pistoned in and out, stretching and claiming, while his hand pumped Shane's length relentlessly.

The tension coiled tighter, lilies be damned—Ilya lost himself in the slick heat, the clench of Shane's ass, the way the other man cries pushed him closer to the edge.

…

It was the aftermath. Ilya cleaned up Hollander with careful, quiet movements, making sure everything was in order without a word. Then he went to the kitchen and returned with a can of Shane’s favorite ginger ale, chilled just the way he liked it.

They settled side by side, backs against the head of the bed, half-undressed, the lingering warmth of their bodies pressing together. Ilya lit a cigarette, knowing full well Shane hated it—but it helped soothe the tickling in his throat and served as a convenient excuse.

Not even five minutes passed before Hollander’s voice cut through the quiet. “Ilya… seriously?”

Ilya inhaled, letting the smoke curl between them, and blew it out lazily. “What? It helps.”

Hollander huffed, exasperated but helpless. “It doesn’t help. You’re going to kill yourself one day, you know that?”

Ilya’s lips curved into a small, wry smile, eyes meeting Hollander’s. “Then you will have to stop me, yes?”

Shane groaned, leaning back, unable to tear his eyes away from him. He hated the cigarette, hated the risk—but hated being anywhere else even more. The room fell quiet again, the tension between them lingering, unspoken, heavy, and entirely theirs.

“How’s your father?” Hollander asked again, softer this time, leaning a little closer.

Ilya’s fingers tightened around the cigarette, a faint tremor in his hands. He took a long drag, letting the smoke fill the space between them. “He… not good. Dementia. Dying slowly, da.”

Hollander’s brows knit, and he reached out, hesitating just above Ilya’s arm. “I… Ilya, you shouldn’t carry this alone.”

Ilya shook his head, exhaling a thin plume of smoke. “My brother, Alexei calls more and more. Asking… maybe money. I do not pick up. Enough. It’s too much. Stop asking.” His voice had that edge—sharp but weary—a wall he was putting up between them.

“I’m sorry,” Hollander said softly, eyes full of concern.

“Is ok. It’s just… too many questions.”

“No, I mean—I'm sorry in advance. Montreal is going to destroy Boston tonight.”

Ilya’s eyes sparkled with humor, and he couldn’t help but laugh.

“Oh, so you’re the asshole?”

“No—it’s still you. You’re the asshole. Everyone in the league knows this.”

“No, it’s you! Everyone must know this!” Ilya cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, as if there were an audience. “Everyone! Shane Hollander is an asshole!”

Shane groaned, half exasperated, half laughing, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, Rozanov.”

“And you like it,” Ilya shot back, smirking.

“I do,” Hollander replied earnestly, a quiet warmth in his voice.

The moment softened, their laughter fading into a comfortable silence—but then the tickle returned. The Lilies, stubborn as ever, reminded Ilya of itself with a sharp prick in his oesophagus. Another cough burst out, rough and uncontrolled, and Shane’s dark eyes immediately snapped to him, alert and ready to scold.

Ilya waved it off with a weak grin. “We… we need to go. The game is soon, da?”

Shane’s jaw tightened slightly, worry mixing with amusement. “Yes. But you’re not…?”

“I’m fine,” Ilya muttered, dragging the cigarette to his lips, though he didn’t light it. “We go. Focus on game.”

Shane hesitated, then reached out, brushing his hand over Ilya’s. “Just… be careful, alright?”

Ilya gave him a fleeting smile, small but sincere. “Always, Hollander. Now… game.”

…

Chapter Text

The locker room buzzed with excitement. As captain of the Boston Bears, Ilya always felt a quiet fondness for his team. The camaraderie, the hustle and bustle before games—it grounded him, made the job bearable, even enjoyable.

His phone kept buzzing in his pocket, but he ignored it. After the game, he told himself. After the game, I’ll listen to whatever nonsense Alexei is spewing.

“Everyone listen up! The rumors are true—one thousand dollars for every goal tonight! Montreal goes home crying, please, please! Let’s make our fans roar!”

Marlow grinned, slapping Ilya on the shoulder. “You heard him! Let’s go, boys! Let’s go!”

Ilya felt the familiar thrill, the adrenaline beginning to pulse through him. The noise, the energy, the anticipation—it all pulled him into the game. His worries about phone calls, family, and The lilies faded slightly, replaced by the roar of his teammates and the promise of the ice.

“Look at Rozanov tonight, folks! He’s leaner, sharper—every move is calculated!” the commentator’s voice rang over the loudspeakers.

By the end of the night, the scoreboard told the story: Boston Bears 3, Montreal 1. Every single goal scored by Ilya. 

His excitement was short-lived. Just as he began to bask in the win, his phone vibrated insistently in his pocket. He glanced at it and saw Alexei’s name flashing on the screen.

“What the fuck do you want, Alexei?” he snapped, irritation and dread mingling in his voice.

There was no preamble on the other end. Alexei’s tone was flat, urgent.

“Father… is dead. You need to come home.”

Ilya froze, the words hitting him harder than any hit on the ice. His fingers tightened around the phone, the world tilting for a moment as the victory, the adrenaline, and even the relief from the game all drained away.

….

Moscow 2017

His father is dead, and he doesn’t feel anything about it. He remembered feeling more sad when it was his mother. Maybe it’s because Alexei keeps eyeing him, waiting for a chance to pounce. Polina is asking questions, seizing. Ilya is in Moscow, trying to hold himself together, while Svetlana hovers nearby, silent but watchful. She doesn’t press—she knows he needs space—but her presence is a tether, a reminder that someone still cares.

The funeral is flawless. Ilya watches his father lowered into the granite grave beside his mother. Part of him still wants to toss the man in a ditch, but the Rozanov name carries power in Moscow, and he’s not ready to waste it. Dinner afterward is meticulous: caterers from the best, family draped in impeccable clothes, nieces properly attended to. Everything controlled. Everything polished.

Fed up with the suffocating tension, he slips to the back of the room, taking a deep breath. Not even a minute passes before Alexei appears, all measured menace.

“What’s the plan, Ilya?” Alexei asks, too calm.

Ilya turns sharply, anger sparking like fire. “Plan? Our father is just buried. What plan do you think there is?” His voice cuts through the murmurs, hard and unyielding.

Alexei smirks. “I’ve got a wife and a daughter. I need—”

Before he can finish, Svetlana steps forward, voice sharp, sarcastic. “I thought I heard singing.”

Alexei sneers, spitting the words: “Shut up bitch.”

That’s it. Ilya’s control snaps. His fist swings faster than Alexei can react, connecting squarely with his brother’s jaw. Alexei stumbles back, shock flashing across his face.

Svetlana’s eyes blaze. “He’s not worthy,” she says, voice low but cutting.

Ilya steps closer, towering, eyes dark as storm clouds. “Fine. You want money? my apartment? Take it. I will take care of my niece, she will have a trust fund, she can access it at eighteen. That’s it. That’s everything you get.”

His chest tightens, a harsh cough ripping through him. Ilya doubles over slightly, hand braced against the wall, and a small lily bud—sharp, jagged, and pale against his skin—pushes its way up his throat, barely breaking free. Alexei’s eyes widen for the briefest second as he catches the sight, but Ilya doesn’t give him a chance to react. With a slow, deliberate swallow, he forces the bud back down, letting the sharp pain flare across his chest.

Alexei laughs, cruel and mocking. “Hanahaki?”

Ilya leans in, voice low and lethal. “You say one word. You call me. Ask for money. So much as breathe about this—and I will make your life hell. Fired. Blacklisted. Gone. You will regret ever being my brother”

Alexei falters. He opens his mouth, but the words die in his throat.

Svetlana stands at Ilya’s side, unshaken, a protective wall. Ilya exhales slowly, letting his strength radiate through his stance, his gaze daring anyone to challenge him. The bud in his chest presses, a reminder of pain and growth—but he is not weak. Not now.

Alexei finally retreats, sensing the fire he can’t touch.

“I don’t deserve you…” Ilya whispered, his voice rough as Svetlana brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, making sure he would look presentable again.

“Yes, you do,” she said softly, her fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “You just… don’t love me the way you love him.”

Ilya’s gaze dropped, the pain twisting his features. “You know I love you…”

“I know, I know you do,” she replied quietly, almost a sigh. “But not like you love Jane. I love you too, Ilya, and whatever you need, I’ll be here. I just hope Jane knows how lucky he is.”

She gave him a small, soft kiss just beside his lips, a quiet promise more than a declaration. Then she stepped back, letting him be, her eyes lingering a moment before she turned and left him alone.

…

Shane was the last one in the locker room, towel draped over his shoulders, headphones still around his neck. The place smelled faintly of sweat and antiseptic, the kind of smell that made him feel like he could actually think for a minute.

JJ leaned against the bench, scrolling on his phone, smirk plastered across his face. “Hey—Rozanov didn’t fly with the team to Nashville,” he said, tossing the phone toward Shane without even looking up. “Didn’t show up for the game either. Can you believe that?”

Shane froze mid-breath, his grip tightening on the towel. “Wait… he’s just… gone?”

JJ finally looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Yep. Gone. Don’t care. Just thought it was juicy locker room gossip. Figured you’d want to know.”

Shane rubbed his face, jaw tightening. Sick. Absent. Or something else entirely. Always the last to find out. Always the one left scrambling to catch up while everyone else was already a step ahead.

He exhaled, low and frustrated, and leaned back against his locker. Part of him wanted to call Rozanov right then, demand an explanation—but another part knew that even if he did, he wouldn’t get one. Rozanov wasn’t the type to explain. Not to anyone.

Shane’s mind drifted to Svetlana, the woman she met one time, watching her fire off rapid-fire Russian at Rozanov like it was nothing. He’d been learning some Russian since the All-Star break, stubbornly practicing verbs and phrases, partly out of curiosity, partly out of pride.

…

After finishing practice, Shane drove back to his apartment in Montreal—the one he’d bought hoping he and Rozanov could have a space together. Every corner, every detail, had been chosen with that quiet, stubborn hope.

He kicked off his cleats and grabbed his phone, dialing Ilya’s number before he even thought about it.

Straight to voicemail.

"This is Ilya Rozanov. I would never listen to your messages,” the voice said, each word heavy with that clipped Russian accent.

Shane knew he liked Ilya more than he probably should—and he was okay with it. Every glance, every banter-filled pass on the ice, every word left unsaid only made it clearer.

But why wasn’t Ilya okay with it? That question gnawed at him. He could see the hesitation in the way Rozanov moved, the way he deflected, the way he refused even the smallest sign of trust.

Shane sat back on the couch, phone in hand, turning it over like it might give him the answer. How do you reach someone who refuses to be reached?

Two days later after torturous silence from the Russian man, finally he reached out and texted him.

Lily:

Are you alone?

Shane:

Yes.

Lily: 

Can I call?

Shane:

Are you okay? But yes please call

The phone rang, and Shane snatched it up before it finished.

“Ilya? Rozanov? Where are you? Are you okay?”

A long pause. Then Ilya’s voice, low and shaking, thick with his Russian accent. “I… I am at home.”

“Boston?” Shane asked, hope and relief twisting together.

“No… Moscow,” Ilya said, voice tight, quivering.

Shane’s stomach sank. “Your father… is he okay?”

Ilya’s words stumbled out, rough and uneven. “My Father… is dead.”

Shane didn’t move, didn’t know what to say, just felt the weight of it pressing in.

“I… had a fight with my brother,” Ilya added, voice catching. “Very… bad. I… I… English… hard… I am… too stressed.”

Shane swallowed, voice low and careful. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be perfect. You can speak in Russian if you want… maybe it’ll help. I’m here. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

There was a breath on the line. Then another. When Ilya spoke again, it wasn’t English.

“I hate it here, he said, the words spilling out faster now. I hate Moscow. I hate this apartment, these streets. I hate my father. I wanted to bury him in a ditch somewhere and be done with it, but I couldn’t. I did everything right instead. I paid for everything. I organized the funeral, the food, the guests. I made sure everyone had what they needed, and still they look at me like I’m the enemy.”

Shane stayed quiet, afraid that interrupting would snap something fragile.

“Every time I come back, they stare. Like I abandoned them. Like I owe them more. My brother hates me, Ilya went on. He hates that I left. He hates that I made a name for myself and he didn’t. He hates that people know me. But more than that I hate that I still felt guilt for not taking care of my father. That I wasn't there when he died. That it was Alexei”

His voice dipped, softer.

“I feel so alone here. I am alone.”

A pause. A shaky inhale.

“Well, no… not completely. I have Sveta. Sveta loves me. I love her too. Just… not like this.”

Another pause, heavier, the faint sound of him shifting, as if he’d pressed a hand to his mouth.

“Not like how I love you.”

The words landed bare. And Shane is wracked with guilt, he feels like he is listening on a secret he's not privy to. 

“I think about you all the time. I think that’s why this thing is growing inside me. These flowers. They’re full of you. Of everything I never said. Of every hotel room, every look, every almost.”

There was a sudden hitch in his breathing. A rough cough he tried—and failed—to muffle, the sound scraped raw through the speaker. He swallowed hard, breath uneven.

“I love you,” he said, quieter now, like saying it cost him something. “And I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know what to do with this hanahaki thing. Do I cut it out? Do I say something to you?”

A wet breath. Another cough, softer, controlled with effort.

“Is it better to speak… or to die?”

The line stayed open.

Shane’s fingers tightened around the phone.

I love you…

The words hit him before he even fully processed them. Shane froze, heart hammering, mind scrambling. That’s… him. Rozanov, Ilya. Saying it. Saying it to him.

And then the rest fell into place—the way Ilya stumbled over his English, the hesitations, the stress in his voice. Shane’s stomach dropped. Hanahaki. The realization hit like a punch he hadn’t seen coming. He could almost picture it: the flowers, the sickness, the desperate weight of it all inside Ilya.

Shane’s mind spun. He wanted to reach across the phone, to pull Ilya close, to say something, anything—but every word felt wrong, too much or too little. He had no idea how to confront him about it without terrifying him more.

And then Shane remembered—he had been learning Russian. He could understand some of what Ilya was saying. And yet… he hadn’t told him. Not once.

“Are you done?” Shane asked quietly. “Are you… feeling better?”

A small exhale on the other end. “Yes. A bit,” Ilya said. “Thank you.”

Shane shifted, thumb rubbing the edge of his phone. “Hey… can you teach me Russian?”

A pause, then faint amusement threading through the exhaustion. “Yes,” Ilya said. “I teach you important words only.”

Shane huffed a quiet laugh. “Like what?”

“Harder, please,” Ilya said without missing a beat. “And… yes, more deeper.”

Shane snorted despite himself. “Those are… important, huh.”

“Very,” Ilya replied solemnly.

Another pause, softer now. Shane hesitated. “What about… I love you?”

Ilya’s voice caught slightly. “Who… who you going to say ‘I love you’ to?”

Shane’s throat went dry. “…I don’t know.”

A quiet, tentative pause. Then, almost breathless, Shane said,

“Maybe, you?”

Chapter Text

A rough cough cracked through the line, followed by a long, uneven exhale.

“Shane,” Ilya said hoarsely, the word dragged out like it hurt to say, “you can’t just throw that words away like that. Why would you even love me? You hate me.”

On the other end of the call, Shane went still. “I don’t hate you,” he said immediately, voice firm despite the distance between them. “I like you. Ilya, you’re not alone. You don’t have to carry all of this by yourself. You can talk to me.”

Ilya let out a short, broken laugh that crackled through the speaker. “And then what?” he asked. “We become boyfriends?” There was a beat. “We can’t do that.”

Shane didn’t rush to fill the silence. He could hear Ilya breathing—thin, careful, like every breath had to be negotiated.

“But do you want to?” Shane asked softly.

The line stayed open, humming with static and everything Ilya was too afraid to say.

“We can’t, Shane,” Ilya said, his voice pulled tight. “I won’t be able to go back here.”

“But you hate it there.”

Silence.

“How did you know that?” Ilya asked, suddenly sharp. Then, almost panicked, “Shane—how did you know that? You speak Russian now??”

“What? No—no,” Shane rushed, tripping over his words. “Not like that. I don’t speak it. I just… I know some verbs. I don’t get the whole sentence, Ilya, just enough to know how bad it is.”

There was a breath on the line, shaky.

“You were listening,” Ilya said quietly.

“Yeah,” Shane admitted. “And I’m freaking out too, okay? But we can still do this. I’ll be honest with my parents. They’ll be accepting. And my mom—my mom will help us. She always does. We won’t be alone.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“You say this like it’s simple,” Ilya murmured.

“I know it’s not,” Shane said softly. “But I know one thing for sure. I’m not walking away from you.”

The line stayed open, filled only with Ilya’s breathing—uneven, fragile, but still there.

…

The call had ended a while ago, but Shane was still sitting with it. With what he’d heard. With what he wasn’t supposed to know.

Ilya had made his move months ago—quiet, careful. A cold can of ginger ale. A tuna melt. Shane hadn’t understood then. He did now.

He tried to think about hockey. About his image, his career, all the things he was supposed to protect. The panic came fast and sharp. But it didn’t last. Because none of it mattered the same way once the truth settled in.

Loving him was hurting Ilya.

That thought made the decision for him.

Shane grabbed his keys and drove to his parents’ place. On the way, he called Hayden and told him to come too. No explanations. Just urgency.

The drive was short. Hayden arrived five minutes after him, still clearly confused by the sudden call.

His parents were confused too. Shane didn’t just show up without warning. He especially didn’t bring Hayden along. They watched him closely, trying to figure out what was going on.

“Shane, is everything okay?” his father asked.

His mom didn’t jump in. She watched him instead, reading him the way she always did when she knew pressing would only make him shut down. After a moment, she gestured toward the dining area. “Let’s sit down.”

Hayden shifted, clearly uncomfortable, then forced a grin. “Alright, just checking—you didn’t knock someone up, did you?”

Shane laughed, short and strained. “If only it were that easy.”

He sobered, hands tightening around his glass. “It’s Ilya.”

All three of them looked up at once.

“Rozanov?”

“What’s wrong with Rozanov?” his dad asked. “Why are we talking about Rozanov?”

Shane swallowed. His grip tightened around the glass.

“Ilya’s sick,” he said. “Hanahaki. Because of me.”

There was a beat of silence.

“What do you mean, because of you?” Hayden asked carefully.

Shane looked up at them, all three faces turned toward him, waiting. His chest felt too tight, like if he didn’t say it now he never would.

“Mom. Dad. Hayden.” He took a breath. “I’m gay. I’ve been seeing Ilya since our rookie year. It was… casual. That’s what we told ourselves.” His voice wavered. “But I think maybe it wasn’t. Not for him. Maybe not for me either.”

Silence stretched, thick and careful.

Yuna was the one who broke it. She didn’t rush, didn’t soften it with panic. She leaned back slightly, eyes on Shane, already sorting pieces in her head the way she’d done for years—injuries, trades, crises that needed a plan.

“Okay,” she said calmly. “Then we do this properly.”

Shane looked up. Hayden stayed quiet.

“You don’t come out to the world all at once,” Yuna continued. “You don’t owe anyone explanations you’re not ready to give. Family first. Team later. Public last—if ever.” She reached for a notepad out of habit, then stopped herself and smiled faintly. “Old instincts.”

She turned back to Shane. “Right now, your job is Ilya. Showing up doesn’t mean big gestures. It means consistency. You call. You stay. You don’t disappear when it gets hard.”

Shane nodded, chest tight.

“As for telling him how you feel,” she added, gentler now, “you don’t make it a confession that sounds like pressure. You make it an invitation. Let him breathe in it.”

She squeezed his hand once. “We’ll figure the rest out. Step by step.”

“So… Rozanov is dying?” Hayden asked, his voice smaller than before.

“Shane, you have to know this isn’t your responsibility, right?” Hayden added quickly, like he was trying to talk him back from the edge.

Shane felt the flash of anger rise, sharp and instinctive—but it faded just as fast. Years of keeping secrets, of never saying things out loud, had led them here. Hayden wasn’t wrong. He just didn’t understand yet.

“Hayd,” Shane said quietly. “I love him too.” He shook his head. “I don’t feel guilty. I don’t feel responsible. I’m just… sad. He’s sick because he doesn’t know that I love him, and that’s how it got this far.”

He swallowed, voice steady but raw. “I want to show him that we can have this. That he can love me and I can love him—even if we don’t show it to the world. Even if the only people who know are me, my Mom and Dad, and you.”

…

Jane:

Are you there?

Ilya:

Da.

What’s wrong?

Jane:

Are you still in Russia?

Ilya:

No.

I’m at my Boston apartment.

Jane:

Can I call?

Ilya:

Sure.

Ilya didn’t understand why Shane suddenly needed to call.

He answered anyway, even though he was exhausted. The funeral had drained him, and the lily growing inside him only made it worse. It wasn’t made of small petals or soft buds—it was heavy, invasive, pressing until even breathing felt like effort.

Everything was crashing down at once.

He leaned against the counter, phone warm in his hand when it rang.

“Yeah,” he said, voice tired.

“Are you okay?” Shane said. “You sound awful.”

Before Ilya could answer, a cough tore out of him, sharp enough to make him bend forward. Another sign. One Shane couldn’t ignore this time.

“That sounded awful—have you gotten it checked?” Shane asked, concern slipping through despite himself.

Ilya swallowed and forced his voice steady. “It’s nothing. The weather in Russia was bad. Russia does that.” A pause. “I’m just tired.”

The lie slid too easily between them, practiced and thin.

“So,” Shane said, after a beat, “I just wanted to give you a heads up.”

“A heads up about what?” Ilya asked, wary now.

“Next week,” Shane said, voice steady but careful, “just before the game, I’m going to release a statement that I’m gay.”

There was silence on the line.

“I know we haven’t talked about… us,” Shane continued. “About what we are or what we’re going to do. But I want to start something. I want to lay a foundation for a future—for us.”

“Are you sure?” Ilya asked, and this time there was no teasing in his voice. “You know what locker rooms are like. You know how they talk when they think no one’s listening.”

He paused, breath uneven. “I went through a lot when I was a rookie. Things people still don’t know about. And you’re—” He stopped himself, swallowed. “You’re one of them. You’re established. You have a future that’s already set.”

Another beat of silence stretched between them.

“Please don’t do this just for me,” Ilya said, quieter now. “Don’t turn your life upside down because of something you think you owe me. Think about your career. Think about what comes.”

“Ilya,” Shane said gently, “hockey was important to me. It still is. But don’t you think eight years of sneaking around is enough?”

He took a breath, choosing his words. “We don’t have to publish our relationship. We can hold onto it, keep it quiet for now. But after—after there’s space, after the rivalry noise dies down, after the NHL stops grinding us into a storyline—”

His voice softened. “Then we can be out. We can exist without whispers, without it being a headline. Just… us.”

“More important than this?” Ilya asked. “What else could there be?”

“We’ll talk when I see you, yeah?” Shane said, voice firm but careful. “This is an in-person conversation. It’s not bad—it’s just important, okay?”

Ilya didn’t answer right away. He leaned back, eyes unfocused, listening to the quiet hum of the room and the weight in his chest. Two weeks sounded distant, unreal. He wasn’t even sure he could make it through tomorrow. The lilies were still growing, pressing and blooming where they shouldn’t, turning every breath into work. Time felt like something he was borrowing without permission.

Still, Shane’s voice anchored him, familiar and steady.

“Okay,da” Ilya said at last.

The word cost him more than he let on. But he said it anyway. He always did—because saying no had never felt like an option.

“Boston’s going to ruin Montreal,” Ilya said, forcing a tease into his voice. “People are probably going to burn more fake me outside the rink, Hollander.”

Shane snorted softly. “Please. Last time they burned a cardboard cutout it rained and ruined the cutout. Bad omen.”

Ilya huffed a weak laugh.

“Get some rest,” Shane added, gentler now. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah,” Ilya said. “See you.”

The call ended there, on something almost normal, almost light. 

….

Montreal 2017

Shane spotted Ilya near the centerline during warm-ups, right where the red stripe split the ice into enemy territory. He was talking to a teammate, helmet off, his hair still soft and dry around his face like the game hadn’t fully started grinding yet.

Shane hadn’t seen him since Boston. Not really. A few careful texts after Moscow. One phone call that had rearranged everything in his head. And now this—ice between them, cameras everywhere, and the whole league watching him differently after the statement he’d released a few days ago. Out. Finally. The word still felt fragile in his chest.

Ilya drifted closer, one skate turning so the toe rested on the centerline. Not crossing it. Just touching. Shane’s stomach tightened. He knew now—about the coughs, the weight, the flowets growing where they shouldn’t. The knowledge sat heavy and hidden, something he couldn’t reach for here, not under lights and lenses and rivalry.

Shane circled his half of the ice, forcing his breathing steady, and came to a stop in front of him.

“Hi,” he said.

Ilya glanced over. “Hollander.”

Shane flipped his stick, eyes on the tape instead of Ilya’s face. He wanted to ask if he was breathing okay. Wanted to ask if the flowers were worse. Instead, he said, “We still on for tonight? After?”

Ilya nodded. “Same place?”

“Yeah.”

Up close, the signs were sharper now—the tension in Ilya’s jaw, the way he stood like he was rationing energy. Shane’s chest ached with it. He wanted to ask him to stay longer than a night. Wanted to ask him to spend the summer, somewhere quiet, somewhere the league couldn’t touch them.

“Hey,” Shane murmured. “You all right?”

Ilya met his eyes. For a moment, Shane thought he might say something honest. Then the walls slid back into place.

“We’ll talk later,” Shane said quickly.

“Yes,” Ilya said. “Later.”

He pushed off and skated away, leaving the red line untouched.

Shane turned and nearly ran into Hayden, who bumped his elbow lightly—not accidental. “Rozanov?” Hayden asked, low.

“Yeah,” Shane said. No pretending this time.

Hayden didn’t push. He already knew. He just nodded once, eyes flicking briefly in Ilya’s direction before looking back. “He okay?”

Shane swallowed. “I hope so.”

Hayden exhaled through his nose. “For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “what you did? Took guts.”

Shane gave a short nod. There were a hundred things he wanted to say—about summer plans, about time running out—but the buzzer cut through the moment.

“Let’s win this,” Shane said, defaulting to the familiar.

Hayden’s mouth tilted into a grin. “Fucking right.”

…

Ilya loved playing against Hollander. The battle, the chase—this was always his favorite part of the game.

They were in the corner now, fighting for the puck. Shane won it and skated off, and Ilya smiled and went after him. Shane had better hands, but Ilya was faster. He caught up and knocked the puck off his stick.

It lasted three seconds.

Shane shoved him into the boards, took the puck back, and took off again, throwing a quick flirty glance over his shoulder that made Ilya grin despite himself. He chased, lungs burning harder than they should have.

Then—

Everything went wrong.

One second Shane was racing down the ice. The next, he collided hard with Cliff Marlow. The impact echoed, wrong and heavy. Shane slammed into the boards and went down, motionless.

Ilya froze.

For a moment, he didn’t know what to do. 

…

“Shane?”

Blurry, bright shapes. Noise like metal scraping metal.

“Don’t move, all right? Just stay still. We’re going to take you off the ice.”

Ice?

“Hollander?”

A different voice.

“Ilya?” Did he say that out loud? Shane heard his own voice, but his mouth didn’t feel like it had moved. He blinked, trying to focus.

“Is he all right?” That was Ilya. It sounded wrong. Unsteady. Too tight.

“Mmokay,” Shane murmured. He didn’t know if it was true, but he couldn’t stand the sound of Ilya like that.

“We’re going to move you onto the spinal board, Shane. Keep your head still, please.”

Spinal board?

“Ilya, please stand back.”

The dark blur hovering over him disappeared.

“We’re not alone,” Shane slurred. “Ilya. They can see us.”

Hands on his arms. His legs. Straps pulling tight.

“Is he all right?” Ilya again.

No one answered.

“Tell him,” Shane said. “Tell him I’m fine.”

He tried to turn his head. He couldn’t.

Then he was moving. Lifted. The lights slid past overhead, rafters and banners drifting in and out of focus. Applause followed him off the ice.

Oh god.

What if I’m not okay?

What if I never walk again?

“What happened?” he forced out.

“You took a blow to the head. You went into the boards.”

Fuck.

“There’s an ambulance waiting.”

His lips pressed together. His eyes burned.

“My parents,” he said. “They’re at the game.”

A look passed between the paramedics.

“We’ll make sure they know where we’re taking you.”

He closed his eyes. Opening them felt like too much work.

“We need you to stay awake, Shane. All right?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

The confusion thinned, leaving pain behind. Sharp. Demanding.

Cool air brushed his feet as his skates came off. “Can you move your toes?”

Fuck. Please.

“Good,” the paramedic said.

Thank god. Thank god. Thank god.

They kept talking. Doing things. Telling him to stay awake every time his eyes drifted.

He thought of his parents. Of how scared they must be.

He thought of Ilya. He wished he could text him. Wished he could tell him about his toes.

He couldn’t remember the hit. Just the moment before, then nothing.

They were probably replaying it on TV. Over and over.

This had never happened to him before.

It only takes one time.

His vision blurred again, this time from tears.

The game had been almost over. Third period. Montreal had been winning.

What if he can’t play in the playoffs?

He was two goals ahead of Ilya. One week left.

Gone.

“Shane? Keep your eyes open, okay?”

“Sorry.”

…

Ilya had to wait until morning to go to the hospital. The team left for the airport in two hours.

He was the captain. It wasn’t strange for a captain to check on an injured opponent.

Still.

Fucking Marlow.

He knew Cliff felt awful. He hadn’t meant it. Not like that. Not that hard. Not at that angle.

Ilya still wanted to kill him.

The woman at the desk gave him Shane’s room number and smiled like this was something noble. Sportsmanlike.

The door was cracked open. Ilya pushed it gently.

Shane was propped up in bed, not quite sitting. His left arm was in a sling. The room was empty.

“Ilya!”

The relief in Shane’s voice hit him harder than the collision had.

“Hi,” Ilya said. “I just—are you—?”

“I’m okay,” Shane said quickly. He smiled, shy and bright. Too bright. “I mean, concussion. Fractured collarbone. I’m out for the playoffs. But—”

“It could have been worse.”

“Yeah.”

“Marlow… he feels bad,” Ilya said, uselessly. “Very bad. I am also mad at him.”

Shane snorted. “It’s hockey. He’s not dirty. We all get wrecked eventually, right?”

He must have been medicated. He was actually grinning.

“He probably doesn’t want to meet my mom in a dark alley, though,” Shane added. “She’s out for blood.”

“I will warn him.”

Ilya wanted to touch him. Needed to. To be sure he was real and breathing and still here.

He hadn’t slept. Not really. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Shane on the ice. Still. Wrong.

Shane must have seen it on his face, because he reached out with his good hand.

“Hey.”

Ilya nudged the door closed and crossed the room. He brushed his fingers over Shane’s cheek. Shane leaned into it and smiled.

“You scared me,” Ilya said.

“Scared myself.”

“But you will be okay?”

“Yes. I wanted to tell you last night. I wish I could have texted you. I was—”

“Shhh.”

Shane’s eyes fluttered shut as Ilya’s fingers slid into his hair.

“I was looking forward to last night,” Shane murmured.

“Yes.”

“I’m mostly mad at Marlow for ruining it.”

Ilya laughed, sharp and breathless.

“When do we get another chance?” Shane asked.

And in that moment, Ilya wanted to say everything. That he would stay. That he would help him heal. That he would watch the playoffs from Shane’s couch and make bad sandwiches and pretend this didn’t hurt.

But his chest tightened instead.

The ache was familiar now. Deep. Wet. Like something growing where it shouldn’t.

He swallowed.

“I will be busy,” Ilya said. “Winning the Stanley Cup.”

Shane made a face.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya added. He meant it more than Shane knew.

“It sucks,” Shane said quietly.

“I know.”

There was a pause. A softer one.

“I wanted to talk to you last night,” Shane said. “Before this.”

So had Ilya.

He had planned to end it. To cut it clean before it rotted him from the inside out. Before the flowers made it impossible.

“Shane,” he said.

Shane took his hand again, threading their fingers together. Holding tight.

“Will you come to my cottage this summer?”

Ilya’s breath caught.

Summer. Quiet. Too much time. Too much air for something inside him that was already blooming.

“I—I don’t know.”

“We could have a week,” Shane said. “Two. Haven’t you ever wanted more time?”

Sveta knew. Had known for months. Had looked at Ilya with that careful, pitying expression and asked if he was sure he didn’t want to do something about it.

The operation.

The price.

The forgetting.

Ilya brushed his thumb over the back of Shane’s hand.

“Of course I have.”

“Then come,” Shane said softly. “Just us. As long as you want.”

Perfect. Ruinous.

“I… maybe,” Ilya said.

Not no.

Not yes.

Shane beamed like none of this hurt. Like he wasn’t broken and benched and stuck in a hospital bed.

The door opened.

Ilya dropped Shane’s hand immediately and  stepped back just as the nurse came in.

“Uh-oh,” she said brightly. “You’re not trying to smother him with a pillow, are you, Mr. Rozanov?”

“No,” Ilya said, forcing a smile. “I was just leaving.”

“Thank you for coming,” Shane said, all professionalism now.

Ilya nodded. “Get well soon, Hollander.”

He left the room.

He left the man he loved.

And he didn’t know whether the lilies would be gone by summer—or if he would be.

…

At the end of it, the Cup was won by the New York Admirals.

Ilya watched from the press box choosing to be in New York as a final hurrah of sorts, officially sidelined with a rib injury that no one questioned too closely. He sat still through the anthems and the puck drop and the celebration, one hand pressed flat to his chest like that might quiet what was blooming there.

Of course it was Hunter who lifted the Cup.

Of course it was the Dinosaurs who won it all.

Hunter didn’t hesitate. He never did. When the Cup was finally in his hands and the noise hit its peak, he pulled his boyfriend in and kissed him—right there, in front of the cameras, in front of the league, in front of everyone.

No apology. No explanation.

Just courage.

Ilya looked away.

After the game was over, he met Hunter outside the rink.

He offered his congratulations—for the Cup, and for the kiss. Said it plainly, without irony. Hunter laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, still buzzing, still unreal. They ended up at a bar, Kingsfishers not far from the arena, the kind that smelled like beer and victory.

Ilya didn’t know what possessed him to talk. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the way Hunter had kissed his lover on live television like there was nothing in the world to be afraid of.

“I guess,” Ilya said into his glass, quiet, almost careless, “maybe you’ll have a chance to win it again next season.”

Hunter glanced over. “How so?”

Ilya smiled, thin. “I’m retiring.”

The word barely had time to settle before his chest tightened, sharp and sudden, like it had been waiting for permission. He turned away too late. The cough tore out of him, deep and wet, and he bent forward hard over the table.

Something hit his palm.

Hunter froze.

Between Ilya’s fingers was a crushed, unmistakable lily petal—white, veined, obscene against the dark wood of the bar.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Hunter didn’t even try to joke.

He stared at Ilya’s hand, at the petal smeared with red, then slowly looked up at his face. “That’s not ribs,” he said quietly.

Ilya closed his fist around it, like that might undo what had already been seen. His breathing was shallow now, careful. Measured. “No,” he said. “It’s not.”

“How long?” Hunter asked.

Ilya shrugged, a small, tired motion. “Long enough.”

The bar noise felt suddenly too loud, too alive. Hunter leaned back in his chair, ran a hand through his hair, the adrenaline of the win draining out of him all at once. “Jesus, Rozanov.”

“I know.” Ilya took a sip of his drink he didn’t really want. “I didn’t plan to tell you. It just… happened.”

Hunter watched him for a second, then said, “Who?”

Ilya didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to. Hunter exhaled slowly. “Hollander.”

Ilya nodded.

“Does he know?”

“No.” A pause. “Not this part.”

Hunter swore under his breath. “You can’t just—” He stopped himself, softened his voice. “You don’t get to disappear on people like that.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “I’m not disappearing. I’m retiring.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Silence settled between them, heavy but not unkind.

Hunter finally said, “There are surgeries. You know that, right?”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “And they don’t always work.”

“And not telling him definitely won’t.”

Ilya looked down at his hands. “If I tell him, he’ll try to fix it. He’ll burn his whole life down to do it.”

Hunter leaned forward. “And you’d rather die than let him choose?”

The question landed clean and cruel.

Ilya didn’t answer.

Hunter sighed and stood, signaling for the check. “You don’t have to be brave like an idiot,” he said gently. “You can be honest.”

Ilya laughed once, breathless. “Yeah, you can say that—you’re the man who kissed his boyfriend on live television.”

Scott smiled, unapologetic. “Sure. But before that? We hid for years. Kip would wait for me in my apartment, every night like it was some kind of secret arrangement we both pretended was fine. And it was—safe, at least. But safe gets suffocating. I love him. He loves me. And what—he wasn’t supposed to tell his friends I exist?”

He paused, then added, quieter, “You should give Hollander the chance.”

Hunter left not long after that.

Ilya stayed long enough to finish his drink, then slipped out of the bar and back to his hotel alone. The room felt too quiet, like it was waiting for something he couldn’t give it.

He sat on the edge of the bed, phone in his hands, and finally did what he’d been avoiding. He made an appointment—to check the lilies, to hear the truth he already knew. To find out how much time he had.

And, quietly, whether there was still enough of it to be with Shane for a summer in the cottage.

…

The doctor didn’t soften it.

He said Ilya was cutting it close. Said he had maybe a month before surgery stopped being optional and started being necessary. Said waiting any longer would be a risk he wouldn’t recommend.

Ilya nodded, thanked him, and left with the words still echoing in his chest.

In the hallway, he pulled out his phone he already had barrages of message and missed calls from Shane. He called back.

Shane picked up on the second ring.

“I’m coming to the cottage” Ilya said, before he could lose his nerve.

Chapter Text

After the call, regret crept in fast and quiet, settling heavy in his chest. What had he just agreed to? How was he supposed to hide the coughing, the shortness of breath, the way his lungs burned after only a few steps? How long before Shane noticed—before he knew?

But going to a doctor meant something worse.

It meant letting them cut it out before it fully grown, pull the thing from his chest—bulb, root, whatever it had become, and with it, losing the memories. Shane’s voice, the hotel nights, the freckles, the way his name sounded when Shane said it softly. All of it gone, wiped clean.

So Ilya decided to risk it.

He would manage. He always did. A cold, too many cigarettes, bad air, jet lag—he could make excuses until they sounded real, until everyone believed them. He swallowed down the itch in his throat, forced his breathing steady, and told himself he could last a little longer. Just long enough.

He packed enough for summer—T-shirts, light pants, things that made sense for the season. Then, after a moment, he added warm clothes too. A sweater. A jacket. Extra layers folded carefully at the bottom of the bag.

He’d lost muscle mass, lost fat, and with it the easy warmth his body used to hold onto. Now the cold crept in faster, lingered longer. It was getting harder to ignore.

He zipped the bag shut and stared at it for a second longer than necessary. He just hoped whatever excuse he ended up weaving would be believable enough for Shane.  

Shane drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, then forced himself to stop. Fidgeting wouldn’t help. He needed his head clear.

He couldn’t go into the airport to greet Ilya properly—one of them alone would draw enough attention; the two of them together would be chaos. He pulled his ball cap lower and kept his eyes on the rearview mirror, tracking every reflection, every passerby.

Ilya had said yes.

That still hadn’t settled in his chest. Shane suspected Scott Hunter had something to do with it. Hunter had come out loudly, publicly—the Cup night, the interviews, the speech at the NHL Awards. Shane had watched that speech carefully, not with envy but with analysis. He’d replayed the parts about family. Support. Survival.

He had emailed Hunter afterward. Not for advice—Shane wasn’t ready for that—but to acknowledge the courage it took. He’d chosen his words like he chose his lines on the ice: deliberate, controlled, revealing nothing he wasn’t prepared to defend.

None of that solved the real problem.

It wasn’t being gay that would destroy them. It was who they were to each other. Rivals. Enemies on paper. The kind of rivalry the league built narratives around. If the world found out, they wouldn’t be brave or romantic—they’d be reduced to a joke, a scandal, a spectacle.

Shane refused to let that happen.

He wanted to be the best hockey player in the world. He also wanted a future with Ilya that didn’t involve hiding or hospitals or regrets. Those things had to coexist, or none of it worked.

And then there was the Hanahaki.

Shane didn’t pretend it was folklore. He knew the timelines. He knew the risks. He’d done the research quietly, methodically, the same way he prepped for playoff series. He knew what coughing meant, what weight loss meant, what came next if nothing changed.

This trip wasn’t a whim.

It was a strategy.

Two weeks away from cameras, from teammates, from expectations. Space to eat properly. Rest. Breathe. Space to watch Ilya closely without hovering, to intervene without panicking. Space to talk—carefully, on Shane’s terms, when Ilya couldn’t deflect with humor or sex or anger.

He heard the rolling duffel bag before he saw Ilya in the mirror.

Shane’s jaw tightened.

Ilya looked thinner.

Not fragile—never that—but honed down, like his body was rationing itself. The sharp lines of his face were more pronounced, his frame leaner beneath the T-shirt. Shane clocked it immediately, filed it away with everything else he’d noticed over the past months.

Still beautiful. Infuriatingly so.

The sunlight caught in Ilya’s hair, turning it almost gold for a second, and Shane felt the familiar pull in his chest. Affection. Fear. Resolve.

Okay, he thought. We start slow.

Here you go, cleaner and more natural, with the emphasis on patience and choice:

He wouldn’t accuse. He wouldn’t push. He’d let Ilya settle in—eat, sleep, get warm again. And when Ilya was ready, he’d let him come on his own. Shane would be there when he did.

And if it came to it—

Shane exhaled through his nose.

He wasn’t planning on letting Ilya face this alone. Not anymore.

Ilya reached the car, glanced around once, and opened the trunk to deposit his luggage. Careful as always, he closed it quietly before slipping into the passenger seat. He looked great in his black sleeveless shirt, black joggers, and Ray-Bans, a backward cap hiding some of his curls while the rest caught the light.  

They didn’t say a word to each other until Ilya slid into the passenger seat. He took one look around the car and scoffed.

“What the fuck are you driving, Hollander?” 

“What the fuck are you driving, Hollander?”

“A Jeep Cherokee.”

Ilya snorted.

“What?” Shane said, a little defensive. “It’s practical.”

“You are a millionaire.”

“What’s wrong with a Cherokee?” Shane asked as he started the engine. “It’s good in the snow. It holds a lot of stuff. It’s a good car.”

“Is good if you are a dad in the suburbs.”

“Better than some stupid sports car where my knees are up by my ears.”

“Hm.”

Silence settled in again, comfortable but taut, until Shane eased them out of the parking garage.

“Good flight?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“It takes about two hours to get to the cottage,” Shane said, glancing over.

During the drive, Shane was painfully aware of how nervous they both were. He could feel it in the way Ilya drummed his fingers against his thigh, in the quick glances he kept stealing toward Shane and then looking away again. Thankfully, there was no coughing.

Shane broke the silence first.
“I’m really excited.”

Ilya glanced over, a grin tugging at his mouth. “But scared, yes?”

Shane huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah.” Then, after a beat, “You’ll love the cottage. It’s really private. No one around. We can just… be there.”

“Your parents?” Ilya asked. “They won’t ask what you’re doing all summer?”

“They already know to leave me alone this summer,” Shane said, and the relief in his voice was real.

… 

Ilya was hit with a sudden wave of holy shit, this is really happening when Shane parked the car in front of the lake house—the same sprawling place Ilya had once seen profiled on television.

He was fairly certain a cottage was meant to be much smaller than this massive, stone-fronted house, but Shane hadn’t lied about the rest of it. It was remote in a way that felt almost unreal. 

Somewhere he could finally let his guard down.

No wonder Hollander loved it.

Ilya realized a beat too late that Shane had already pulled his bag from the trunk and was carrying it toward the house, like Ilya was a visiting aunt or something equally absurd.

“I can carry my own bag,” Ilya said.

Shane didn’t stop. “How are your ribs?” he asked.

The question caught Ilya off guard. He blinked, then scoffed lightly. “Fine.”

Shane nodded, accepting it without comment. He didn’t press, didn’t look back, didn’t ask the questions that sat just beneath the surface. He asked the easy thing, the polite thing. The kind of question that let Ilya answer without having to explain anything else—without having to admit how thin he felt, how tired, how breathing sometimes scraped.

Shane kept walking, steady and unhurried, as if this was the most normal thing in the world: carrying Ilya’s bag, leading him inside, pretending not to notice the careful way Ilya followed.

Ilya watched him for a moment longer than necessary, something tight settling in his chest.

“Still attached,” he said finally, trying for casual.

Shane shot him a grin over his shoulder. “Welcome to my cottage.” He opened the door and they stepped inside. It truly was a spectacular house. It was all wide open and spacious, with high ceilings and exposed beams. The opposite wall was floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake. Ilya could see an enormous deck with a pool and a hot tub. Beyond that there was a dock and a boathouse.

“Make yourself at home,” Shane said.

Ilya sauntered into the living room, slipping off his sunglasses and hooking them into the collar of his T-shirt. And there it was—everything he’d seen on television. The leather sectional. The wall of glass facing the lake. The aggressively Canadian plaid throws folded with care over the arms of the couch.

Jesus Christ. He was in Shane Hollander’s home.

“So,” Shane said from behind him, a little too carefully, “I can give you a tour, if you want. Or if you’re hungry—like I said, I stocked the fridge. There’s a beer fridge in the games room, next to the pool table…”

He was standing a good six feet away. Giving space. Always giving space.

“The tap water here is actually excellent,” Shane went on, clearly rambling now. “There’s a spring nearby and—”

Ilya turned from the lake and crossed the distance between them in slow, deliberate steps.

Shane fell quiet. He tilted his head up, swallowed. Ilya watched the movement of his throat, the way his shoulders tensed like he was bracing himself for impact.

They stood there, suspended, the air thick and waiting.

Ilya lifted a hand and brushed his knuckles along Shane’s cheek.

Shane’s lips parted without thinking.

That was all it took.

Ilya kissed him, and the second Shane opened his mouth, everything settled into place. The nerves. Travel. Moscow. The funeral. All of it fell away as Ilya grabbed at Shane’s shirt and hauled him closer.

Shane made a soft, broken sound and slid his hands up under Ilya’s cap, knocking it to the floor. His fingers tangled in Ilya’s curls as he walked him backward toward the couch.

They hadn’t been together in months. The ridiculous thing was—Ilya hadn’t been with anyone at all. For the first time in his life, he hadn’t wanted to be.

Now it felt unbearable not to be touched.

He went down easily when Shane pushed him onto the sofa, clinging to Shane’s shirt so he followed immediately. Ilya hissed as his sunglasses pressed into his chest, then tore them free and tossed them aside.

They kissed like they were trying to make up for lost time. Ilya rolled his hips up, desperate for friction, relieved—and a little stunned—to feel Shane just as hard.

He yanked Shane’s shirt over his head and went for his fly.

“Fuck,” Shane panted. “I—it’s been a while. I might not last long.”

“Yes. Same,” Ilya said. “But we have two weeks, right?”

Shane laughed. “Right. Wait—same?”

Ilya froze for half a second. “…Hm?”

“You haven’t—been with anyone?”

“No.”

“Not since—?”

“No. Not since.” Ilya tugged at Shane’s waistband. “Can we—?”

“Really?” Shane pulled back just enough to look at him, stunned and far too happy about it.

“It’s not a big deal,” Ilya said, heat creeping up his neck. “Relax.”

“I haven’t either,” Shane said quickly. “Not since Boston.”

“Well then—”

But Shane didn’t rush back in. Instead, he brushed a curl out of Ilya’s face, thumb lingering at his mouth. His gaze was soft. Careful. Like he was memorizing.

“I have an idea,” Shane said.

“What?” Ilya asked, heart thudding.

“For these two weeks… let’s be honest. Just say what we’re actually thinking.”

I can’t, Ilya thought. If I do, you’ll hear it in my voice. Or worse—you’ll say it back.

“I will try,” he said.

Shane huffed. “Will you?”

“Yes. I will do anything if it gets you to touch my dick right now.”

That did it. Shane laughed, rolled his eyes, and finally slid down Ilya’s body.

After, when the edge was gone, they stayed tangled together on the couch. Clothes rumpled. Skin warm. Shane twisted curls around his fingers, slow and absentminded. Ilya traced freckles like they were constellations he wanted to remember.

At one point, without thinking, Ilya murmured in Russian, I would stay here forever.

Shane sighed—not confused. Not annoyed. Something softer.

They lay like that for a long time.

Shane looked happy.

And somehow, impossibly, Ilya was the reason.

Ilya wanted to always make him happy.

They were still tangled together on the couch when Shane shifted slightly, careful not to jostle Ilya too much. The room had gone quiet in that soft, post-everything way—lake light slanting through the windows, the house settled around them like it was holding its breath.

“Hey,” Shane said.

Ilya hummed, lazy, distracted, his fingers tracing absent shapes along Shane’s ribs.

“Can we… talk for a minute?” Shane asked. Not urgent. 

Ilya stiffened almost imperceptibly. He tilted his head back enough to look at Shane’s face, searching it—not for danger exactly, but for context. Shane looked calm. Too calm, maybe. His expression wasn’t worried, or suspicious, or accusing. Just thoughtful.

“About what?” Ilya asked, carefully casual.

“Nothing bad,” Shane said quickly. He shifted again so he could see Ilya properly, one hand still resting warm and solid at his waist. “I just—there’s no rush. I don’t want to ruin anything. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Ilya frowned. “I am okay.”

“I know,” Shane said, nodding. “I believe you. I just… want to leave space. In case there’s something you want to say.”

That made Ilya pause. He looked away, eyes drifting toward the windows, the lake bright and unreal beyond the glass.

“You always do this,” he muttered.

“Do what?”

“Act like I’m about to confess something,” Ilya said, a weak smile tugging at his mouth. “Very dramatic. We are in your place now you can't runaway again.”

They sat there for a few seconds, Shane not pushing, not filling the silence. He could feel Ilya breathing, could feel the slight tension in his body slowly ease when it became clear Shane wasn’t going to corner him.

“I just want you to know,” Shane said finally, softer now, “you don’t have to handle things alone here. That’s all.”

Ilya swallowed. His chest felt tight—not enough to cough, not enough to give him away, but enough to remind him of the lie he was living inside. He forced a shrug.

“Okay,” he said. “I hear you.”

Shane nodded, accepting that for what it was. For now.

He leaned down and pressed a brief kiss to Ilya’s temple, grounding, careful. 

Later, when they shifted again, when Shane got up to grab water and Ilya pulled on his discarded shirt, Shane watched him from the kitchen doorway—watched the way Ilya moved a little slower than he used to, the way he paused to catch his breath before pretending he hadn’t.

Shane said nothing.

…

“I could marry Svetlana,” Ilya said, like he wasn’t casually tipping Shane’s world on its axis.

“Ilya—”

Shane didn’t want to do this. He really didn’t. He didn’t want to push, didn’t want to corner him into a confession. But the thought hit him anyway, sharp and sudden, and it made his chest ache.

What if the hanahaki wasn’t about him at all?

“So you love her?” Shane asked quietly. “Why didn’t you tell her?”

“I did,” Ilya said, frowning.

Shane blinked. “And she rejected you?”

“What? No.” Ilya scoffed. “We’ve been friends since we were babies. There was nothing to reject.”

“Then why the flowers?” Shane asked, his voice steady even though his hands weren’t.

Ilya froze. “Flowers?”

Shane exhaled slowly. “I know you have hanahaki, Ilya. I’ve noticed the coughing. The weight loss. The way you get winded so easily.” He hesitated, then added, softer, “And I recognize some Russian. Not everything. Just verbs, mostly. You said ya tebya lyublyu once.”

Ilya’s face shifted, something unguarded breaking through. “Hollander…”

“No,” Shane said gently but firmly. “Ilya. We promised. No hiding. Not for these two weeks. Please.”

“Also”

Shane swallowed, then shook his head once, like he was steadying himself.

“I didn’t come out just for the fuck of it” he said quietly. “Rose Landry helped. But she wasn't the whole reason”

Ilya’s eyes flicked up to him, wary now.

“I want us to  start a foundation, so that people will know that if we ever decided to become public. Not everything is about our rivalry or sexuality” Shane went on. “Youth hockey. Mental health. Queer kids who don’t see a future in this sport.” He let out a small, almost self-conscious breath. “You don’t do that kind of thing if you’re planning to disappear in a year.”

Ilya didn’t say anything. He just watched him.

“I came out because I’m thinking long-term,” Shane said. “Because I want a life where I don’t have to lie all the time. And because…” He hesitated, then met Ilya’s gaze fully. “Because I was imagining a future that included you.”

That did it. Something cracked in Ilya’s expression, fast and gone again.

“I’m not asking you to promise me anything,” Shane added quickly. “I’m not asking you to choose me. I just—” His voice softened. “I need you to be honest with me. Please. If the flowers aren’t for me, I need to know. And if they are…”

“Shane,”

“I have this problem,” he mumbled.

Shane waited. He’d learned that rushing Ilya only made him retreat further into himself.

“I like women. I always was thinking that to get married would be nice. Kids. Residency. All of that. Someday.” Ilya swallowed, throat bobbing. “But… this problem will not go way.”

Shane noticed the way his voice roughened on the last word. “Tell me about this problem.”

“Is so annoying.” Ilya sighed, and Shane could see him fighting a grin, fighting something else too—his breath caught just a second too long before he exhaled. “Always I am with beautiful women. Wonderful women. Everywhere.”

“Sounds rough.” Said Shane sarcastically, 

“Yes.” Ilya rolled his shoulders, like he was trying to shake off an invisible weight. “Listen. These women, they are so sexy and fun, but is no matter.” He paused, coughing softly into his hand, turning away just enough that Shane couldn’t see his face. “I cannot stop thinking about this short fucking hockey player with these stupid freckles and a weak backhand.”

“A weak backhand?” Shane couldn’t stop smiling, even as something tight and hopeful bloomed painfully in his chest.

“Yes.” Ilya snorted, but his smile faltered. “And he is just so boring and he drives a terrible car and—” His breath hitched, sharp and sudden. “—and that is my problem. All of these beautiful women and I am always wishing they were him.”

Shane noticed a faint smear of pink at the corner of his mouth, like he’d bitten his lip too hard—or like something fragile had burst and been swallowed back down.

“Is terrible problem,” Ilya added, quieter now.

Fuck. Shane was going to start crying right here on his couch with their feet touching. He swallowed and steadied himself, heart hammering. “Do you want the problem to go away?”

“No.” Ilya didn’t hesitate. He looked Shane dead in the eye, something raw and terrified and resolute all at once. “I do not want the problem to ever go away.”

Shane’s chest ached. He could almost feel it—roots curling around ribs, petals pressing against lungs, the kind of love that grew whether you wanted it to or not. “Don’t marry Svetlana,” he blurted out.

Ilya raised an eyebrow, but his hand drifted unconsciously to his chest again, fingers curling like he was protecting something delicate and already in bloom.

“I love you,” Shane said, the words landing solid and unshaking, like he’d been carrying them for years. “And if the hanahaki is from you loving me—then stay with me. We’ll figure it out.”

Ilya sucked in a breath, sharp and panicked, like his lungs had tightened around something fragile.

“I love you,” Shane repeated, softer now, closer. “You have to know that. And we’ll get the rest of the flowers taken out of your lungs. All of them. And then—” His voice broke, just a little. “— we’ll be together.”

“You planned this?” Ilya asked, voice shaking. “You want to be with me? Me—in your future?”

Shane nodded.

That was all it took. Ilya’s face crumpled, and he couldn’t stop the tears from coming, couldn’t stop the sound that tore out of his chest. “Fuck,” he choked, laughing and sobbing all at once. “Ya tebya lyublyu. Ya tebya lyublyu.”

Shane didn’t hesitate. He pulled him in, and the kiss was messy and desperate and real—salt and breath and the promise of something that had almost killed him.

Then Ilya gasped.

The cough hit hard, violent enough to fold him in half. His body seized, another wrenching spasm tearing through his lungs, and Shane barely had time to catch him before Ilya was coughing into his hand, onto the floor—

A thick stem slid free, slick with blood and spit. A fully bloomed white tiger lily, petals bruised and crimson-streaked from its brutal journey up from his lungs.

It lay there between them, obscene and beautiful and terrifyingly real.

Shane held him close, one hand firm at the back of Ilya’s neck, the other splayed over his ribs like he could shield his lungs by sheer will.

“Hey,” Shane murmured. “Ilya. The flower bloomed. And I hope you know—I have you. We’ve been honest. We put everything on the table, yeah?” He pulled back just enough to look at him. “We’ll go to the doctor tomorrow. We’ll see what we can do to clean out your lungs. Okay?”

Ilya swallowed hard. “What if people see? What if it gets to the internet?”

Shane didn’t even hesitate. “I don’t care,” he said simply. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”