Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Early October 2008

Shane parked his car outside of his house, nearly slammed the door shut, and walked quickly inside. His mom was sitting at the desk in the family room concentrating on what looked to be an Excel spreadsheet on her laptop. His mom loved spreadsheets and used them for everything – budgeting, hockey game schedules, and grocery lists.

“Hi. Dinner at 6:30,” she called out absently, already turning back to her screen.

Shane took that as his cue and headed straight for the stairs.

He dropped his bag by the door of his room and sat down at his desk, powering on his computer. For his sixteenth birthday last year, his parents had given him two things they considered signs of trust: his dad’s old car, a 1995 gold Toyota Camry, and a new Mac desktop computer. They’d told him he was responsible to have both.

The car was convenient for everyone since it meant Shane could drive himself to and from Hockey practice. Shane mostly appreciated the computer. It meant he didn’t have to wait for his parent to finish using the family computer before checking hockey news or instant messaging his friends. More importantly, it meant privacy. No more parents standing over his shoulder to see what he was doing on the computer.

About a year ago, Shane had discovered the AOL MHL Hockey Chat Room and had been spending his freetime talking to other hockey fans. He could spend hours discussing trades, draft prospects, games, and players. None of his friends at school, or even most of the guys on his team, wanted to talk about hockey the way Shane did. They lost interest halfway through his thoughts, eyes glazing over the moment he went on too long.

The people in the chatroom didn’t.

Six months ago, he’d started talking regularly with another user who knew as much about hockey as he did, which was rare enough to feel suspicious. They’d ended up spending hours in the chatroom together nearly every day. Shane found himself rushing home after practice just to see if Ice_Czar_91 was online.

Last month, they’d figured out they were both seventeen and both hoping to make their junior national teams someday. The chatroom had become impractical after that,too many people and too many conversations, so they’d agreed to move their conversations to AOL Instant Messenger.

Shane waited while his computer connected, the familiar screech and warble of dial-up filling the room.

Keeeeyyy errrrr beeeep ong dee ong waaahhh urrrrrr.

He opened AIM. Ice_Czar_91 isn't online.

A small, sharp prickle of disappointment settled in his stomach before he could stop it. He shoved the feeling aside immediately. It would be ridiculous to call an internet stranger a friend. Ice_Czar_91 was an irritating know-it-all who somehow managed to turn everything into a competition, even through instant messaging.

Still, Shane really should ask him his real name. Thinking of someone exclusively as a screen name was starting to feel stupid.

He was just about to log out and organize his school binders for the week when the door opening sound chimed through his speakers.

His eyes snapped back to the screen.

Ice_Czar_91 was online.

A moment later:

Shane huffed quiet laugh, fingers already moving.

~~~

Chapter Text

October 2008

Ilya closed the chat window and sat back. His heart was beating fast in chest like he just finished a hard workout. He pressed his palms briefly against the edge of the desk, grounding himself.

He did it this time. He asked for Shane’s name, and he got it without circling too much and without making it obvious how badly he wanted to know. He had tried to make it sound casual and joking. The way he does when something matters.

this way i insult you by name.

The thought made him smile, small and private, because it had worked. Shane hadn’t even hesitated. He had typed his name like it was nothing out of the ordinary, like it didn’t mean anything significant at all. Just like that, they were no longer two people hiding behind screen names. Shane was real now. Shane had a name.

He knows what this feeling is. He’s felt it before. He doesn’t know what to do with it.

He’s been attracted to boys in the past. Once, he kissed his coach’s son behind the rink after practice, all nerves, shaking hands, and whispered promises to never tell anyone about their dangerous secret. That same feeling fits here too, but this is different. This feels stronger, sharper, and settles deeper in his chest. It tightens when the door opening sound chimes and Shane’s status changes to “Online”

Before last month, Ilya hadn’t let himself even consider that he might have feelings for someone he had never met. Shane had been anonymous, just another voice in a crowded chatroom. Granted, his voice was smarter, faster, and harder to ignore than the others. Shane challenged him when nobody else could.

The conversations had changed once they began chatting privately. MHL arguments had turned into junior leagues, draft years, and futures.

The fact that Shane’s screen name ended in 91, the same as his own, had stuck with him. Maybe it was a coincidence, or maybe not. Ilya had wondered if it was Shane’s birth year as well, if he was seventeen like Ilya. He had carried the question for weeks before finding a way to ask without asking, slipping it into a conversation about draft eligibility.

When Shane confirmed it, he was seventeen and draft eligible, Ilya had felt a rush of elation, fear, and something that felt dangerously like hope.

Now he wants things he doesn’t know how to ask for yet. A photo, for one. Something he can look at in the dim glow of his screen late at night. Something real. Something he can hold onto during the short windows of time when they are both awake and time zones allow their lives to overlap. Ilya had never thought about time zones before. He had never left Russia. Now he found himself doing the math automatically, counting hours forwards and backwards to figure out what time it was in Ottawa.

He would figure out a way later, the same way he figured out how to ask his name, Shane’s name, without letting him see how much it mattered to Ilya.

English still trips him up and feels bulky and crooked in his mouth and fingertips. Inside his head, everything is whole and exact in Russian. He can build entire conversations there, perfect and precise. In Russian, he could ask for a photo easily, casually, and without hesitation.

In English, he cuts himself down to what he knows is safe. Short, simple sentences. Words he can double-check quickly so he doesn’t take too long to reply. Words that don’t give away too much.

Shane knows Ilya is Russian. He knows Ilya is still learning English. He has never said anything about the way Ilya types, but the embarrassment still stings when a sentence came out wrong or when Ilya has had to ask him to repeat something with different words, simpler words.

Still, messaging with Shane has done wonders for his English. His teacher had commented on it recently, surprised by how quickly Ilya is improving. He asked what had changed and given Ilya the motivation. Ilya told him he wanted to play in the MHL. He did not tell him that he practices every night by talking to a Canadian boy.

He glanced at the clock. He will be tired tomorrow. It doesn’t matter. Shane is online.

A few days later, an idea occurred to him almost by accident. He cannot ask Shane for his last name. That would be too obvious, too risky. But maybe, just maybe, it starts with an H.

He opened his web browser and typed carefully: “Shane H junior hockey player.” The results load slowly. But then there are headlines, links, names of teams and leagues. Ilya understands only about half of the words, but he understands enough.

He’s found Shane. He knows it deep in his gut.

His breath caught in his throat. Shane was real. Shane existed out of the small chat window on his computer. Shane was, there was no other word for it, incredible.

He knew Shane played hockey. They had talked about it for hours. He knew Shane was from Ottawa after he mentioned how terrible his home team, the Ottawa Centaurs, are and their inability to even win a game, let alone be in the playoffs. He also knew that Shane wanted to play in the MHL. What Ilya hadn’t realized was how close Shane already was to that dream. Based on what Ilya can piece together, Shane isn’t just eligible for the 2009 draft. He’s expected to be drafted, he’s watched, and he’s written about.

Several articles have photos included. Some of the photos are of Shane playing, face obscured by his helmet. Ilya takes note of the photos that do show Shane’s face. He has dark hair that is cut short and falls across his forehead, dark eyes, tan skin, and a full bottom lip that Ilya couldn’t stop looking at.

Another realization hit Ilya sudden and sharp. They were both going to be at the World Junior Hockey Championship in December. They were going to be on the same continent, in the same country, and playing on the same rink. They would likely be playing each other.

Ilya spent the next couple of hours devouring whatever he could find about Shane. He looked at articles, scoring records, and grainy video clips that took forever to load. He can’t stop himself. He watched Shane skate fast and decisive, scoring goals, and celebrating wins with his team. Ilya found himself smiling without realizing it.

He knew, with startling certainty, that he had found someone who could keep up with him. Ilya is good at playing hockey. He has always known that. In a few months, he is going to play his equal. That equal is Shane.

The thought broke something open in his chest. He grinned, wide and unguarded, alone in his room.

He saved a photo to his computer of Shane on the ice and smiling with his teammates after a goal. It’s not posed, but it’s everything to Ilya. Now he knows what Shane looks like. He knows that Shane has freckles across his nose. He knows that Shane’s smile lights up his entire face when he’s truly happy.

Ilya turns off his computer for the night and tells himself that he will think of a way to explain to Shane that he knows who he is now without scaring him off.

Several days later, Ilya sat at his desk, fingers tapped nervously against the desk before he stilled them, and waited for the page to load. It took longer than usual, or at least it felt that way.

It loaded. The 2008-2009 MHL Central Scouting - Preliminary Players to Watch List. Ilya scaned the list. The names were sorted by rating and in Alphabetical order. The A Rating players are listed first – the first round candidates.

He scanned with list without breathing. Then he saw it. Fifth on the list – Hollander, Shane. He stared at it. Then he huffed out a laugh, a quiet and disbelieving sound that is pulled out of him before he can stop it. He checked again, as if he had possibly misread it. He hadn’t. Shane was a first round draft candidate.

He had spent the past several days obsessively reading everything he could about Shane, so he knew, logically, that Shane was going to be a first round draft pick, but now that truth stared back at him.

He kept going and found his name lower on the list. Rosanov, Ilya. His chest tightened, sharp and sudden. He read it again to make sure he hadn’t imagined the A ranking. He didn’t. He was a first round MHL draft candidate.

He opened his search engine and typed in his name. He scrolled through several articles about the top draft picks. He found one article about himself. It’s clinical and lists numbers and percentages and comparisons to MHL players that he’s watched since he was a kid. It said he has “elite vision” and “explosive speed.” He’d had to look these words up.

The news was electric and terrifying. Could they be friends? Are they rivals? Both? He imagined the two of them on a stage, wearing suits that didn’t quite fit, holding up their new team’s jersey, and cameras flashing. He imagined glancing sideways at Shane and seeing him standing next to him.

Has Shane seen this? Has it put it together yet?

The door of his room opened behind him.

“Ilya.” His father’s voice was flat and disapproving.

Ilya turned in his chair and schooled his face carefully. His father stepped in. His eyes flickered to the computer screen. He didn’t need to read English to know what was on the screen.

His father snorted. “The MHL”

Ilya said nothing. He stared at the floor.

“Always this nonsense,” his father continued. “Canadian Team. American Team. You think this is better than staying in Russia?”

“I am going to play in the MHL, father.” Ilya said quietly.

His father’s mouth twisted. “Russia is superior. Our league is stronger. Our hockey is real hockey. The MHL is marketing. The players are soft.”

Ilya felt a lump form in his throat. “I’m a first round draft candidate.”

“They will forget you.” his father snapped. “If you leave, you will become a nobody in the MHL. If you play in the KHL, everyone will know you. You will make the family proud.”

Proud. The word landed heavy and hollow.

“I’m entering the MHL draft. I’m leaving Russia. It’s my choice.” Ilya said. His voice sounded steady even though his hands are not where they are folded in his lap. The silence that followed felt dangerous.

Then, his father laughed once, sharp and humorless. He shook his head dismissively, “You are wasting time.”

When the door closed, Ilya exhaled slowly. He turned back to the screen. First and second draft picks.

If this happens, what are we then?

He opened AIM before he could talk himself out of it. He hoped Shane was online.

Ilya smiled. SHolls91 was online.

There was a long pause. Longer than usual. Ilya swallowed thickly. He hoped that Shane wouldn’t panic about disclosing his identity, albeit privately, to Ilya.

Ilya didn't answer right away. This might be the end of their friendship. Shane might not want to talk to his rival. Ilya didn’t want this to be the end. He needed this not to be the end. Most days his conversations with Shane were the best part of his day.

Ilya felt relief wash over him. Shane was still talking to him. They were joking with each other like they usually did. Ilya had felt sure he had known who Shane was, but now Shane had confirmed his identity. They didn’t have to hide who they were anymore. They were rivals, sure. But they were also friends, right?

Shane closed the AIM chat and immediately opened it again, like it might undo what just happened. It doesn’t. Ilya had logged off. It was the middle of the night in Russia.

His room felt heavy with silence. The only sound wasthe low hum of the fan on his computer. Steady. Grounding.

He told himself this is normal.

It was normal that his brain felt like it was vibrating in his skull. He had just gotten confirmation that he was a first round MHL draft candidate. He had also just found out that the guy he had been arguing with for months, the guy he thought of as his friend, was one too. His close friend, if he was being honest. Maybe closer than anyone else right now.

He was not spiraling. He was recalibrating.

Shane scrolled back through their chat history, reading lines he has already read a dozen times and looked for something he missed. Looked for clues and found none. Ilya’s messages looked the same as always. They were short, careful, occasionally sharp, and full of sarcasm.

Did he know who I am? Shane wondered.

Ilya hadn’t panicked when Shane told him. He didn’t react like Shane expected. He showed no disbelief. There was just acceptance. He treated Shane’s revelation like any other hockey fact. Shane reminded himself that Ilya’s English wasn’t strong. Maybe he had panicked and just didn’t know how to say it. Maybe he had been scrambling internally looking for words he didn’t have in English.

That explanation was something Shane could sit with.

Shane stopped on the last message he sent Ilya. Together.

The word settled in his chest, heavier than it probably should have been. He felt its tendrils reach out and take hold of a space he hadn’t realized was empty. Hockey had always been lonely for him. Being the best player on the ice does that, especially when you’re a kid. Other guys respected him, or some did at least, but they didn’t invite him out after practice. They weren’t instant messaging him.

He didn’t know anyone else on the preliminary draft list in the first or second rounds. A few former and current teammates were sprinkled in the 6th or 7th draft rounds. He recognized a few names from highlights. But he didn’t know them.

Except, now he did.

His fingers drifted back to the keyboard, already opened a new browser tab, and typed in a name. Illya Rozanov.

It was normal to search for your friend online. Everyone did this. Granted, this is the first time he had done it. He was just learning about his competition. That was all.

The results loaded. There were articles, stats pages, and scouting reports. Shane clicked through them.

Ilya’s junior stats were ridiculous. His points per game ratio was over one and he had heavy usage on the power play. He had been on the MHL scouts’ radar since he was fourteen. There was a breakdown of his zone entries and his puck handling. His shot release was described as “deceptive” and his edgework was “elite.”

Shane rewatched a clip,watched as ilya cut laterally across the blue line, and pulled a defender just far enough out of position before he threaded a pass to his teammate.

“Asshole,” he muttered, without any heat behind it.

He clicked a new link and froze.

An official league photo loaded on his screen. This wasn’t an action shot or grainy footage from a game. It was Ilya looking straight at the camera.

This was the first time Shane had really seen him.

Ilya had golden hair that messily curled around his face like it refused to behave. His eyes were light and his mouth was tilted into a smirk.

Shane definitely did not stop breathing for a second.

He closed that window quickly. His heart thumped hard against his ribs. He dragged a hand through his hair and stared at the empty screen.

Get it together, he thought.

Ten seconds later, he opened a new window.

He spent the next two hours watching clip after clip of Ilya on the ice. He told himself that he was studying Ilya’s tendencies. Shane noted how physical Ilya was along the boards and how he didn’t shy away from contact even against bigger defensemen. He played rougher than Shane, but it was controlled.

Shane couldn’t look away.

By the time he sat back in his chair, his eyes were dry and his thoughts raced. December crept into his mind. They would be at World Juniors together. For the first time, the idea of meeting Ilya didn’t feel hypothetical at all.

It occured to Shane that he didn’t just want to play against Ilya. He wanted to hang out with him in person. The thought settled, unchallenged, and Shane let it stay there.

November 2008

Practice had run long today. Not the good kind of long where the team is clicking and time disappears. This was the grinding kind of long. The special teams had run repeatedly until no one’s legs were doing what they were told. Shane’s thighs had burned for the last hour. He felt exhaustion all the way down to his bones.

The final whistle blew and the team peeled off toward the showers in small clusters. Someone clapped Shane on the shoulder as they passed. “Good practice, Hollander.”

Shane nodded and moved towards the locker room. He was ready to get home.

Outside, the sky was already dark. His dad’s car sat at the front of the low, engine running, and heater blasting. Warmth rolled out the second that Shane opened the door. He felt an immediate rush of gratitude they he didn’t have to scrape ice off his own windshield tonight.

“Practice ok today?” his dad asked as Shane tossed his bag into the trunk.

“Yeah,” Shane answered as he sunk into the passenger seat. He watched his breath fog the window on each exhale as he looked at the passing street signs.

They drove in comfortable silence. Shane was grateful. There was no pressure to fill it and no expectation that he explain himself.

At home, his mom had dinner ready. She asked about practice, asked if he’d eaten enough for lunch, and whether he wanted a ride to practice tomorrow. Shane parents were steady, present, and supportive. They made him feel anchored.

His phone buzzed halfway through dinner. The only person who texted him was his girlfriend, Sarah. He ignored it until he was back in his room after dinner with the door closed behind him.

are you coming to my dads birthday on saturday

i asked you weeks ago

Shane stared at the messages without answering. He didn’t want to go. He hadn’t wanted to go when she first asked, either. He kept hoping she’d get tired of waiting and break up with him so he didn’t have to figure out how to do it himself.

He put his phone on his nightstand with the message left unanswered.

He dropped into his chair, turned on his computer, and watched his screen come to life. His parents had finally upgraded their internet from dial up to DSL so he didn’t have to wait for his computer to connect to the internet anymore.

He logged into AIM before he opened anything else, including hockey news. He told himself it was a habit, nothing more.

His buddy list popped up. Ilya was online. His stomach did that stupid drop it always did now.

Shane added, a second later:

Shane stared at Ilya’s response. No, he didn’t hate him.

The door opening sound chimed. Sarah was online.

He didn’t answer her. Instead, he returned to his chat with Ilya.

Another message notification popped up from Sarah. Irritation rose in this throat like acid. She was the annoying one, not Ilya.

The words came out before he’d even thought them through. He decided to change the subject.

Something tightened in Shane’s chest. He didn’t know what to do with what Ilya said.

He pictured his parents in the bleachers cheering loudly, maybe a little too loudly. They always told him they were proud of him after every game, even when he lost. He didn’t know what it would be like to have anything different.

Shane smiled softly. He was already anticipating their conversation tomorrow.

His phone buzzed incessantly. Sarah was calling him.

He turned it off.

Across the world, Ilya slogged through another long day of practice. His father watched their practice today and spent an hour afterward listing every single mistake Ilya made. Ilya was exhausted. He sat through dinner with his father continuing to find fault with the MHL and spout the praise of the KHL and Russia’s superiority. All he wanted to do was go to his room and wait for Shane to log on. It was Saturday. Shane was usually on earlier and they could chat for longer.

He logged in. Shane wasn’t online yet. He opened his web browser and searched Shane’s name again and checked his weekly stats like a ritual.

He heard the door opening sound and his stomach filled with butterflies .

Ilya stared at that sentence. For the first time all day, he felt like he could breathe.

Later, Ilya logged off after midnight. They had chatted for over four hours.

He sat in the dark for a moment after the screen turns off. He felt peace wash over him with the knowledge that they would do this again tomorrow. He would talk to Shane tomorrow.

He thought about what Shane told him. It was easy for Shane to say my girlfriend broke up with me. He was not careful like Ilya. Ilya had learned to say nothing at all. Nothing was safe. Nothing can’t hurt you.

He did not tell Shane that his father watched practice today. He did not tell him about the drive home and the silent judgement that filled the car. He does not tell him that the rink felt safer than home. He wanted to, though. Shane was the first person in a long time he wanted to be honest with.

December was close enough now that it felt real. He could picture the ice, the boards, and the noise of a building full of strangers. Except one person. He wondered if Shane will watch and of his games when he wasn’t playing. He imagined hearing someone cheer for him from the audience and congratulate him when his team won. He wondered if Shane wanted Ilya to watch his games. He would see Shane soon, real and breathing.

Ilya laid back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He counted hours to know if Shane might still be awake and wondered what he was doing at that moment.

Still, he stayed awake longer than he should, and held on to the quiet hope that someone on the other side of the world was doing the same.

Chapter Text

Mid-December 2008

It was dark when Shane pulled into his neighborhood, the streetlights and his neighbors’ holiday decorations blurred into soft starbursts as he drove past them. White icicle lights hung from gutters, inflatable Santas swayed in driveways, and deer made from lights stood in yards. The world looked warm and festive from behind the windshield.

The World Junior Hockey Championship was a week away.

It felt unreal to Shane, the way big, important things do before they finally arrive. The date had been circled in thick red Sharpie on the calendar his mom kept in the kitchen since Shane made Canada’s team. It had always felt nebulous, more theoretical than actual. Not something that he would actually step into with his skates on and his name across his back.

He parks in the driveway and grabs his bag from the backseat, his shoulders aching from a long weight room session as he swings it over one arm. Inside, the house was warm and smelled like whatever his mom was cooking for dinner.

“Hockey bag in the laundry room, Shane,” his mom called out from the kitchen.

“Ok.” He answered, already halfway up the stairs. He dumped the bag where she asked, then went to his room and closed the door behind him.

He dropped onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling. He could picture the championship games – the rink, the bright, hard lights, the crowd, and the weight of expectations pressing down every time he is on the ice for his shifts during the game.

Then, unbidden, the image shifted.

He saw Ilya there, too.

Not as a name on a roster or a stat line in an article, but moving through the same space and the same building. Real in a way that Shane hadn’t let himself dwell on too much. The thought sent a strange, restless energy through him.

Shane has replayed their conversations enough times now that they started to feel like muscle memory. He knew when Ilya would pause before answering, knew when he’d deflect with humor stead of saying what he meant, and when he would change the subject entirely. Shane knew how he typed – short, careful, and precise.

But knowing how someone types isn’t the same as knowing how someone held their body when they stand, what made their shoulders drop in relief, or what made them tense up. He had never heard the tone of Ilya’s voice when he’s joking or when he’s serious about something. He had tried, more than once, to imagine how Ilya sounds when he laid in his bed in the dark before sleep overtook him, but that was different than knowing.

“Dinner,” his mom called.

Shane pushed himself off the bed and headed downstairs while energy buzzed under his skin. It doesn’t take long for him mom to notice.

“Nervous about the championship next week?” She asked.

“Yeah. Kinda.” Shane answers. He was nervous about the championship. His team was good, but he felt like something was missing that was keeping them from being great. As he picked at his food, he couldn’t help but picture Ilya scoffing and saying they’re not great because they’re not Russian.

His mom studies him over the rim of her glass. “Your team has been looking good in practice. Are you nervous about the games or is there something else on your mind?”

His dad walked in at this moment and hung his jacket on the back of a chair. “Big week coming up,” he said easily. “That’ll give anyone nerves.”

“Yeah.” Shane said. He hesitated then decided, only somewhat consciously, that he should tell them about Ilya. He had mentioned in passing that there was another hockey fan his age that he met in the chatroom that he would chat with about hockey in the evenings, but he gave no further details. He wanted to meet up with him. His parents should know.

“Well.” He said while he pushed food around his plate. “Uh. I might...know someone who will be there.”

His mom’s gaze snaps up at him with interest. “Someone from another team?”

Shane nodded. “Yeah. I met a player on a MHL chatroom awhile back. I told you about him? We became friends and chat on instant messenger now. He’ll be there.”

His dad frowned, “Which team?”

Shane paused. His parents knew about Ilya Rozanov ever since the preliminary draft list came out last month. Ilya and Shane were the subject of endless chatter about the upcoming draft. They would most certainly be drafted to separate teams, and people had already pit them against each other.

“Um. Russia. He’s playing for Russia.” Shane muttered.

“Russia? Who have you been chatting with from the Russian team?” His mom asked incredulously.

“Uh. Well.” Shane stumbled on his words, suddenly nervous about discussing his friendship with Ilya. It was another thing that made Ilya real outside of his computer screen. “Ilya Rozanov. We’ve been chatting for months. We’ve become friends.”

His parents both froze while they processed this information.

His dad broke the silence first, “Are you going to meet him in person outside of a game?”

“I think so,” Shane said. “We’ve talked about it.”

“Good,” his dad said simply. “Nice to have someone familiar there. He’s probably the only person who understands what your life is like right now.”

Shane nodded, throat tight for reasons that didn’t make sense. He stood before either of them could ask for more information about Ilya. He mumbled something about needing to get ready for the next day.

He felt oddly protective of Ilya and their friendship.

In his room, he sits down at his desk and turns on his computer. He logged into AIM without thinking.

Ilya was online.

His chest gave a strange jolt. It didn’t feel like excitement or nerves, but something quieter and sharper.

And suddenly, next week feels very very close.

Shane shifted in his chair and rolled it closer to his desk like he could close the distance between them.

Shane read ‘careful’ three times. He told himself that it meant normal careful. He told himself it doesn’t mean anything else.

Shane paused. He’s used to being watched on the ice, but off the ice has always felt like it should belong to him. Would the coaches care if players are talking to each other in public?

Shane sighed, then tries to sound casual.

Shane’s throat tightened. He hated that Ilya remembers things like that.

He changes the subject like its a reflex.

Shane looked at the blinking cursor. Typed, deleted, then typed again.

Shane sat back, suddenly unsure of what to say. He thought of his dad’s habit of clapping Shane on the shoulder and hugging Shane win or lose and his mom’s near stalker level of obsession with attending his games. He thought of Ilya saying “too many eyes” and not wanting to talk about his parents like those are normal things to carry.

He didn’t know what to do except one thing, stay.

Shane grinned to himself feeling relieved that Ilya is back to joking.

Shane stared at the words until they start to feel like they belong to something bigger than just logistics.

Ilya heard footsteps before he turned, steady against the concrete. He knew it was Shane. He knew it like his body knows when a puck his coming his way before he sees it. It’s an instinct that bypasses thought entirely.

He stood just outside the back door of the arena with the door propped open a few inches so he could hear if someone called his name. The cigarette he had lit burned low between his finger and smoked curled up into the cold air.

He turned.

Shane was a few steps away, tall and so earnest, his jacket zipped up to his chin to guard against the cold. He looked different than he did on screen. He was broader, more real, but Ilya was hit with a feeling of familiarity all at once. There’s a crease that formed between Shane’s eyebrows as soon as he saw the cigarette, right where Ilya had imagined it would be.

Their eyes met.

There was no confusion or hesitation. Just recognition.

This was who he had been talking to for months. Who he had anxiously anticipated meeting. This was Shane. The real Shane.

Shane’s face flickered quickly with surprise, or relief, or something else that was bright and unguarded. For a half second, Ilya felt the impulse to step back and protect them both from the weight of everything between them.

Instead, he stepped forward.

“Shane,” he said, steadying himself.

“Hey,” Shane replies. His voice was rougher and warmer than Ilya imagined. “I didn’t know you smoke.” Shane glanced briefly at the cigarette and added, “You know it’s bad for you.”

“Yes.” Ilya said. His accent felt too thick and clumsy. He hated his accent. He hated that it makes him sound foolish and hated wondering if Shane thought it sounded foolish too. Ilya flicks his cigarette to the ground and grinds it out with the toe of his boot.

They are standing close enough to feel the space between them – too far to touch, but too close to pretend this doesn’t matter.

“You made it,” Shane says unnecessarily, like he needed to say something to solidify this moment.

“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “I did.”

“So,” Shane said, filling the quiet. “Long flight?”

“Yes.” Ilya responded, “Very.”

Shane winced in solidarity. “We’re finally in the same time zone.”

Ilya let the corner of his mouth lift. “Finally. No keeping me up late.”

The answer relaxed Shane visibly, and Ilya filed that away automatically. He noticed everything about Shane: the way he glanced over his shoulder when someone walked past, the small tension in his hands that came and went, the freckles that dusted his nose and cheeks, his half smile, and how he stands on his heels with his thumbs hooked in his pockets. Ilya also noticed that Shane didn’t look away from Ilya. He was borrowing time to see Shane.

There was an invitation there, in Shane’s face, that Ilya lets settle between them. He felt the moment where things could tilt the wrong way and expectation could swallow reality whole. He decided not to let it. They only had a short time to meet that day. Ilya had to go soon so his coaches didn’t come looking for him.

“I have meeting soon,” Ilya said, nodding towards the rink. “Coaches come looking soon if I’m not there.”

“Right. Yeah. Me too,” Shane said too quickly. Ilya knew it’s not true, but he didn't call him on it. Ilya didn’t have a meeting either, but he knows he cannot be missing for too long or his coaches would< come looking for him.

“We can talk later,” Shane added, hesitation creeping into the word later.

Ilya considered him with care. This was messy. Messier than A
IM. Harder. But it’s also solid in a way that his imagination never was.

“Yes,” he says.

“Hey,” Shane blurted suddenly, breathless, like he had been practicing the question. “Do you have plans for New Years?”

“No. We have curfew. No where to go.” Ilya answered.

“Oh. Ok.” Shane scratched the back of his neck and his eyes dropped briefly, ”Do you want to meet at one of our rooms and watch a movie? Maybe order room service?”

Ilya considered it for a second. The risk. The possibility.

“Ok.” Ilya responded.

Shane’s face lit up.

“Ok. Good luck on your games” He added automatically.

Ilya shook his head and smirked. “I do not need luck.”

Shane snorted, it was adorable. “Yeah. Ok. Russia is superior. I know.” Shane chuckled as he said it.

Ilya just grinned. And winked. Shane flushed red.

Ilya filed that away too, already imagining how easy it would be to do it again.

They part a moment later and move toward their separate obligations, but Ilya didn’t feel the loss of distance. He felt a presence instead because Shane was there, actually there, and the shape of their friendship had shifted without breaking.

*

New Years Eve 2008

Ilya walked into his room with a pit of nerves in his stomach. He dropped his jacket over the back of the chair and flipped on the light by the bed. The light was soft and yellow, very different from the harsh, white lights in the rink.

The hotel felt too quiet for the number of hockey players tucked behind doors and their coaches doing rounds. He could hear doors opening and closing in the hallway and loud yells, the sound of a floor full of teenage hockey players moving between rooms to ring in the new year together without breaking curfew.

Ilya paced his room with his eyes trained on the clock on the nightstand. He sat down on the edge of this bed to wait, but cannot sit still for long.

When the knock came, he was already standing.

Shane looked slightly winded as he stepped inside. His jacket was half-unzipped and cheeks pink from the cold. He glanced around the room with quick curiosity before his eyes settled on Ilya, easy and familiar now.

“Hey.” Shane said.

“Hey,” Ilya answered and let the door click shut.

They stood there for a beat, both of them unsure where to put themselves now that there’s no background noise of the rink, no teammates close by, and no excuse to keep things brief. The hotel room was simple. There were two beds, a desk, and a TV bolted to the wall.

“What do you want to watch?” Shane asked immediately, nervously defaulting to logistics.

Ilya shrugs, “You pick.”

Shane sat down on one of the beds and flipped through channels absentmindedly. After initially landing on commercials, then news coverage counting down to midnight, he paused when he spotted a familiar scene.

“The Matrix?” he asks. “Is that ok?”

Ilya’s lips curve. “Sure. I’ve only seen a bootleg copy.”

Shane frowned, “Bootleg?”

“Yes. In Russia I buy cheap movies on the street. Usually bad copies.” Ilya responded casually, as if this a normal thing.

“Oh.” Shane responded.

They settled onto opposite beds, both facing the tv. The distance btween them felt comfortable. The movie hummed along in the background, green code spilled down the screen, but neither of them gave it much attention after the first fifteen minutes.

Shane picked up the phone and ordered room service – burgers, fries, and three different desserts. The order felt indulgent to Ilya. It was not something he would ever order back home, but he watched Shane easily make the order and read off a credit card number to pay for the meal.

When the food arrived, they spread it over one of the beds between them, with plates balanced on their knees and fighting each other with their forks aimed to get a bite of one of the desserts laughing easily together.

After they finished eating, they clean off the bed and both end up back on the same bed sitting across from each other with Ilya leaned against the headboard and Shane sitting cross-legged.

The movie had been forgotten. They talked about the games – what went right, what went wrong, what teams were better or worse than expect, and complaints about the officials. They slipped easily into analysis, finishing each other’s thoughts without noticing they were.

The conversation drifted at some point.

It didn’t drift completely away from hockey at first, but into related territory. Home. Families. Shane talked about how his mom texted him too much and how his dad tries to pretend he’s calm when he’s in the stands but never quite manages it. Ilya listened and offered small acknowledgements instead of comparisons.

He didn’t talk about his father beyond what has already said. He didn’t need to. Shane didn’t push.

The conversation strayed to school and friends. Ilya told Shane about his oldest friend Svetlana and the clubs in Moscow that they go to. Ilya watched Shane’s face carefully when he mentioned Svetlana to see if there was any flicker of jealousy.

Shane told him about his homeschooling so he can play hockey more. He didn’t say much about friends outside of mentioning some guys he’s played with on his junior teams. Ilya noticed this but didn’t question it. Shane was obviously reserved and focused on hockey, but Ilya still did not want their time together to end.

The clock on the TV ticked closer to midnight.

“Ten minutes,” Shane said, glancing up. “Do you think people actually feel different when the year changes?”

Ilya considered this. “No,” he said finally. “But they want to.”

Shane nodded like that makes sense. “Yeah. Me too, I guess.”

They watched the countdown in comfortable silence, numbers flashing across the screen, a distant crowd roaring somewhere far below them. When midnight hits, fireworks bloom on the broadcast, bright and artificial. Inexplicably the crowds on television in New York City are ecstatic about a large, light ball dropping as a countdown.

“Happy New Year,” Shane said quietly.

“Happy New Year,” Ilya replied

It was not dramatic. No champagne, no cheering in the hallways. Just two people sitting on a hotel bed, half‑eaten cake slices between them, and the TV playing to itself.

Ilya looked over at Shane and felt something settle—not relief, exactly, but certainty. Whatever this was, it was real in a way he didn’t dare hope for before. Not because it was grand or overwhelming, but because it was easy. Because they can sit like this and let time pass without needing to edit themselves.

When Shane finally stood to leave, yawning and stretching his arms overhead, Ilya felt the absence before the door even opened.

“See you at the final,” Shane said.

“Yes,” Ilya answers. “See you then.”

The door closed softly behind Shane.

Ilya turned the TV off and sat back on the bed, room quiet again. He smiled to himself already knowing that their friendship was real. It was lasting—tomorrow, and after, and long after this tournament ends.

Whatever this year became, he decided he didn’t mind stepping into it with Shane.

*

The buzzer sounded, loud and final, and Shane knows that it was over. The scoreboard loomed above the rink. Russia ahead by one. Russia won the gold.

For a moment, the noise dropped out entirely.

Then, the rink flooded with noise and movement. Sticks hit the ice, players shouted in Russian, and gloves are tossing in the air. There was a pile of Russian players in the center of the ice all hugging each other, faces jubilant.

Shane stood there longer than he should have, hands on his knees, chest heaving, sweat cooling his body under his pads. This was supposed to be his.

The handshake line blurred together. He kept his head up, nodding and muttering good game until the words meant nothing at all. When he reached Ilya, something in his chest tightened, sharp and deep.

Ilya was already grinning, bright and unapologetic. He squeezed Shane’s hand once, firm and quick.

“Told you,” he said in English. “We win.”

“Shut up.” Shane muttered, but there was no heat in it.

Ilya laughed, low and pleased, then switched to Russian for a few words Shane didn’t understand but recognized it by tone alone: happiness edged with relief. Pride.

Ilya’s grin somehow grew larger. “I will see you online when back in Russia, Shane Hollander.”

He clapped Shane once on the shoulder before moving on, swallowed by red jerseys and celebration.

Shane watched him with his teammates. A small smile on his lips and he felt a flicker of pride for Ilya’s victory. He had never played against a player like Ilya. Ilya matched Shane’s speed and skill. It was exhilarating, addictive, and he couldn’t want to play him again. And beat him next time.

*

Shane had been home from the championship for two days. He wa feeling restless. He hadn’t been able to speak with Ilya again. Ilya hadn’t logged into AIM since Shane got home. He found himself lingering in his room waiting to hear the door opening chime indicating that Ilya was online.

He heard the chime and jumped into his desk chair. Ilya was online, finally.

Shane let his head tip back, a tired laugh escaped before he can stop it. The tension in his chest loosened just a fraction.

Another message followed, softer.

Shane stared at the words longer than he meant to. The loss still hurt. It probably would for a while. But there’s something steadier underneath it now, something that didn’t feel like consolation.

The sting of the loss was still there, sharp and real—but so was something else, something that didn’t exist before this tournament.

He lost the game.

They didn’t lose each other.

Chapter Text

June 2009 – MHL Draft – Los Angeles  

Shane 

Shane squinted as he stepped outside the hotel and into the bright sun. The heat was already pressing in on him, joining the weight of the draft in a few hours that would decide his future. Everything about the day felt turned up too high – the colors, the noise, the weight of his suit jacket on his shoulders, and the anticipation of the day. He kept tugging at his collar, then reminding himself to stop.  

This was it.  

The MHL draft had been a date on the horizon for so long that it stopped feeling real somewhere along the way. A future problem. A theoretical event. Now it’s a place with barricades, cameras, and people calling his name like they already own it.  

Shane kept walking away from the hotel to his destination. Ilya and he had agreed to meet at a plaza a couple blocks from their hotel and on the way to the Staples Center where the draft was to be held.  

They were finally going to see each other again after months of continuing their chats online. Shane felt closer to Ilya than ever since the World Juniors. Their chats had ventured past hockey and were centered around the rest of their lives.  

Shane nagged Ilya about his smoking and his late nights drinking and partying in clubs. Ilya teased Shane about how boring he was staying home on the weekends to read hockey books or watch Law and Order reruns with his mom.  

Ilya had opened up about his family a little and told Shane about his father’s expectations and disapproval of Ilya playing in the MHL. Shane had told Ilya about his efforts to date to appease his mother, so she stopped worrying that he was lonely. They talked about their hopes and dreams for their professional hockey careers and their fears of moving to a new city without knowing anyone. 

They were friends, real friends. Shane had never had a friend like Ilya. He had never had anyone he could trust with everything he usually kept bottled up inside. For the first time in his life, Shane didn’t feel lonely. 

Shane turned the corner of the busy street and saw Ilya standing near a pillar, hands folded loosely in front of him, in a dark and immaculate suit that made Shane feel underdressed. He looked calmer than Shane felt. Shane noticed that Ilya kept moving his hands like he couldn’t keep them still. Shane’s mouth lifted in a small smile – Ilya was nervous too.  

When Ilya spotted him, his mouth curved into a small, familiar smile.  

“You clean up good.” Shane said as he stopped in front of him. He felt himself scan Ilya from top to bottom and ignored the butterflies in his stomach. He was nervous about the draft, that was all. 

Ilya’s eyes flicked over him deliberately. The crease between his brows appeared for a second before smoothing out again. “You too,” he said. He raised an eyebrow, "Tie is wrong.” 

Shane groaned. “I knew it. My mom picked it.” 

“Is ok,” Ilya added. “You can be second best dressed and second draft pick.” 

“Hey,” Shane protested. “You don’t know –” 

Ilya’s smirk was immediate. Shane cut himself off and snorted, the tension bled away. Ilya was baiting him. He moved to stand next to Ilya and bumped his shoulder gently. Ilya looked over at him with an expression that Shane couldn’t place. It looked gentle, fond, even.  

They stood there for a moment, shoulder to shoulder, facing the direction of the Staples Center like it was a wave about to break over them. The silence was comfortable. There was nothing to say.  

Suddenly, Ilya reached in his pocket and pulled out a Blackberry. He grinned, “My agent got for me. He said I need American phone.” 

Shane smiled back, “I have a Blackberry too. We can use Blackberry Messenger to chat now.” 

Ilya nodded, still smiling. “Yes. Even works in Russia when on internet. No extra charge.” 

Shane held his hand out, “Here, I’ll put my number in it.” He entered his number and sent a message to himself to share Ilya’s number. Shane felt himself grinning a huge, goofy grin. It would be easier to message Ilya now. Their friendship wouldn’t be tied to their computers and at the mercy of time zones. They could message each other at any time and the other could answer when they were able. They could even message today when they weren’t around each other. He felt a calm wash over him with this knowledge. 

When he looked up, Ilya was grinning down at his new Blackberry, carefully typing in a contact name for Shane.  

Shane suddenly felt too big for his own skin. His suit itched. He reached for his collar and gave it a tug.  

“You ok?” Ilya asked quietly, angled toward Shane to speak softly in his ear.  

“Yeah,” Shane said. He meant <i>I think so.</i> He meant <i> I don’t know</i>. He meant <i> it’s easier standing next to you.</i> “You?” 

Ilya flicked his gaze toward the street, then back. “We will be ok.” 

** 

The arena lights shown on a large stage. Jerseys hung neatly on chair backs; families leaned forward in their seats with clasped hands; executives studied their final lists one more time. The decisions had, in truth, been made weeks ago. This was the MHL draft, this was the place where dreams and years of hard work and sacrifice met billion-dollar franchises, and where the future of the MHL took shape.  

Shane and his parents took their seats in the crowd. His heart was beating hard enough that he worried it was audible.  

He glanced around to find Ilya and saw him several rows over sitting next to a stern looking man who had to be his father. Ilya’s knee was bouncing nervously. Shane saw Ilya’s father move slightly, Ilya twitch like he had been pinched suddenly, and his leg suddenly stopped moving. Shane wished he could catch Ilya’s eye, but Ilya was staring straight ahead with his jaw tight.  

Shane looked away and tried to ignore the low hum of the crowd anxiously awaiting the first draft pick to be called.  

They’ve been comparing Ilya and him all year – Ilya’s hands, Shane’s size, their consistency, their creativity. Shane had tried to ignore it. Ilya was a real, breathing, feeling person to Shane.  

The scouts talked about “1A and 1B” picks like they were menu options. Shane knew that in about ten minutes' time, one of them would be the answer to a future sports night trivia question. <i> Who was drafted first in the 2009 MHL draft?”</i> 

Shane glanced over at his parents. They were holding hands so tightly he was worried about circulation. His mom kept whispering something under her breath that Shane couldn’t quite make out.  

The commissioner stepped up to the podium, and a low murmur rippled through the crowd. Shane felt his stomach drop to the floor. The cameras panned across the rows of prospects and their families.  

Shane didn’t hear anything the commissioner said in his opening remarks.   

Then Shane heard it, “With the first pick in the MHL Draft...” The room was nearly silent suddenly. “The Boston Raiders are proud to select...”  

Time slowed to a trickle.  

“...Ilya Rozanov, center, from Krasnaya Armiya Juniors Team in Moscow, Russia.” 

The room erupted with applause. Cameras swung to where Ilya sat with his father. Ilya stood and walked to the stage.  

Shane frowned. Ilya’s father hadn’t said anything to his son. He hadn’t even looked at him. Nothing. No reaction.  

Shane clapped hard. A real clap for his friend.  

Ilya walked past Shane towards the stage and for a half second their eyes lock. There was no arrogance in Ilya’s expression. Shane thought he saw relief in Ilya’s eyes. Maybe a flicker of an apology.  

Shane watched as Ilya was handed over his new jersey and smiled for the cameras. Ilya stepped back off the stage and walked back to his father. He caught Shane’s eye again and gave him a slight nod. Shane knew he was saying “you’re next.”  

Shane’s pulse quickened again, feeling even stronger, louder.  

“With the second overall pick...” 

Shane’s mind flashed to the driveway of his parent’s home, cracked concrete and rusty net. The early mornings, frozen toes, his mom’s voice cutting through the dark reminding him to eat before practice. Everything that lead him to this point.  

“the Montreal Metros selection Shane Hollander, center, from the Kingston Frontenacs.”  

Sound hit Shane like wave. His parents explode next to him with cheers, tears, and laughter. The three of them hugged tightly as their dream just became a reality.  

Shane stood on instinct with legs steadier than he expected. The world collapsed into a narrow tunnel of noise and light. He walked to the stage to accept his new jersey. He smiled into the lights for the cameras he knew were waiting just beyond his vision.  

When he walked back to his seat, he glanced at Ilya. He was clapping and smiling at Shane. Shane smiled back.  

They had been drafted first and second, as predicted by all the experts. Their names would be attached to the other’s for the rest of their careers. They had been drafted by rival teams. They were both expected to become franchise players.  

In that moment, everything else around Shane melted away as he locked eyes and smiled back at Ilya. Everything had changed in the past ten minutes. Everything except Ilya.  

** 

Ilya 

“...Ilya Rozanov, center, from Krasnaya Armiya Juniors Team in Moscow, Russia.” 

The applause blurred together. The room seemed to tilt toward him and then away. 

He was able to catch Shane’s eyes briefly before looking away and climbing the stage. Shane was clapping for him.  

He shook hands with people he couldn’t remember. Someone pressed a jersey into his hands. Someone else told him “congratulations” in English that he barely processed.  

He knew he should feel triumphant. Proud, Victorious. He did. But the feeling that lodged deepest in his chest is relief.  

Boston. A real place. A real plan. A door opened for him.  

He sat back down beside his father, who nodded once without smiling. No congratulations. No hug. Just the brief acknowledgement of his son before his eyes drifted back to the stage. Ilya’s fingers curled into the fabric of his new jersey and he didn’t look at his father again.  

Instead, he glanced back at Shane. He felt the tension drain from his shoulders immediately. The world narrowed to that familiar figure in his suit that didn’t quite fit him and the awful tie his mother picked out. Shane met his eyes, steady and unmistakenly proud.  

<i> You’re next.</i> Ilya thought back and hoped Shane could read it in his eyes.  

When Shane’s name was called a few minutes later, the relief inside Ilya’s broke open into something warm and bright. He watched as Shane stood, straightened instinctively, and smiled as he was pulled into a hug by both of his parents.  

Montreal. The same league as Boston. Rivals. Required to play each other multiple times a year.  

Their lives had just been rearranged in front of a crowd and on national television. Rival teams. Rival cities. Rival narratives were already being written by people who do not know them at all. They do not know the Shane and Ilya that exist in private.  

When Shane looked back at him, breathless, stunned, brilliant, Ilya smiled back without thinking. This part, at least, was intact.  

** 

Later, when the cameras finally moved on, there were no more hands to shake, and his father had returned to his hotel room, Ilya stood near the edge of the venue and felt himself really, truly, breathe for the first time all day.  

Shane appeared at his side like gravity pulled him there.  

“We survived.” Shane said, voice low and casual.  

“Yes.” Ilya said. “Barely, I think.” 

Shane laughed, the sound was bright and exhausted.  

They exited together, slipping past the lingering crowd with the kind of practiced, confident nonchalance that lends itself to going unnoticed.  

Outside, the LA air hit Ilya warm and thick and nothing like home.  

“I need to walk,” Shane said suddenly, like he might vibrate apart if he didn’t move and get some distance from the venue.  

“Yes.” Ilya agreed immediately. “We walk.” 

As they move away from the venue, the noise faded. They didn’t speak at first. A comfortable silence washed over them as they continue to walk in step. There was no need to talk. The simple act of walking together was enough to calm them both; it seemed.  

Ilya felt something settle in his chest. In the middle of everything changing, this remained.  

He was drafted first overall by an NHL team. He was leaving Russia. He was becoming someone the world would watch.  

Walking beside him with no idea where they were going was the person who made it all feel survivable. Ilya exhaled slowly and matched Shane’s pace again. They glance automatically at each other as if they pulled together. Like they are each other’s gravity. Maybe they are.  

Whatever came next, he thought, comes after this.  

** 

When they returned to their hotel, Ilya followed Shane to his room in an unspoken agreement that they were not done spending time together that night. Ilya was flying back to Moscow in the morning and Shane was flying back to Ottawa. They would not see each other in person again until December when they played their last games at the World Juniors.  

They wouldn’t see each other in six months. They would be returning to instant messages and now, finally, blackberry messenger.  

They had both removed their ties, jackets and button up shirts. Ilya had thrown his over a chair in the corner of the room. Shane had carefully hung his shirt and jacket in the small closet. Ilya had found this endearing.  

The movie Shane picked played, but Ilya lost track of it somewhere around the second commercial break. Time drifted slowly over the room. The lights were low as neither of them could find the light switch to turn on the overhead lights. Shane’s laughter was soft, easy, and unguarded as it pulled Ilya’s attention away from the screen.  

This was dangerous, he thought.  

The room was private. No coaches. No parents. No expectations pressed in on them. It was just quiet and space and Shane sitting close enough next to him on the bed that Ilya could feel the warmth of him without needing to touch.  

He realized with unwelcome clarity that this felt like home. The thought unsettled him.  

Ilya had learned to survive people and places that wanted something from him. He has learned how to endure pressure and translate anger into motion on the ice. He has been forced to learn to ignore his own wants to survive.  

Want was harder. Want lingered. Want followed you when you leave. Want was nearly impossible to escape once you let it in.  

Shane shifted beside him, his arm brushed Ilya’s, and the contact sent a shock through him. It was not unpleasant or wrong.  

Ilya didn’t move away.  

He should move away. He knew he should. He had spent months telling himself that this was fine. They were far apart, they lived in different countries, the future was far away. There were no definites.  

The illusion was gone.  

Shane wasn’t across the ocean anymore. He was right there. His arm was touching Ilya’s. Ilya could feel him lean against him gently, relaxed against him as they sat together on that hotel bed in Los Angeles.   

Ilya could see exactly what this closeness would cost him if it continued. Shane could quickly turn into something he needs. He may have already become a need.  

He glanced sideways, just once.  

Shane was watching the screen, relaxed, unaware, and trusting. He looked happy. Comfortable. Like he hadn’t yet learned how fragile this moment was.  

Ilya looked away before the urge to reach for Shane turned into action.  

He felt Shane shift again. Their arms were pressed up against each other. Their thighs were touching. Shane had leaned further against Ilya. Soft. Affectionate. Present.  

Ilya knew something was about to happen. The space around them had thinned too far. There was tension mounting in the air.  

Ilya thought of lines that he never crossed because they mattered. The attachments that he never allowed himself to have. The women he had slept with but felt no attachment to as he left their beds. The one man he had let himself be curious with, but nothing more.  

Ilya knew that if this changes, it couldn’t be undone.  

And then Shane turned towards him and thoughts stopped mattering. Shane’s expression was open and searching, like he was asking a question without words. Shane leaned closer.  

Ilya didn’t decide to lean in. He didn’t weigh the consequences or calculate the risk. He just closed the distance between them, meeting Shane halfway.  

The kiss was gentle at first, hesitant. Then it became firmer, full of momentum built over months. Shane’s hand came up instinctively to Ilya’s shoulder.  

It was warm and anchoring. It was too right.  

For one suspended moment, everything aligned too perfectly. Kissing Shane was everything. It was warmth, familiarity, and understanding. It was want. Ilya let himself lean into it. He let himself feel how easily Shane fit against him. How natural it was to close the distance between them.  

The world narrowed to the feeling of Shane’s lips moving against his. The taste as Shane hesitantly openeed his mouth and let Ilya sweep his tongue inside. The moan Ilya feels vibrate against his lips, unsure who it came from.  

Ilya knew the unmistakable truth that this was not curiosity or impulse. Ilya knew with terrifying certainty that this could become to the important thing in his life.  

That clarity hit him like ice water.  

Iya pulled back sharply.  

“No,” Ilya’s voice waivered. He pulled back before Shane could follow. “I’m sorry. I can’t.” He stammered out as he stood up from the bed suddenly.  

Shane looked back at him from the bed stunned, like the floor had dropped out from under him. “Hey, hey. It’s ok. We don’t have to...” 

“I know.” Ilya said too quickly, cutting him off. His heart was racing. Panic settled at the edges of his vision. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just.” He shook his head, words failing him. “I need air.” 

He grabbed his jacket and shirt, hands unsteady. Every instinct in him screamed to put distance between himself and the man he wanted too much. The room felt too small, too intimate, too full of consequences.  

“I’m sorry,” he said again. Quietly, softly.  

“Ilya --” Shane started.  

But Ilya was already at the door.  

The hallway was empty and bright. He walked fast, then faster. He didn’t stop until he was in the elevator. He leaned against the wall and pressed his forehead against the cool metal surface and let his breathing slow.  

When he reached his room, he shut the door quietly behind him and leaned against it. He closed his eyes and breathed through the aftershock.  

The kiss wasn’t a mistake. He knew that fact in his bones. Nothing about Shane was a mistake. That terrified him.  

His phone vibrated in his pocket. A message from Shane, no doubt.  

Ilya took it out and looked at the screen, the notification glowed faintly in the dark like an accusation, or an invitation, or both.  

He knew he should answer. He knew Shane would be confused and worried. Everything had just shifted under them.  

But Ilya couldn’t find the words yet.  

So he let the phone go dark in his hand, the message remained unread and unanswered, and he sat with the proof of something real he wasn’t ready to face.