Chapter Text
Ilya is watching a boy run.
He’s holding a small, gold trophy as he runs up the stairs.
Ilya knows this boy. He knows the way the boy’s heart is beating and the burn in his legs. He knows the sound of his own laughter echoing up the stairwell.
He also knows how this ends.
The strange thing is he can’t keep watching.
The boy runs past his father in his study, barely registering him.
“Mama!” He calls again.
Earlier, the boy had stood in the doorway with his hockey bag digging into his shoulder. His mother had been sitting on her bed. Her hair hadn’t been brushed for days and it took her thirty minutes this morning to just leave her room.
“I can’t go today,” She had said gently.
The boy smiled and swallowed down any disappointment he felt. He nodded quickly, because he knew what kind of day this was.
It was an off day. One of those days when the world seemed too loud for her, when the light hurt her eyes, when she barely had the energy to breathe.
“It’s okay,” He said. “Next time.”
She’d pulled out a necklace from her bedside table and reached out for him. It was her gold cross necklace. She fastened it around his neck carefully.
“For good luck,” She said.
He’d leaned down, let her press a kiss to his forehead. He’d kissed her cheek back.
“I’ll bring you a trophy,” He’d promised.
Of course he had promised. Because at twelve years old, winning still felt like something you could offer someone you loved. Because he believed, with his whole chest, that this was how you made people better.
She’d smiled at him then.
“I know you will, baby,” She’d said.
Now this boy is standing in front of his parents bedroom. He knocks once, already pushing the door open.
“Mama!” He calls out. “I won!”
The room is dimmer than the rest of the apartment, curtains half-drawn. His mother in on the bed, turned away from him, blonde hair spread messily across the pillow.
For a moment, the boy’s smile falters.
“Mama?” He says again, softer this time.
There’s no answer.
His shoulders sag a little. He exhales. He knows this, too. Knows the way days like this pull her inwards and make her sleep for hours on end, even in the day time.
“It’s okay,” He mumbles to himself. “She’s just resting.”
He sets the trophy down on the floor beside the bed. He steps back, looking at her back, expecting to see the slow and fall of her chest.
But there is no rise.
No fall.
Ilya feels something twist, watching it happen again. He wants to shout, to warm, to reach through the memory and grab the boy by the shoulders and pull him back. He wants to tell him to run. Or not to run. He doesn’t know which would hurt less.
The boy frowns.
“Mama?” He calls, closer now.
He circles the bed and that’s when he sees her hand.
It’s hanging over the edge of the mattress, fingers curled slightly inward, knuckles pale.
He stops.
He reaches out, hesitating for a moment before his fingers brush over hers.
Cold.
His heart drops. His mind spirals in a split second, searching for another explanation, for a reason that doesn’t make his chest hurt like this.
“Mama,” He says again.
He takes her hand in both of his, small fingers wrapping around her wrist, trying to warm it. He shakes it gently at first, and then harder.
“Mama,” He pleads. “Wake up. Mama, please.”
There is no response.
The world narrows to that moment, to the way the light doesn’t change, to the way her hair doesn’t move, to the way her chest stays still.
“Papa!” The boy screams. “Papa!”
He holds onto her hand tighter. He doesn’t notice the tears until they start dripping onto the sheets.
His father bursts into the room. He takes in the scene in a single glance. For a fraction of a second, there is something like horror on his face. Then, nothing.
“What are you doing?” His father snaps, moving forward.
“I-I can’t wake her up,” Ilya sobs. “Papa, she’s cold, she won’t–”
His father grabs him by the shoulders and yanks him backward, away from the bed. Ilya stumbles, nearly falling, but his grip on his mother’s hand tightens instinctively.
“No,” He cries. “Don’t–Papa, please–”
“Let go,” His father orders.
Ilya shakes his head, “She needs me, Papa,” He insists. “She needs to wake up.”
“Alexei!” His father calls out, ignoring Ilya’s pleas.
Alexi appears in the doorway. His eyes move from their father to the bed, to their mother’s body, and then to Ilya.
His face goes pale.
“Mama?” Alexei says, barely above a whisper.
“There is no time,” Their father snaps. “Take him now.”
Alexei hesitates for a second before reaching for Ilya, “Come on.”
“No,” Ilya sobs. “No, Alexei, she’s cold, she won’t wake up, Papa says—”
Alexei grabs him around the chest from behind and pulls.
“Mama!” He screams as he’s dragged. “Mama, please.”
The door closes again.
Alexei doesn’t stop until they reach his bedroom. He pushes Ilya inside and shuts the door, leaning against it for a moment like he’s bracing himself.
“Why would she do that?” Ilya cries. He grabs at Alexei's sleeve, “Why would Mama do something like that? She promised she’d watch my games. She promised—”
“Stop,” Alexei snaps.
Ilya flinches.
“I said stop,” Alexei repeats, louder now. He rakes a hand through his hair and starts pacing the room, back and forth. “Don’t say that. Don’t say things you don’t understand.”
“She didn’t wake up. She was cold. And the pills—”
“Shut up!” Alexei yells. “Just. Just shut the fuck up, okay?”
Ilya sinks down onto the edge of Alexei's bed. The cross at his neck suddenly feels cold.
He doesn’t know how much time passes until the door opens and his father steps inside.
Ilya runs over to his father and throws himself in the older man’s arms, “Papa,” He sobs into his chest. “Why would Mama do this? Why would she leave us?”
His father pulls Ilya away and grips his face, fingers digging in just enough to hurt. He forces Ilya to look at him.
“She did not do anything to herself,” He says.
Ilya blinks, confused.
“She had a cold,” His father continues. “She took medicine for her headache. Too much of it. By accident.”
An accident.
“She did not leave you,” His father says again. “Do you understand?”
Ilya nods even though the words don’t fit what he saw. His father releases him and turns away.
“This was an accident,” He says one last time.
The door closes behind him.
Ilya stands there, small and shaking, staring at the place where his father had been. Alexei doesn’t look at him.
“An accident,” Ilya whispers.
He says it again. And again.
An accident. An accident. An accident.
Ilya wakes up with a sharp gasp.
He blinks before looking around. He’s in his living room. In Ottawa.
He grabs the cross at his throat and takes a deep breath. The apartment is silent. No footsteps. No voices. No one to tell him what happened or why.
“It was an accident,” He mumbles to himself.
//
The alarm on Ilya’s phone goes off at six-thirty.
He stares at the ceiling for a few moments before getting up. The house is quiet. But it isn’t peaceful, it feels uneasy. He breathes in, breathes out, and softly touches the cross at his neck.
Another day.
He showers, dresses, eats the same breakfast he does everyday: two fried eggs with bacon. He checks his phone while standing at the counter, scrolling through messages.
There’s one from Shane that he missed last night.
Shane: i miss you :(
Shane: let’s call tmrw night, don’t have a game
Attached with the text is a blurry selfie of Shane with a pouty face.
Ilya smiles at the message and takes a quick selfie of himself with his tongue out before typing back a reply.
Ilya: miss you too
Ilya: call me, end practice at 6 today
Ilya: can’t wait to see you in a week
At the rink, the air is cold and familiar. It’s safe. He likes the early mornings best, before the building fills with noise and people. Before he has to be on.
The Centaurs are not having a good season. They haven’t been having a good season for the past twenty seasons.
Everyone knows it.
It’s loss after loss. They fight hard, scramble, and leave everything on still. But still, it is never enough.
Ilya tells himself that’s okay. He tells them it’s okay.
In the locker room, the guys are already there, stretching, taping sticks, joking loudly. He claps shoulders as he passes, offering encouraging words. He asks about sore knees and bruised ribs, about families back home, about the flu that’s been making it’s way through half of the roster.
“Morning, Cap,” Someone calls.
“Morning,” Ilya answers.
Practice is brutal but when is it not? Ilya skates hard, pushes himself, and raises his voice when he needs to. When someone screws up, he taps his stick against theirs and tells them to shake it off. When someone does well, he makes sure they hear about it.
After a rough drill, one of the younger guys slump against the board.
“We suck,” He mumbles.
Ilya shakes his head, “No. We don’t.” He turns to the rest of the team, “Listen, I know people think we’re not even in the conversation. But that’s why we have to prove them wrong. Yeah? So I want everyone to give their 110% every time!”
Everyone looks unconvinced, but they nod anyway.
In the locker room, the guys are loud again. Ilya laughs at the right moments, adds a comment here and there. He’s good at this. He’s always been good at this.
“You know,” One of the defensemen, Jacob, says as they’re pulling on clothes. “You’re not at all what I expected.”
Ilya raises an eyebrow, “Oh?”
“Yeah,” Another teammate, Arjun, chimes in. “I mean, we all heard stories. Thought you’d be more… I don’t know. Flashy.”
“Trouble,” Jacob finishes.
“Fun,” A third teammate, Oliver, adds.
Ilya laughs, “I can still be fun.”
“Man, this is like, Responsible Dad Ilya,” Jack says. “Total bait-and-switch.”
“Yeah,” Arjun adds. “Different version than the one we heard about.”
The words shouldn't stick to him. They’re not meant to be unkind. They’re just curious and amused. Ilya smiles, shrugs, and plays it off.
“People change,” He says.
Later, alone in his car, the smile fades.
Ottawa feels quieter than Boston, slower. Sometimes he likes that. Sometimes it feels like the quiet is pressing down on him, waiting for him to crack.
At home, he drops his bag by the door and kicks off his shoes. He stands there for a moment longer than he needs to, keys still in his hand, before forcing himself to move.
He showers, water too hot. He presses his forehead against the tile and closes his eyes.
Different version.
He knows what they mean. He used to be the wild kid. The flirt. The troublemaker. The boy who kissed everyone and cared about nothing except hockey and the next good time.
Is that growth? Or is that loss?
He dresses and orders takeout he barely touches. He turns on the TV for noise, some game playing in the background, but he doesn’t really watch it. His phone buzzes. It’s another message from Shane.
Shane: why does jj have to play the same five songs in the locker room?
Shane: it’s annoying
Ilya: not everyone has boring music taste
Ilya: call me
Ilya: miss you
Shane: in twenty mins
Those twenty minutes feel like eternity. When Shane finally does call, it’s comforting and familiar. He talks about practice, about travel, about his parents’ plan for the weekend. Ilya listens, offers commentary, laughs at the right moments.
“Hey listen, babe,” Shane says at one point.
Ilya hums, “Yeah?”
“I can’t wait to see you next week,” Shane says.
Ilya smiles, “It’s been two weeks.”
“Longest two weeks of my life,” Shane mumbles, rolling his eyes. “I just wanna grab your face and give you a big ‘ol smooch.”
“Okay, crazy,” Ilya laughs.
After they hang up, the apartment feels even quieter than before.
He cleans. He reorganizes a cupboard that doesn’t need reorganizing. He answers texts that he missed from months ago. He lies on the couch and stares at the ceiling.
It’s strange, this feeling. It’s not sadness. No, not really. It’s not in the way people usually mean it. It’s more like emptiness.
He feels everything and nothing at the same time. Guilt, affections, exhaustion, and love. It’s distant, like they’re happening to someone else.
He thinks about his team. Wonders if he’s doing enough. If he should push harder, demand more. If being kind is the same thing as being weak.
He thinks about his father. Was he a good son? Is a good brother to Alexei? They haven’t actually spoken in over a year. He thinks about his niece, Anastasia. Is he a good uncle to her? He only sees her once or twice a year. It’s not enough, he knows it isn’t.
He thinks about Shane. Always Shane.
Am I enough?
He provides loyalty and fidelity. He shows up to family dinners with Yuna and David and makes them laugh. He remembered anniversaries. He texts good morning and good night. He is, by all accounts, a good boyfriend. A mature boyfriend.
But is he giving Shane joy?
The question is always there even when he doesn’t realize it.
He presses his palm against his chest, feeling his heart beat beneath it. It’s proof of life. Proof of effort.
The next day bleeds into the next. Their losses pile up. Wins are rare and fought for hard. Ilya keeps showing up. Keeps being the captain everyone expects him to be. He takes responsibility in interviews, shields his teammates from blame, talks about growth and learning and resilience.
The media likes him. They always have. He gives good quotes. He smiles and doesn't complain.
“Does it ever get to you?” A reporter after another loss. “All the pressure?”
Ilya thinks about the quiet apartment. About the ceiling he stares at. And the way his chest feels too heavy and too empty all at once.
“No,” He lies. “Pressure is part of job, yeah?”
Sometimes, late at night, he catches himself sitting still on the couch. Hours pass without him noticing.
He thinks about his mother then. Not about the way she died, but the way she lived on her worst days. The way she would sit for hours, staring at nothing. The way he would sit in the corner of her room, quiet, afraid to leave her alone.
He shakes himself out of it. He’s embarrassed by the comparison. He’s not like that. He’s functioning. He’s successful. And most importantly, he’s loved.
He’s fine.
They lost 4-1 to the Metros.
It isn’t surprising to anyone.
Ilya skates through the handshake line, expression polite. When he reaches Shane, their eyes meet for a second. In the second, Ilya sees it: it’s a flicker of concern and softness. It’s a comfort and a feeling of shame. He doesn't need pity, least of all from Shane.
In the locker room, the mood is subdued.
Ilya waits until everyone is mostly dressed before speaking.
“Good effort,” he says. “We did not quiet. That matters. Get some rest. We look at tape tomorrow.”
They nod. A few of them clap him on the shoulder they pass. He waits until the room empties before sitting down on the bench, staring at the floor.
Another loss.
He showers quickly, changes and leaves.
Ilya: leaving now
Ilya: be there in 20 mins
Shane: okay
Shane: ordered chinese
Shane’s apartment feels warm the second Ilya steps inside.
Shane is almost immediately, pulling him close before he can ever take his shoes off.
“Hey,” Shane mumbles, pressing a kiss to the corner of Ilya’s mouth, “You okay?”
Ilya hums, leaning into him, “Yes.”
Shane doesn't push. He never does. He kisses him properly then, slowly, like they have all the time in the world. Ilya melts into it.
They move towards the kitchen island, kisses never breaking. Ilya slides his fingers into Shane’s hair, gripping it gently.
Shane pulls away first, “I missed you.”
“Missed you too,” Ilya mumbles back. He steals another kiss, softer this time, “The food will get cold.”
“Don’t care.”
They kiss again, sweeter.
Eventually, the pragmatic part of Shane’s brain wins.
“Okay, okay,” He laughs softly against Ilya’s lips. “The dumplings will get soggy, and that’s a crime.”
They eat on the couch, containers spread on the coffee table, a movie playing on the TV. Their legs are tangled together, Shane’s feet under Ilya’s tight.
Ilya lets himself breathe. Here, he doesn’t have to perform. He can just be.
“How’s your knee?” Shane asks, poking Ilya’s leg with his toe. “Saw you favoring it after the hit in the second.”
“Is fine. Just bruise, maybe.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” Shane mumbles. “Use a foam roller, later.”
“Yes, doctor.”
Shane rolls his eyes but leans his head against the back of the couch, looking at Ilya, “I can’t wait for this season to be over.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s been… a lot. The travel’s brutal this year. And I just…” Shane turns towards him. “I want time. Real time. Not just a day here, a stolen night there. I want the whole summer. Waking up with you. No schedule. Just us at the cottage. Maybe go to Greece like we talked about. Just… be.”
An entire summer. What would he do? Who would he be? He’s already struggling to fill the empty hours of a single off-day.
For a whole summer, he’s going to have to be just Ilya. And he isn’t sure who that is anymore, without hockey to define him.
He forces himself to smile, hoping that it reaches his eyes. He sets his food down and reaches for Shane’s hand.
“That is all I want too, babe,” He says. He brings Shane’s knuckles to his lips, “Just us. No alarm clocks. No plans.”
Shane’s face lights up, “Yeah? You mean it? Even if I want to sleep in until noon and spend all day reading on the dock?”
“It is boring, but yes,” Ilya jokes. He leans in to kiss him. “I will bring you lemonade and annoy you.”
“Perfect,” Shane sighs, content. He settles back against Ilya’s side.
They’re quiet for a while, focusing on the movie on the screen. Then Shane nudges him again.
“You know, you guys played tough tonight. That second period, you had us on our heels.”
Ilya hums.
“I’m serious. If Petersson had made that save on Lapointe’s deflection…”
“If, if,” Ilya mumbles, nuzzling Shane’s temple.
“No, listen. You’re only, what, eight points back with fifteen games left? It’s a long shot, but stranger things have happened. If you get on a run—”
Ilya can’t help it. A sarcastic laugh escapes him.
He pulls back to look at Shane, whose expression is earnest and hopeful for him. It is so quintessentially Shane to believe in the impossible, to try to will a miracle into existence for the man he loves. Even when all Shane wants is to win more than anything.
“Shane,” Ilya says, voice soft. “My love. You are crazy if you think we still have chance at playoffs.”
“I’m not! The math–”
“Stop with math,” Ilya interrupts, shaking his head. “We are not playoff team. Is okay.”
Shane opens his mouth again to argue, to sell him on hope. But Ilya doesn't want hope. Hope is exhausting. He just wants to stop thinking, stop analyzing, stop this feeling on something heavy on his shoulders.
So he stops the words the best way he knows how.
He kisses Shane, harder this time. He nips lightly at Shane’s lower lip, then drags his mouth to his neck.
“Hey,” Shane laughs breathlessly. “Cheap move.”
“You love it,” Ilya mumbles.
“I really do,” Shane admits.
Later, tangled together in Shane’s bed, Ilya lays awake. Shane’s been asleep for hours, one arm across Ilya’s chest.
The emptiness is still there. It disappears for moments when he’s with Shane, but then it creeps back in.
He takes a deep breath before pressing a kiss to Shane’s hair, inhaling his scent. This is enough. This has to be enough.