Chapter Text
"I don't get it," Shane muttered, pressing his forehead against the cool tile of the bathroom wall. The shower was running too hot, fogging up the mirror, but he couldn’t bring himself to adjust the temperature. "I thought I did everything right this time."
The door was cracked open just enough for Shane to see Ilya’s shadow shifting on the other side, hesitating, his broad shoulders hunched like he was carrying something too heavy. He wasn’t coming in. He wasn’t leaving either. Shane knew that stance—the way Ilya’s fingers flexed at his sides, like he wanted to reach out but couldn’t remember how. It was the same look he’d had when Shane had woken up in the hospital after the second time, the sterile smell of antiseptic clinging to the sheets. Like he was afraid touching Shane would break him further.
The feeling of the shower running over his head was the only thing keeping Shane from screaming. He went out of the shower and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows digging into his knees, fingers twisting in his hair like he could pull the failure right out of his scalp.
"I hope it was a good shower," Ilya said, voice carefully light.
Shane didn’t look up. "I’ll live."
A pause. Then the bed dipped beside him, Ilya’s warmth pressing against his side, radiating through the space between them like he was trying to share more than just body heat. "Baby," he said, softer now, and that was worse, because Shane knew what was coming.
"Shane," Ilya says, his thumb brushing the nape of Shane's neck, tracing the tense ridge of his spine like he could smooth the guilt away with touch alone. Shane shuddered—not from the cold, not from the damp air clinging to his skin—but from the way Ilya’s voice cracked his name open, raw as the ache in his ribs.
"I’m sorry," Shane choked out, the words scraping his throat raw. "I’m so fucking sorry, Ilya—"
Ilya’s arms came around him before he could finish, pulling him in so tight Shane could feel the rapid thud of Ilya’s heartbeat against his own chest. "Don’t," Ilya murmured into his hair, lips pressed to the crown of his head. "Don’t you dare apologize for this." His voice was steady, but Shane knew him—knew the way his fingers trembled where they clutched at Shane’s shirt, the way his breath hitched just slightly before he continued. "It’s not your fault. It was never your fault."
Shane wanted to argue, wanted to list every mistake, every misstep, every time he’d pushed too hard or not hard enough—but Ilya’s hands were framing his face now, forcing him to meet those dark, earnest eyes. "Look at me," Ilya said, and Shane did, helpless against the quiet command. "We’re in this together. Every part of it. The good, the bad, the fucking unbearable—all of it." He pressed their foreheads together, his breath warm against Shane’s lips. "You don’t get to carry this alone."
Shane’s breath hitched as he pressed his palm flat against his own stomach, fingers splaying over skin that had never stretched with life, never quickened with the flutter of movement beneath it. “We’re missing it,” he whispered, voice frayed at the edges. “Every time—every fucking time, they just… stop. Before we even get to hear—” His throat closed around the words, the phantom echo of a heartbeat that never was throbbing in his ears like a cruel joke.
Ilya’s hand covered his, their fingers tangling together over the hollow space where a child should have been. “I know,” he murmured, thumb brushing the jut of Shane’s hipbone. “But it’s not—” He stopped, jaw working, and Shane watched the struggle play out in the tight line of his shoulders, the way his lashes dipped like he was counting the losses behind his eyelids.
The silence stretched, thick with everything they couldn’t say—the late-night research binges, the way Shane had memorized the exact curve of Ilya’s smile when he talked about teaching their kid to skate, the way Ilya had started avoiding the park down the street where toddlers wobbled after pigeons. Shane swallowed hard. “What if we’re just—what if we’re not meant to be parents?”
Ilya’s grip tightened, sharp enough to sting, but his voice was achingly gentle. “Hey. Look at me.” He waited until Shane dragged his gaze up, until their eyes locked in the dim light. “You think fate’s got some fucking clipboard checking off who ‘deserves’ this?” His mouth quirked, bitter and fond all at once. “Because last I checked, we’ve survived worse odds than some bureaucratic cosmic bullshit.”
Shane smiled then—small, cracked at the edges, but real—and let his forehead drop against Ilya’s collarbone. Shane curled against him, his head on Ilya’s shoulder. “We could look at those adoption agency websites in a few days,” Shane murmured, his fingers laced with Ilya’s. “Just browse.”
“Yeah,” Ilya whispered, pulling Shane’s hand to his lips for a kiss. “That might be a good idea for now, solnyshko.”
The tension seeped out of him slowly, like a tide receding, leaving behind only exhaustion. Ilya held him through it, one hand carding through Shane’s hair, the other tracing idle patterns over the dip of his spine until Shane’s breathing evened out, his body going slack against Ilya’s side.
Careful not to jostle him, Ilya eased Shane down onto the pillows, tucking the comforter around his shoulders. Shane sighed in his sleep, fingers twitching like he was reaching for something—or someone—even unconscious. Ilya pressed a kiss to his temple, lingering just a second too long before pulling away.
The hallway light was too bright after the dimness of their bedroom, harsh against Ilya’s tired eyes. He blinked, rolling his shoulders to shake off the stiffness, and pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen lit up with Dr. Chen’s last text, sent hours ago: Call me when you’re ready. The offer still stands.
The first time it happened, Ilya had held his husband in their darkened bedroom for hours, whispering promises into Shane’s hair that tasted like ash in his own mouth. Next time. There will be a next time. The second time, he’d watched Shane’s vibrant spirit dim, the light in his hazel eyes guttering like a candle in a draft. The third time…
Ilya stared at Dr. Chen’s message again, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He could still hear Shane’s voice, raw with grief—What if we’re not meant to be parents?—and the memory alone was enough to make his stomach twist.
Ilya finally found his voice, rough with emotion. “My turn,” he whispered, the words a vow, a confession, and a promise, all in one.
He typed…
Ilya: I’m ready.
______
Dr. Chen’s office smelled like antiseptic and old paper—clean in a way that made Ilya’s skin prickle. He sat on the edge of the exam table, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against the thin paper covering it. The doctor’s glasses reflected the fluorescent lights as she flipped through his chart, her expression unreadable.
“Your bloodwork looks good,” she said finally, snapping the folder shut. “Better than good, actually. Given your husband’s history, I was expecting complications, but—” She shrugged, a small, professional smile tugging at her lips. “You’re healthy. More than healthy enough for this.”
Ilya swallowed. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. “So it’s possible?”
Dr. Chen leaned back against the counter, her lab coat rustling softly. "We can always try," she said, her voice carefully neutral—the same tone she'd used years ago when Shane sat in this exact room, gripping Ilya’s hand hard enough to bruise. "But given Shane’s history, the odds aren’t in his favor if we go that route again." She paused, tapping a pen against her palm. "With you, though? Your hormone levels are stable. Your scans are clean. The only real risk is the same one anyone faces in these situations."
Ilya exhaled sharply through his nose. The paper beneath him crinkled as he shifted, his palms suddenly damp. Shane would kill him if he found out he’d even asked about this. Or worse—he’d crumple in that quiet, devastated way he had when the last pregnancy failed, like his ribs were collapsing inward. But the thought of Shane’s face lighting up at a positive test, at the swell of Ilya’s belly under his hands...
“How soon—” Ilya’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat, fingers curling into the paper beneath him. “How soon can you implant me? With Shane’s samples. From the bank.”
Dr. Chen’s pen stilled. She tilted her head, studying him over the rims of her glasses. “Today.”
“Today?” The word punched out of him, too loud for the sterile room. He winced, lowering his voice. “I—I was only here to ask if it was possible. Not to— Christ.” He dragged a hand through his hair, gripping at the roots. Shane was at practice. He wouldn’t be home for hours. He wouldn’t even know unless…
“Let’s do it.” Dr. Chen pushed off the counter and tossed her pen onto the tray with a decisive clink. “Come on. Your husband’s samples are already here—you updated the consent forms last year, remember? In case Shane wanted to try again with a surrogate.” Her smile was small, knowing. “Lucky you kept them.”
The exam table was colder than Ilya remembered. Or maybe he’d just never been on this side of it before—flat on his back, knees bent and feet planted in the stirrups like some absurd, vulnerable parody of Shane’s usual position during their annual physicals. The paper beneath him crackled as he shifted, and he caught himself resisting the urge to cross his ankles like a prim schoolboy.
"Relax," Dr. Chen said without looking up, adjusting the overhead light with a practiced flick of her wrist. "You're tenser than Shane was during the last implantation, and that’s saying something."
Ilya huffed a laugh, but his thighs stayed rigid. It wasn’t the discomfort—hell, he’d played through worse after a bad check—but the sheer strangeness of it. The stirrups, the cold gel Dr. Chen was squeezing onto the transducer, the way his pulse jumped when she draped a sterile sheet over his knees. His fingers twitched at his sides, itching to text Shane some stupid joke to distract himself, but his phone was in his jacket pocket across the room, and anyway—
The cold metal pressed in before Ilya could brace himself—a sharp, clinical intrusion that made his hips jerk off the table. "Fuck—" The word tore out of him before he could bite it back, his fingers scrambling at the edges of the paper sheet. Dr. Chen paused, her grip loosening slightly on the speculum handle.
"You okay?"
Ilya forced a nod, his throat working around nothing. His pulse hammered in his temples, sudden and sickening. What the hell was he doing? Shane's last miscarriage had left him hollowed out for months, the kind of grief that clung to his bones even after the smiles came back. What if this ended the same way—another positive test, another ultrasound photo tucked hopefully on the fridge, another empty nursery with the tags still on the crib? What if Ilya's body, built for hockey checks and penalty box grit, couldn't do this either?
The speculum clicked open. Ilya's breath hitched.
The pressure was strange—not painful, exactly, but invasive in a way that made Ilya’s stomach flip. A cold, sliding sensation, then a click, and suddenly it was over before he could process it. Dr. Chen’s hands were already moving away, the speculum withdrawn with a practiced efficiency that left Ilya blinking up at the ceiling, his thighs still splayed awkwardly in the stirrups.
"Done," she said, snapping off her gloves with a brisk flick of her wrists. "You're all set."
Ilya exhaled sharply, his fingers unclenching from the edges of the paper sheet. His skin felt too tight, his pulse still thrumming unevenly under his ribs. That was it?
"Results should be in soon," Dr. Chen continued, scribbling notes without looking up. "You know the drill—bloodwork in two weeks, then weekly until we confirm implantation. Same protocol as last time." She capped her pen and finally met his gaze, her expression softening. "Try not to stress yourself. Your numbers are good."
"Thank you," Ilya muttered, swinging his legs over the edge of the table. The paper crackled ominously under his weight. He hesitated, fingers digging into the edge of the exam table. "And—please. Don’t tell Shane yet. Not until we’re sure."
"Of course," Dr. Chen said, peeling off her gloves with a crisp snap. "But—just to manage expectations—let’s hit the thirteen-week mark first." She paused, tapping the clipboard against her palm. "Then you’ll be good to go."
Ilya’s fingers tightened around the edge of the exam table.
Thirteen weeks.