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Canadian winter was different from winter in Russia.

The air was cold, the wind biting, the snow mountainous– all of this was familiar. But somehow… it was almost welcoming. Winter in Russia was bitter and violent and ruinous, but winter in Canada was soft. Cold and dangerous as winter always was, yes, but soft nonetheless.

Ilya wished he could enjoy it properly. 

Instead he was stood outside, a cigarette clutched in one hand and a faulty lighter in the other, desperate to quell his anxiety. He had to perform well. He had no choice but to win, anything less would disappoint his father. It was possible even a win would not be enough to keep his father from scolding him later. 

Yet still he wanted nothing more than to make the man proud of him. He knew it was unlikely to ever happen, that he had been marked a disappointment at birth, but–

“Hey, I, uh– I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke here?”

Ilya’s head snapped to the side, his eyes settling on a nervous-looking man. He was cute, all bundled up in ten layers and rocking on his heels, his eyes darting away from Ilya’s as his cheeks grew pink beneath his freckles.

“Okay,” Ilya said simply, refusing to acknowledge the desire stirring in his gut. He could not do this, not here. Not with so much on the line. He needed to win, and he needed to go home to his hopefully less disappointed father, and he needed to survive one more year in Russia before he could join the NHL, and–

“Ilya Rozanov?” There was something strange in the other man’s voice, something searching. “I’m, uh– Shane Hollander.” He paused, there, as if hoping for a response. “You’re really something else out there. On the ice.”

Ilya glanced down, amused to see Hollander’s hand awkwardly stuck out between them.

“Yes,” he agreed, never one to deny an obvious fact. Of course he was ‘something else’ on the ice. He was the best damn skater in a generation. This Shane Hollander, though– Ilya had heard of him. People seemed to think he was competition for Ilya.

Smirking around his finally lit cigarette, Ilya took the other man’s hand.

Nobody could beat him. Not even this Hollander and his pretty freckles. 

Hollander smiled awkwardly, his eyes flicking around Ilya’s face as if looking for– something. Ilya didn’t pay much attention to it, far more focused on the flush on Hollander’s cheeks from the cold. Finally, when the handshake had gone on a beat too long, something like disappointment flashed in Hollander’s eyes and he stepped away.

“Well, I, uh– I’ll see you at the game.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed, his eyes dragging over Hollander’s retreating figure. “I will see you.”

***

It did not come as a surprise to Ilya when he was the first pick in the draft. A relief, maybe, but not a surprise.

The after party had been difficult to get through. He ignored his father’s snide comments to the best of his ability, forcing down the blush that wanted to flame on his cheeks at every dig in front of the manager of his future team. These people had chosen him. Why was his father going out of his way to make it seem like a bad choice before Ilya had a chance to prove himself?

He knew why, of course, but he did not like to think of it.

Thankfully, the great Grigori Rozanov was far too important a man to spend more than an afternoon in America, and he boarded a flight back to Moscow almost immediately after the event.

Ilya paced his hotel room for hours, restless and unsure what to do about it, before finally giving up and heading down to the gym he had spotted just off the hotel’s lobby. The space was airy and open, a clean feeling to it that Ilya did not often associate with working out. He stepped further into the room, turning a corner to spot– Hollander.

The other man had been problematic throughout the day, so of course he was at the gym as well. Ilya had hardly been able to take his eyes off Shane Hollander throughout all the post-draft celebrations. It was like there was a magnet drawing Ilya’s eyes to him, tugging his attention back whenever it strayed.

It was frustrating. It was interesting.

Feeling more free with his father firmly over international waters, Ilya approached. He didn’t speak to Hollander, not yet, just settled onto the exercise bike beside him. Ilya bent himself nearly in half over the handles of the bike, unable to resist the pull of competition as he peddled as hard as he could, determined to go faster than Hollander. 

It helped that the other man sounded even prettier out of breath beside him.

Afterwards, Ilya settled onto the floor across from Hollander, half-paying attention to their conversation. He tracked the way Hollander’s eyes were drifting from his eyes to his mouth, along his shoulders, and then further down, before snapping back up and restarting the same path. It sent a spark down his spine, a smirk growing on his face as he watched Hollander’s eyes linger just a bit too long on his throat. Ilya couldn’t help but to lean into it, tipping his water bottle back in a way that he knew would stretch and emphasize all the muscles he had on display.

Hollander stuttered to a stop in the middle of an explanation about how ‘Boston is good, I think, I have a buddy who…’ and stared at the sweat dripping from Ilya’s bicep with his mouth half open.

Satisfied, Ilya allowed himself to wink at the other man and hand his bottle over. He couldn’t risk being too daring– no matter how clear it was that Hollander was at the very least a little interested in him, he couldn’t risk the other man chickening out and running to the press with news of Ilya’s ‘homosexual tendencies’. It would be safest to wait until he was officially living outside of Russia.

Still, Ilya couldn’t resist dragging his fingers along Shane’s as he took the bottle back.

“Should we… I don’t know, talk?”

“Talk?” Ilya questioned, frowning in confusion. “We are not talking now?”

“No, I meant… you know.” 

Ilya did not know. Clearly there was something Hollander thought he should have caught at some point during their conversation, but Ilya was fairly confident there wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Unsure what else to say and feeling unsteady on his feet for the first time since entering the gym and seeing Hollander, Ilya schooled his face into a neutral expression and stared at the other man until he eventually gave up.

“Sure, whatever,” Hollander muttered, his face a dark red. “We don’t have to– it was just an idea.”

Bemused, Ilya watched as Hollander practically scurried out of the room, his hands clutched into fists at his sides.

Shane Hollander was a strange man. 

Ilya wanted more of him.

***

2010.

The second International Prospect Cup had been disappointing, to say the least. The calls from his father after had been worse than expected, but bearable. The only bright spot in the otherwise dull event had been seeing Shane Hollander again.

Ilya was craving more.

At the very end of the event, as they were shaking each other’s hands, Shane had given him a friendly ‘see you in October’, and all Ilya had been able to think was that October was so far away. He needed to see him sooner, and he had a good idea for how to do it.

He was just lucky that Hollander did so many damn ad campaigns.

The CCM agent he spoke to had been thrilled by the idea, but Ilya largely drifted through the pitch in a haze, his mind stuck on memories of Shane Hollander’s pretty face and pretty freckles and pretty everything. 

Seeing him in person again– laughing together for the first time– was better than Ilya had imagined it would be. It only got better afterwards, when Ilya realized there was a shared shower. He was already soaked and largely clean from the other showers on his side of the locker room, but he couldn’t resist setting his towel to the side and stepping in with Hollander.

It had turned out to be one of his better ideas. 

Ilya watched as Hollander awkwardly pulled on his shoes, stammering on about ‘forgetting what happened’ or some nonsense. That would not be happening.

“What is your room number?” Ilya was confident as he spoke, sure that Hollander would hand it over. There was no mistaking the way the other man had been looking at him.

Hollander hesitated.

Ilya frowned slightly, fighting to keep the fear off his face. He had not misread this– he knew he had not misread this. And yet there Hollander was, pursing his lips as if any part of him was considering telling Ilya no. He knew for a fact that at least one part of the other man wanted to give Ilya a very enthusiastic yes.

Finally, Hollander spoke: “1410.”

Feeling more stable, Ilya dared to give the man a cocky smirk. “And if I were to come to room 1410 sometime tonight…” he trailed off, watching as Hollander shivered.

“I might open.”

“I might knock.”

2010.

Shane flopped back onto his sheets after Ilya– Rozanov, he needed to think of him as Rozanov– left. His heart was racing, his chest tight with a mixture of exhilaration and despair. He had just… just been with his soulmate. The person he had waited his entire life to meet, the man he had been dreaming of for years, and somehow Rozanov still seemed to surpass every expectation Shane had for him. Except, of course, for the fact that the man seemed to only want one thing from him.

Sex.

At first, when Rozanov had asked for his hotel room, Shane had thought they were finally going to talk about it. The big, soulmate-shaped elephant in the room. Shane’s thumb ran over his soulmark as his thoughts raced, smoothing over the hair that neatly covered the scrawled Ilya Rozanov above his right ear. He had always thought himself lucky, growing up, that his mark was so covered. It had made hockey easier, for sure. There was no way for anyone on his team to know Shane’s darkest secret: that he liked men. It had also kept his parents from going insane when Ilya Rozanov became a big name in hockey. They had taken one look at his dark head of hair and told the doctor that it was a sign that their boy needed privacy and they shouldn’t look for his mark. Shane had always appreciated that, even though he knew his mom had come to regret it as years went by and he showed no interest in any of the girls that asked to come to his games.

For the first time in his life, Shane wished his mark was somewhere more obvious. They wouldn’t be able to avoid the conversations if their names were written right above their hearts, or on the insides of their thighs where Ilya had spent a few minutes peppering kisses earlier that night. Shane frowned as he ran his thumb over the slightly raised letters one more time, wishing that Ilya was still there. That Rozanov was still there.

He needed to put some distance between them. Clearly it was what Rozanov wanted, even if Shane couldn’t understand why.

***

Shane had spent his entire life looking forward to meeting his soulmate. Now, he spent his days trying to do anything that would impress the man into being with him outside of darkened hotel rooms. They had only hooked up once and there was no guarantee they would do it ever again, but he had a feeling if he saw Ilya Rozanov outside the rink anytime soon it would not be in the light of day.

His entire life, Shane had been sure that when he met his soulmate everything would click into place. He had always felt odd; he was different from his peers in ways that everyone noticed but no one could explain. The gentle curl of Rozanov’s name over his ear had been a reassurance on nights where he felt like nobody other than his parents would understand him enough to love him.

Now here he was: he had met his soulmate over a year ago and all he had to show for it was one measly (incredibly hot) hookup. They didn’t exchange numbers, they didn’t address the whole ‘soulmates’ situation, hell Rozanov didn’t even call him by his first name. To be fair, Shane hadn’t either, but he was just trying to follow his soulmate’s lead. 

Shane couldn’t help but to think that it had something to do with him. Maybe Ilya saw something in him that he didn’t like, maybe Ilya was disappointed, maybe–

It wasn’t something Shane could afford to dwell on. Especially not in the middle of a game against Boston.

His focus sharpened back to the ice as his coach tapped him on the shoulder, and Shane skated to center ice to meet Ilya– Rozanov– for the face off.

So what if Rozanov didn’t like his personality? So what if his soulmate thought he was boring, or strange, or lame, or any of the other schoolyard insults Shane had heard over the years? Shane was a damn good hockey player, and he was going to prove it.

Maybe it would make Ilya proud of him.

“Shane Hollander,” Rozanov said, his lips curling carefully around the words. “Will you disappoint them?”

Will you disappoint me?

“No.”

Shane smacked the puck out of the air before Rozanov had a chance to react, his muscles springing into motion as he spun and darted towards Boston’s goal. There was one thing in his life he had never been bad at, one thing that kept the whispered insults from being shouted.

If there was anything that could convince Rozanov that he was a good soulmate, it was hockey.

Naturally, Shane was disappointed when Rozanov didn’t seek him out after the game.

It made sense– they didn’t have each other’s phone numbers so they couldn’t figure out a safe place to meet, and the press had been lingering around the arena like vultures. Shane knew they were, because he had been doing the same in hopes of catching a glimpse of Rozanov.

After a few hours of this, Shane admitted defeat and headed home, his lips downturned despite his best efforts to brush it off. They had time, they were both still young and fresh on the scene. One missed chance did not mean that Rozanov didn’t want him, it just meant that Shane would have to try again.

Maybe next time would be different.

***

2011.

He didn’t have to wait too long.

The All-Star game brought with it massive crowds and eyes tracking their every move on the ice, but it also brought the peace and privacy of multiple days in the same hotel. 

Clearly Rozanov wanted to take advantage of that, if his blatant proposal on the bench earlier that day was anything to go off of.

Afterwards, freshly showered and in his own decidedly less-rumpled bed, Shane grinned dopily up at the ceiling.

Rozanov wanted to see him again.

Sure, he had called him boring, but it didn’t seem like a bad thing when Rozanov said it. Rozanov was his soulmate, so when he called Shane boring, he did it fondly. That reminder had Shane’s smile freezing on his face though, his thoughts drifting.

Ilya wanted to see him again.

So why were they not addressing the massive fucking elephant in the room? Shane felt his chest grow tight as his breathing quickened, trying to think through the situation that made no sense. Ilya wanted to see him again, which was something that thrilled Shane and confused him at the same time. Ilya wanted to see him again, but Ilya didn’t bother mentioning that they were soulmates. Ilya still hadn’t called Shane by his first name. To be fair, Shane was still calling Ilya ‘Rozanov’, but he figured he couldn’t be blamed for following the other man’s lead.

The room felt stifling, suddenly, and Shane reached out for the ginger ale on his nightstand, allowing the cold liquid to soothe him. It made some amount of sense for them to not really talk about it. They had no chance of being proper soulmates, at least not yet. Not at the start of their careers, with too much to lose and not enough to gain. Some part of Shane could acknowledge that, even if it stung.

But if Ilya didn’t want to talk about it because of the risk involved, why had he asked Shane to his room on the ice in front of Scott fucking Hunter?

Shane groaned loudly, scrubbing his face with one hand. He wasn’t going to understand Ilya’s reasoning that day, and probably not the day after, but at least he had the other man’s number now. And with the number came a promise that they would be seeing each other again. 

If he brought up the topic Rozanov was clearly trying to avoid, he risked chasing the man off. 

It wasn’t worth the risk. He would keep quiet until Ilya decided to say something.

***

The four months between the All-Star game and the MLH Awards felt like four years. Going from a promise to see Ilya in two weeks to an uncertain timeline because of some fucking snow felt unfair. Worse than that, though, was the fact that Shane hadn’t seen Ilya all night.

The shots from earlier warmed Shane from the inside out as he scanned the massive room full of hockey players and investors, his frustration growing as he realized there was no sign of the broad shoulders and golden curls he was looking for.

He had won Rookie of the Year, for fucks sake, surely his soulmate would deign to acknowledge him? Surely Shane had finally proven himself worthy of finally addressing this massive, confusing thing between them?

Shane stumbled onto the rooftop, taking in a breath of the fresh air and relishing in the distance from the din of the party. He blinked rapidly as he realized the air wasn’t as fresh as he was expecting, tainted by cigarette smoke coming from–

Ilya.

The man turned as if Shane’s thoughts had beckoned him, his eyebrows raising at the sight of Shane slumped beside the door.

“Party all done?”

Shane frowned, unsure how to respond. As much as he always wanted to talk to Ilya, he still found himself nervous about it. “No, I just… I needed some air.”

Humming, Ilya stepped closer, away from the balcony. “You are drunk,” he stated, dropping his cigarette and snuffing it out with his shiny dress shoes. Shane’s eyes stuck on them, unable to look away from the ash that marred the perfectly clean toe.

“I’m not drunk,” he said reflexively, his throat closing around the lie. 

“Good for you,” Ilya said, “Big night for you.”

There was a tenseness to Ilya that Shane wasn’t used to, and his eyes trailed across his broad shoulders as Ilya turned back to the view of the city before them.

“Yeah, well. It could’ve gone to either one of us.”

“Mm,” Ilya hummed, a twist to his lips visible as Shane came to rest beside him. “It went to you.”

There. The rigidity to Ilya’s frame made sense as Shane took in the words, his own lips curling. Ilya was feeling… resentful? Jealous? Whatever it was, it was the furthest thing from the pride Shane had been hoping his soulmate would feel for him. He would have been proud if Ilya had won, after all.

…Although maybe he would have been a little jealous at first.

“So what? You couldn’t be happy for me? I was hoping maybe my– maybe you would say something to me, not just disappear the whole fucking night!”

“Not everything is about you, Hollander!” 

Shane took a step back, hurt flaring in his chest briefly. It wasn’t about him, obviously, it was about them. Why could Ilya not be bothered to talk about them?

Blinking rapidly, Shane shifted his weight from foot to foot. “So what is it, then?”

“What the fuck do you want?” Ilya shouted, his hands leaving the balcony rail to gesture towards Shane.

You. I want you, Shane thought desperately, the words clawing to escape. “Nothing,” he said instead, knowing it was too dangerous to try to bring that up in public. “I just wanted some fresh air– to see the view.” To see you.

“Here is fucking view, Hollander” Ilya snapped, whipping his arm out towards the city. With shaking hands, he lit another cigarette and raised it to his lips, narrowing his eyes at Shane as if daring him to protest.

Unable to think of anything to say, Shane stayed silent. His gaze never strayed from Ilya’s face.

“I go home in three days.”

Shane nodded slowly, fighting through the haze of alcohol to follow the change in subject. Cautious of setting Ilya off again when his whole mission was to prove he was worthy of being the man’s soulmate, Shane replied simply.

“Okay?”

Ilya finally turned to meet his eyes, the guarded look he had been holding onto falling away. Feeling emboldened by the response, Shane thought carefully before speaking again.

“I guess I thought maybe we… I don’t know.” Maybe we would talk. Maybe I would see you somewhere where we wouldn’t risk being walked in on at any moment.

Clearly that was a mistake. Ilya looked away again, his jaw clenching. “Maybe what, Hollander?”

“Maybe you would want to see me,” Shane said helplessly, his voice sounding far away to his own ears.

They were silent for a moment, Shane still unable to tear his eyes away from Ilya. The other man was still tense, his eyes flicking over the skyline as he thought over his next words.

“No. I am going back to Russia, I cannot… No.”

Shane froze, his thoughts stumbling to a halt. 

That must be why Ilya hadn’t said anything yet. His soulmate didn’t want him back.

Ilya–Rozanov– was going to reject their bond.

“Right,” he said faintly, “You… okay. See you next season?”

Shame flooded his cheeks with red as Shane realized how desperate he must sound, and he quickly turned to leave. Rozanov didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to talk to him, didn’t want him. That much was obvious.

He ignored the call of “Hollander!” that followed him off the rooftop.

***

The next few years passed by in an unbearable whirl of disappointment and achievement. His team won the cup twice following Rozanov’s singular victory, a fact that filled Shane with so much vindictive pride he spent the months following his second cup win a bit embarrassed.

Through it all, they somehow never lost contact. 

Shane was determined not to fall back to where they had been headed, knowing he deserved better than shameful hookups with a man that didn’t even want the bond they had been gifted, but he was not strong enough to stay away completely. And so it went: every game they had against each other, Rozanov asked to meet up. Shane always said no, always had some excuse prepared. Every summer Rozanov messaged him at least once a week, simple, nonsense messages that shouldn’t have swayed Shane as much as they did.

It all came to its inevitable end in Montreal.

***

2013.

Shane could only spend so long craving the contact of his soulmate before he gave in to the other man’s constant requests (demands) to see him.

He opened the back door to his apartment roughly, frustrated with himself for giving in just as much as he was frustrated with Rozanov for being there despite not wanting everything Shane had to give.

“You will murder me?” Rozanov teased, his eyes darting from the alley behind Shane’s apartment to the pinched expression on his face.

“I might,” Shane said, flicking a hand impatiently. “Get in!”

They hadn’t been alone together in nearly two years, and Shane felt the comfort of it seeping under his skin like a drug, Rozanov’s presence leaving him warm and tingly despite the circumstances. He gave into the playful competitiveness they thrived under easily, chasing Rozanov up the stairs and bickering about their game.

Rozanov may not want him as a soulmate, but Shane was coming to realize that he would take whatever the other man would give him. Even scraps of affection were better than the wrongness that had settled over him over the last few years.

The night went… It went well. Perfect, even. Rozanov handled him so carefully, his voice soothing Shane’s anxieties as he checked in throughout. His hands never left Shane, running over his sides, rubbing soothing circles into his shoulders, holding him down–

It was unlike anything Shane had ever experienced. 

There had been a moment, afterwards, where Rozanov fell into bed with him, his hair damp from the shower, and Shane thought ‘this is it. This is the moment where we finally talk about it.’

Naturally, that did not happen. Instead, Shane was sitting in his stairwell, watching Rozanov pull on his shoes and trying to shove down his disappointment over the other man leaving so soon. He knew Rozanov needed to go, knew he had a flight to catch, knew they were out of time, but…

Rozanov had an early flight in the morning, not to mention his curfew with the team. The conversation would have to wait.

For the first time, as Rozanov kissed him gently on the way out, Shane was hopeful that the conversation would actually happen.

***

2014.

Any hopes Shane had were ruined after the Olympics. He spent six months in purgatory, every text to Rozanov going unanswered, wondering if the other man had broken their bond without even bothering to tell him. It was relatively unheard of, but maybe Rozanov really was as much of an asshole as everyone believed him to be.

Shane had never thought that of him, but Shane had never been good at reading people anyway.

As he stared at Rozanov across a dingy bathroom, he felt like he had never known anything about the man at all. It was like the ground had been removed beneath his feet, Shane in free fall as Rozanov stared at him all cocky, asking him to suck his dick.

Shane reached behind himself, catching the edge of the sink and gripping it until his knuckles began to hurt. “Are you fucking serious?” he snapped, glaring a hole into the wall just beside Rozanov’s head. “You haven’t texted me in six months, Rozanov, I– what the fuck is wrong with you? You can suck my dick!”

“Maybe ask nicely.” Rozanov’s voice had lost some of his typical cockiness, somehow turning soft despite the crudeness of their conversation. Shane looked away from the wall to find him much closer than before, one of Rozanov’s hands rising slowly to his jaw. Rozanov dug his fingers into Shane’s chin, raising his face up and sending a rush of warmth down his spine.

It was ridiculous how quickly he went from righteously angry to putty in the other man’s hands. Part of Shane was begging him to give in, begging him to drop to his knees and say please as many times as he needed to, anything to get Rozanov to keep looking at him like that. Like he cared. Like Shane was worth something.

But the other part of him, the part that stung with hurt every time he remembered the name curled over his ear, kept him silent. 

Rozanov seemed caught off guard by Shane’s lack of response, and his hand twitched where it still held Shane’s chin in place. He opened and closed his mouth several times, all the confidence from moments ago seemingly washed away in the tide of Shane’s refusal.

“Will you come to my room later?” he settled on eventually, his eyes darting down to Shane’s slightly opened mouth before returning to his eyes.

This, Shane could not refuse. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, six months apart had left him desperate to see the other man. He nodded in response, still not trusting himself to speak without falling to shreds at Rozanov’s feet.

“Good,” Rozanov said, the corners of his lips curling as he seemingly regained his footing. “How about this: if you win tonight, I will do whatever you want. Blow you, fuck you… Whatever.”

Talk to me, Shane begged silently, just talk to me.

“And if you win?” he asked aloud.

Rozanov hummed faintly before dragging Shane into him, their lips meeting softly. They had probably kissed a hundred times by now, but Shane still fell into it easily, sparks shooting down his spine as if it was their first.

When they pulled apart, Shane could hardly open his eyes through the haze that had fallen over him. He had missed this; he had needed this. He was snapped out of his daze by a firm pat to his cheek. His eyes refocused to the sight of one of Rozanov’s rare smiles, and Shane couldn’t help but to smile back.

“We should get back,” Shane whispered, his hand drifting to cover Rozanov’s on his cheek.

“Mm, yes,” Rozanov agreed, his hands falling away. He turned without another word, leaving Shane behind with a cold cheek and a rekindling hope in his chest.

It seemed that Rozanov hadn’t fully cast him aside just yet.

***

Rozanov had won, and he claimed his prize vigorously.

Beside him in bed afterwards, with a glass of gross celebratory vodka in his hand, Shane felt oddly hollow. The sex had been fantastic, of course. It always was when it was them. But there had been something about it that Shane couldn’t place, something that left him with a chill despite the sweat coating his body. Rozanov was beside him, quiet other than the rustling of him taking drags of his cigarette.

After taking a beat to steady himself, Shane spoke.

“Don’t you ever want more with… your soulmate?” With me. Don’t you ever want more with me?

Shane waited patiently for Rozanov’s answer, his heart pounding away in his chest as he stared at the other man.

“No,” Rozanov said decisively. Shane felt his heart shatter as the other man flicked his cigarette dismissively. “I do not have a soulmate.”

Oh. Shane sat in stunned silence for a few moments, his glass of vodka frozen in midair, halfway to his lips.

“I have an early flight, so…” Rozanov said suddenly, his gaze fixed forward.

“Of course,” Shane said, his voice dripping with shame he wasn’t able to repress. “I should go. I should…” He stood shakily, stumbling into the other room and grabbing his pile of folded clothes from the back of the couch. His underwear was still in a crumpled heap on the floor beside the chair where Rozanov had sat while he… while he…

“I’m headed out,” he called over his shoulder, fighting to keep his voice steady. He paused to wait for a response, but when it became clear that Rozanov wasn’t going to bother, he shook his head and stepped out of the room.

Of course Rozanov hadn’t brought up them being soulmates. They weren’t.

Shane would always belong to Ilya Rozanov, but Rozanov would never belong to him.

The bond wasn’t reciprocal.

A door slammed shut in the distance, the sound echoing in Ilya’s head. Shane was gone. Again. He took another sip of his vodka, trying to keep up his nonchalant facade even with no one there to see it. Beneath the surface, his heart hammered away in his chest as his mind raced with nothing but Shane, Shane, Shane.

It had been years since someone had asked him about soulmates.

When he first got to Boston, Ilya had endured a few questions from his teammates about his mark– if he was hiding it or if it was somewhere obscure, a few chirps about what he would have to be embarrassed about– until he shut them all down with a snapped ‘I don’t have a soulmate, stop fucking asking’. Word was spread to every Boston rookie from then on: it may seem harmless, but do not ask Ilya Rozanov about his soulmate. And outside of hockey… none of the women Ilya hooked up with bothered to ask, and there wasn’t really anyone else in his life besides Svetlana, who knew the whole story anyway.

It was probably an oversight, but he didn’t have an answer prepared to give perfect Shane Hollander. He wanted the man more than anyone he had ever met, so when Shane asked about his soulmate, Ilya panicked.

He lied.

Somewhere out there in the world, there was someone walking around with Ilya Rozanov scrawled above their ear, but Ilya didn’t care about them at all. He cared about perfect Shane Hollander and his freckles and neuroses and beautiful, unmarked skin. Ilya figured Shane probably did the same thing as the rest of the private guys in the league, and kept a strong foundation on him at all times, one of the ones that was formulated to not rub off on anything but also not come off the skin for several days. It would be necessary, after all: they had never talked about it, but Ilya was fairly certain Shane was gay. It wouldn’t be safe for him to walk around with a man’s name written on his body.

Ilya ached at the reminder of soulmates. Because somewhere out in the world was a man nearly as perfect as Shane Hollander, just waiting to sweep him off his feet. He was grateful, suddenly, to Shane. He didn’t want to see the other man’s mark. He didn’t want to know who would inevitably come in to steal Shane away from him.

The smartest thing to do would be to put some distance between them. Ilya couldn’t afford the heartbreak and distraction that was coming for him when Shane met his soulmate, but…

He didn’t want distance. He wanted Shane. All the time, everywhere he was, Ilya wanted Shane to be with him.

A buzz from the nightstand beside him caught his attention, and Ilya watched as Jane flashed across his screen. Just like he had every other time Shane had messaged him over the last few months, Ilya swiped the text away and ignored the pang in his heart.

***

2016.

Over the next few years, Ilya repeatedly lost the war he was waging on his own emotions. He couldn’t bring himself to stay away from Shane, no matter how hard he tried. He wanted nothing more than the other man; he wanted Shane more than he cared about his own happiness, more than he cared about what would happen to him when Shane found his soulmate and left. With that in mind, Ilya had formulated a plan to show Shane that he was serious about them, serious about what they could have together. Which led him to where he was now: sitting on his couch, watching as Shane did the thing Ilya had been incapable of.

He left. 

Ilya had called him Shane, had made him food and cuddled him on the couch and treated him the way he had been craving to, and Shane had left. He had tossed a shaken “You don’t want me” over his shoulder on the way out, as if that could ever be true. As if Ilya hadn’t been aching for him since that day in Saskatchewan.

It had taken years for Ilya to build the courage he needed to ask Shane to stay. Two years of convincing himself that if Shane had stuck around this long, maybe he would be willing to stick around forever. Maybe Shane didn’t care who his soulmate was, just like Ilya didn’t, and was willing to stay with Ilya without some magical tie.

Being wrong hurt more than Ilya thought possible. For the second time, Ilya sat motionless as Shane slammed the door on his way out, his mind drifting back to that night in Vegas and every night after without his permission. Shane had been different after Vegas in a way that Ilya couldn’t identify, and that unsettled him. He had started to hope that the difference was good, that it meant Shane wanted this just as badly as Ilya did, but clearly he had been wrong about that, too.

He had made a mistake. He had asked Shane for too much, and now the other man was running as far away from him as possible. Eventually he would run far enough, and he would fall into the waiting arms of his soulmate. Ilya wasn’t sure what he would do when it eventually happened. Part of him felt that he would simply wither away, but he liked to believe he was stronger than that.

Ilya sank further into the couch cushions as his mind raced, his hands digging into his knees hard enough to hurt. It was difficult, but in the privacy of his own mind, Ilya could admit that he loved Shane Hollander. He loved him like he had never loved anyone else, and Shane… didn’t feel the same way. Shane had someone else waiting for him, but for Ilya there would never be anyone else.

Even if his mark wasn’t scarred over, Ilya was certain he wouldn’t care what name was up there. It would always be Shane for him.

***

Rose Landry was a surprise. 

Ilya had always known that Shane would leave him for another man, so when Shane cropped up in the press with Rose Landry, it caught Ilya off guard. It made him wonder if he really knew anything about the other man, if he had just been making incorrect guesses their entire ‘relationship’. He had been so sure that Shane was gay. 

The months following the original paparazzi pictures of the two together were hard. Ilya couldn’t decide if he wanted to avoid all mention of the latest star couple or if he wanted to stalk the two online in an effort to figure out how serious they were.

He was sure to find out soon enough, and the cool beer he had been provided was doing nothing to calm his nerves. Ilya had almost backed out of the All Star games when it became clear that he would have to be on the same team as Shane, but in the end the draw of seeing the other man again was too strong to deny. He tapped rhythmically on the bartop, taking another gulp of his beer just as a familiar hush fell over the room. He knew what that meant– he had spent years memorizing the way the atmosphere changed when Shane Hollander entered a room.

One glance around the room proved him right. Shane was scanning the faces around him, his shoulders tight and uncomfortable under a linen blazer that Ilya had never seen before. He looked… good. Well dressed, rested, his freckles even more striking than Ilya remembered. 

Before he could decide if he wanted to run away or stay and see what happens, Ilya was being approached. He downed the last of his beer in anticipation, thoughtlessly gesturing for another when the bartender came by to offer Shane a drink. It didn’t escape his notice that Shane– beautiful, slightly insane Shane who seemingly only ever drank ginger ale– ordered a beer as well.

“Were they out of ginger ale, Captain?” Ilya teased automatically, trying to keep his voice from being as stiff as he felt. He hadn’t expected Shane to come up to him, at least not until practice started. Ilya thought the weekend would be a hell of his own making of Shane avoiding him like the plague unless professionally necessary.

Instead:

“I’m feeling a bit wild.”

Ilya could see Shane shifting out of the corner of his eye, could see the other man turning towards him, but he stared steadily forward. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he looked at Shane and saw that familiar glint in his eyes, if he looked at Shane and found the other man looking back at him like he wanted him again. He couldn’t stand to get his hopes up.

“This should be fun, huh?” Shane continued, “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to play on the same team.”

“Have you?” Ilya asked blandly, fidgeting with the empty bottle of beer in his hands. He rapped his fingers against the glass nervously, hardly able to keep himself from picking at the label. That would be too obvious of a display though, even Shane with all his socially awkward tendencies would notice that.

“Well, yeah. I have.” 

The smile on his face could be heard through his voice, and Ilya turned his head further away to resist the urge to drink it in.

“Nice that it’s in Florida this year, right?”

Ilya’s mind flashed back to a conversation across a kitchen counter, the pungent smell of tuna filling the air as they chatted amicably for possibly the first time ever. It had felt a lot like it did now: comfortable. A little strained and unsure, but comfortable all the same.

“Yes,” he agreed without thinking, stealing a glance towards Shane as the bartender came by with their beers. He snapped his head to the side again as Shane resettled, still determined to avoid eye contact. Just the one look had been enough, Shane’s rosy cheeks, covered in freckles and scrunched up by a small smile, would be engrained in his mind forever. He hated that he hadn’t seen Shane like this in so long– had hardly ever seen Shane like this, actually. 

Just like that, a thought entered his mind. Rose Landry probably sees him this way all the time. A curl of jealousy and resentment festered in his gut, and Ilya couldn’t keep himself from opening his mouth. “Did you… bring anyone with you?” Did you bring her? Will I have to watch you with her firsthand? Will I have to pretend to hardly know you, pretend I haven’t taken you apart in ways she never will?

Ilya hardly heard whatever Shane said about his parents and Mexico through the blood rushing in his ears, hurt pushing up in his throat and refusing to be shoved down. He made eye contact with Shane for the first time, nodding along blankly.

“Ah,” he said eventually, realizing that Shane wasn’t going to say any more. He waited a beat, hoping maybe Shane would figure out what he was really asking, but no luck.

“Did you, uh… bring somebody?”

I haven’t thought of anyone but you in months, Ilya thought desperately, his eyes scanning over Shane’s face now that he had finally allowed himself to look. There was something in the other man’s eyes– something searching. Like he was wondering the same thing Ilya was.

“Nope,” Ilya answered, popping the ‘p’. He pulled his new bottle of beer to his mouth, taking a swig and maintaining eye contact with Shane. A spark of hope flared in his gut as Shane looked down, flustered. Ilya’s gaze darted down to the other man’s mouth, pleased when Shane’s did the same once his beer was back on the bartop.

“So you did not bring Rose Landry?” he asked bluntly, unable to stop himself.

Shane’s eyebrows raised, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No,” he said, “I didn’t. We weren’t, uh– compatible. We’re still friends, but we weren’t… we didn’t work out. Not like that.”

Not like us, Ilya heard. It was probably wishful thinking, but at this point he was willing to cling to whatever he got. He hummed as a response, knocking his knee into Shane’s under the bar.

“I should really– I should probably mingle. You know?” Shane’s voice was higher, like it always was when Ilya pushed his buttons in a way that made him pleasantly nervous. Satisfied, Ilya nodded again.

“I’ll– I’ll see you later,” Shane said, standing from his barstool into the narrow space between them, his body heat leeching onto Ilya’s bare arm as he brushed past.

Ilya took a steadying breath, his face turning towards the bar to hide his smile from the room.

Maybe all hope wasn’t lost.

***

Seeking out Shane after the game was easy. He was a boring, predictable, romantic man, so of course he had found his way to the beach by the hotel to watch the sunset. Ilya had enjoyed the view– Shane, not the sky– for a few minutes, but he was enjoying the view of Shane in his hotel room even more.

They were finally alone together again. Ilya had spent months convinced he would never have this, but here Shane was: awkwardly sitting on his bed, clearly preparing for some big conversation, but there nonetheless. Ilya would have a million difficult conversations if it meant keeping Shane at the end of the day.

He leaned against the wall across from Shane, waiting patiently. Shane had that look he got sometimes– his mouth in a thin line, his eyes unfocused– that meant he had something he wanted to say but wasn’t brave enough to say it yet.

Ilya would wait until he was ready.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Shane said eventually, his eyes focused on the wall beside Ilya’s head.

Fuck.

That had not been where Ilya was expecting this conversation to go, not after the way Shane had looked at him on the beach. Had that been all in his head? A trick of the orange light cast across his face?

“You– what?” Ilya asked, his voice cracking around the words. He couldn’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed.

“No, not– I’m sorry, Ilya, that’s not what I meant!” Shane rushed to say, “I meant– I can’t keep sneaking around and acting like it doesn’t mean anything. Like you don’t mean anything.”

Relief flooded Ilya’s bones, and he took a moment to steady his breathing before speaking. “You scared me, Hollander,” he teased.

“I just– you’ve thought about it too, right? Lately it feels like we could be… more.”

Yes, please, Ilya’s mind begged, I want nothing but you. You, always.

“It will be… difficult.”

Shane let out a heaving sigh, his lips curling up at the corners. “You think I don’t know that? It’s already been difficult. I mean, I tried to get over you and my girlfriend sat me down and told me I was gay.”

A huff of laughter escaped Ilya before he could help it, and he was sinking onto the mattress beside Shane before he could second guess himself. “You did not know? I have been fucking you for years, Hollander, and you thought–”

“Don’t be an asshole,” Shane groaned. He dropped his head to Ilya’s shoulder for a moment, and Ilya placed a hand on his knee in return. Even when Shane sat up and turned to him, Ilya allowed his hand to linger.

“So do you… do you want to be together?”

“I don’t know if we can,” Ilya admitted, even as his heart screamed at him to stop protesting. Yes, it yelled, I want nothing more!

“I know we can’t be open about it, not without risking our careers, but don’t you think it’s worth it?”

“It is not just– just our careers,” Ilya gritted out, frustrated with the situation more than with Shane. “I would never be able to go home. I have to go home.”

He could hardly believe that he was fighting this, after finally getting what he had been wanting for years. At the same time, though, now that it was finally here he was realizing what else came with it. The years of fighting they would need to do in order to be happy– not against each other, but against the world.

“‘Cause of your family?” Sweet, sweet mama’s boy Shane had turned more towards him, one of his knees coming up onto the bed.

“Because Russia.” 

That seemed to be answer enough, as Shane’s lips pressed together. “Would you… what would happen?”

“I don’t want to find out.”

Shane’s mouth twisted, one of his hand’s drifting to cover Ilya’s where it still rested on his knee. Ilya gripped his knee tighter, allowing the warmth of the other man’s touch to ground him.

“Would you even want to be something? If we could?”

“I don’t know if we can.”

“But would you want to?”

Ilya breathed in shakily, lifting his head from where it had fallen to stare at their hands pressed together. He met Shane’s eyes, hoping he could see how much Ilya meant it when he said:

“Yes. More than anything.”

And then, more quietly:

“More than Russia, more than hockey, more than…” More than my soulmate, somewhere in the world.

“Then let’s try,” Shane cut in, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “We’ve already been doing whatever this has been for years. We can just… be more. We still don’t need to tell anyone, but we can know.”

“Okay,” Ilya whispered, his free hand rising to ghost under Shane’s eyes, collecting the tears before they could fall. “I would like that.”

Shane let out a broken laugh, a sound such a strange mix of happy-sad that it caught Ilya briefly off guard. He didn’t quite manage to regain his footing before Shane was tackling him, knocking them both onto the mattress and pressing their lips together with a gentleness that Ilya had never dared to hope for.

“Ah,” Ilya said teasingly, his hands falling to Shane’s waist, “so we have arrived at this part of the evening, then?”

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Shane groaned, rolling his eyes even as he rushed to pull of his shirt.

“No. Never.”

***

There was something to the slope of Shane’s shoulders that Ilya couldn’t stop looking at as he finished pulling on his shirt. His outline was sharp, highlighted by the light beside the door. He was tense, still, despite their confessions. Despite their decision to try. There was something he was still holding back. There was something he wasn’t telling Ilya.

For a moment Ilya was overcome with fear, but he managed to shove it down before Shane turned back to him.

“Goodnight, Shane,” he murmured, his heart aching. They still couldn’t risk spending the night together, no matter how much they wanted to. It wasn’t safe, not when they were surrounded by hockey players and the press on all sides.

“Goodnight, Ilya,” Shane responded with a quirk of his lips.

He left the room without another word. There was no mention of whatever it was that still lingered in his mind, and Ilya found himself letting out a grateful sigh.

He was pretty sure he knew what Shane wanted to say.

He was pretty sure it had something to do with the other man’s soulmate.

Ilya could only hope that Shane would listen when the time finally came for them to talk about it. It took him far too long to realize it, but Ilya had stopped caring about the unknown name underneath his scar a long time ago. He didn’t care who it was out there that had Ilya Rozanov scrawled over their ear, all he wanted was Shane. Nothing could stop him from wanting to be with Shane. Not even his own soulmate.

He hoped Shane felt the same.

***

Going from the warm contentment of the next step in his relationship with Shane to the stark coldness of Russia was… difficult.

It was made all the more difficult by the circumstances that brought Ilya there.

He knew Shane was worried about him. He could see it in every message his– his something– sent, but he wasn’t sure how to respond. Ilya wasn’t even sure what he was feeling. There was no chance he would be able to explain it all to Shane, not while also having to translate it to a language that always felt further away when he was back in Moscow.

Thankfully, Shane knew him better than he knew himself sometimes.

“Do you want to tell me everything in Russian? I know I won’t understand, but maybe it’ll help you to just… get it out there, you know?”

Ilya froze where he stood, his mind whirling in tandem with the wind whipping past the tunnel.

You’re perfect, he thought, too scared to voice the thought aloud. They had been something more for only a few weeks now. He still wasn’t sure how much he was allowed to say.

“Sorry, that was probably stupid, you don’t have to–”

“No,” Ilya said loudly, flinching as his voice echoed back to him. “Not stupid. You just– you know me. I was surprised. I think it will help.”

“Okay,” Shane replied, his voice obviously relieved even through the shitty phone reception.

Ilya took a breath to steady himself, leaning back until his head knocked into the concrete wall of the tunnel.

“I hate it here,” he said eventually, his voice thick. “I hate it here, but I am always coming back. I hate it here, and they hate me here too. But they still need me, and I think maybe they hate that more.”

He settled into the rhythm of it a bit more, allowing the words to rush out of him, his thoughts untangling as they left his lips. He hadn’t actually realized it before, but: “I wish it was different. My brother has never liked me, but I wish he did. Wish he wanted me for more than my money, wish– wish my father wanted me. He is dead, now. Dead without ever really knowing his son. I wish he had met the real me, but more than that I wish there was ever a chance of him liking the real me. And you–” Ilya’s words stumbled for the first time, tears pricking at his eyes as he thought of Shane. He could hear the other man’s steady breathing, occasionally crackling over the line when he shifted too much.

“You are everything to me. I do not feel as bad as I should about his death, because it means I am free. I think I would feel more guilty about that if it were not for you,” he confessed. “I– Shane.”

“Yes?”

The answer had Ilya freezing, not even realizing he had briefly slipped out of Russian.

“I love you. There will never be anyone but you. There will never be anywhere but you.”

“I wish I spoke Russian,” Shane murmured, somehow sounding genuinely upset with himself for not knowing a third language.

Ilya snorted helplessly, turning his gaze to the entrance of the tunnel. “Maybe I will teach you.”

“It takes a long time to learn a language,” Shane said casually, the implication clear. Do you want this for a long time?

“Mm,” Ilya hummed agreeably, “then we should get started.”

“How do you say ‘I wish you were here right now’?” Shane’s voice was soft, gentle as it wrapped around Ilya’s heart.

“I wish I was too,” Ilya responded, “Soon. I am free, now.”

***

Seeing Shane fall to the ice was like watching as someone tore his heart out and sliced it with the blade of a skate. Knowing Shane was hurt and not knowing how bad or when he would be able to see him to find out was agony, and Ilya could only be thankful that it was over quickly.

He had always hated the press and their need to become involved in everybody’s business, but he said a quiet thank you to the nosy reporters on his way into the hospital Shane was in, the same one that had been in the headlines of almost every report on Shane’s injury thus far. Unfortunately (or fortunately, really), none of the reporters had managed to break HIPAA and find out specific details on Shane’s condition.

Ilya approached the reception desk with determination, smiling at the mousy man behind the counter. “Hello,” he said carefully, “I am here for Shane Hollander?” 

The man’s eyes narrowed, recognition clear in his gaze. His forehead creased as he practically glared at Ilya. His obvious loyalty to the Metro’s was not likely to be helpful.

“Are you on the approved visitor’s list?”

“Ah– probably not.” Frustration filled Ilya at that oversight, but he would have to hope that the receptionist would be willing to… overlook that. “My flight leaves soon. I wanted to pass on our apologies, for Marlow and the Raiders. Was… a shame to see him hurt.”

The receptionist nodded slowly, the crease between his eyebrows lessening.

“That’s good of you,” he said begrudgingly. “He’s in room 1210. Try not to do anything that’ll get me fired, alright?”

Ilya was gone before the man finished speaking, rushing off for the stairs. He needed Shane more than he needed anything; the elevator would take too long.

Soon enough he was looking through the window in Shane’s door, his heart melting at the sight of a clearly loopy Shane Hollander smiling at absolutely nothing. Ilya knocked softly before opening the door, closing it quickly behind him as Shane’s eyes locked on his.

“Ilyaaaaa!”

Oh no he’s cute.

“Shh, Shane, we cannot–”

“C’mereee!”

Ilya grinned helplessly, crossing the distance between the door and Shane in two large steps. He took Shane’s outstretched hand without prompting, only bothering with one furtive glance towards the door before his free hand was on the man’s cheek. His freckles were somehow more apparent than ever with the background of bruising. Ilya never wanted to see it again, no matter how pretty Shane looked at that moment.

“You scared me,” Ilya murmured, his thumb caressing Shane’s cheekbone, hovering over the worst of the bruising.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to text you last night–”

“No. I am sure you have a concussion, you shouldn’t be on your phone.”

“Mm. But how else are you supposed to know how I am?”

Ilya sighed, shaking his head as he squeezed Shane’s hand gently. “Do not worry about me. I am here now, yes? So how are you?”

“Broken collarbone and a concussion. Can’t play for the rest of the season, but…”

“Could be worse,” Ilya breathed, even as his mind screamed that it already was worse than it ever should have been. “Marlow sends his apologies. He did not mean to hurt you.”

“Is okay,” Shane said, his words slurring as his eyes began to droop. “He didn’t mean to. Besides, I’m mostly mad at him for… fucking up last night. I had plans.” His voice trailed off into a petulant whine at the end.

“Oh?” Ilya teased, suddenly hit with flashes of what he had planned for Shane the night before.

“Yeah. I was gonna ask you…”

“Wait,” Ilya cut in, realizing that Shane had plans to talk to him, and it did not sound like it would be the kind of conversation he would want to have while high as a kite.

“Will you come to my cottage this summer?”

“I– what?”

“It’s so private– no one would know,” Shane continued, completely unaware of the way Ilya’s heart was flipping in his chest. “We could have a week, or even two… We’d be completely alone. Together.”

He stared at Shane, dumbfounded. They had been getting closer since Russia, but Ilya had never dared to hope for something like this.

“Maybe,” he said finally, knowing even as he spoke that it was a yes. He couldn’t resist Shane, and his reasons for being careful were swiftly dwindling. 

They sat in peaceful silence for a moment, Ilya happy to let his eyes drift along Shane’s face. He had been so scared after the hit. Having to wait until visiting hours the next day for any real news had been excruciating.

“I wish they knew,” Shane said suddenly, his words slurring together again.

Ilya smiled fondly, his fingers curling more tightly around Shane’s. “What happened to not telling people about us?” he teased.

“Not– not about us. Well I guess us, yeah,” Shane mumbled nonsensically, “About… mmmm.” He stopped abruptly, squinting up at Ilya. “I was supposed to wait.”

Confused, Ilya leaned even closer, darting one last cautious look over to the windowed door before pressing a kiss to Shane’s forehead. “Wait for what? You are not making sense, Shane.”

“I wanted to– at the cottage. I wanted to tell you a secret when we got there.”

Ilya could feel his eyebrows drawing together, and he spoke up before Shane could continue to ramble. “Maybe we should talk about this later? At the cottage, yes? You are– not all there, Shane. Do not say something you will be embarrassed about later.”

“How could I be embarrassed?” Shane asked, his eyes widening. “I have Ilya Rozanov as my soulmate! I just wish my parents knew so they could let you know I was okay.”

There was a ringing in the room that Ilya hadn’t noticed before– or perhaps it had only just started. He stared at Shane’s lips as they kept moving, the man clearly continuing to ramble, but Ilya couldn’t hear anything over the loop of ‘my soulmate’ in his head. 

“You– what?” he managed, backing away from the bed without meaning to. Shane frowned at the distance, his mouth finally snapping shut. Ilya could hardly hear himself over the ringing in his ears, but Shane’s response cut though.

“I meant to wait. Oops.” He didn’t look upset about it though, more just… frustrated? Maybe? Usually Ilya didn’t have a problem reading Shane, but the whirlwind in his mind was making it more difficult. He opened his mouth dumbly, nothing coming out, only to be interrupted by a nurse sweeping into the room with a gentle knock.

He stammered through some small talk with her and goodbyes with Shane, unsure what the hell he was actually saying and desperately hoping it wasn’t too revealing. Before he knew it, he was back in the parking lot of the hospital, his phone in his hand to call a rideshare.

Fuck.

***

Shane Hollander was his soulmate.

Ilya felt like a fucking idiot for not thinking of it before. It had never seemed like a possibility– why would perfect, beautiful, kind Shane Hollander have Ilya for a soulmate? But Ilya was confident the bond was reciprocal. There was no chance of him having anyone else’s name above his ear. There was no chance of Ilya ever loving anyone the way that he loved Shane.

In a way, it made sense. They had always fit together almost too well. Ilya had always been more drawn to Shane than he had ever been to anyone before, but he had brushed it off. Of course he was drawn to Shane, it was Shane.

Ilya stumbled into his hotel room, his eyes unfocused as he collapsed onto the too-soft mattress. Shane was his soulmate. Shane had known the entire time that they were soulmates. Or– more likely– Shane had known that Ilya was his, and had believed the entire time that Ilya didn’t care about him. Ilya had certainly treated him like he didn’t sometimes in an effort to keep his distance.

He felt like a fool for that, now.

How much hurt had he unwittingly caused? How many nights had Shane spent awake wondering why his soulmate didn’t want him back? Ilya dug his knuckles into his eyes, fighting to keep back his tears. He was angry with himself, no matter how unreasonable it was. At the end of the day, he didn’t know. He couldn’t have done anything differently.

He still hated himself a bit for it.

One of Ilya’s hands drifted, his fingers ghosting over the stretched bit of scar tissue on the side of his head. He vowed then to never let Shane feel that unwanted again, to never let his soulmate go another day without knowing how much he meant to Ilya.

Running out of the hospital probably didn’t help with that, but Ilya was confident he could figure something out.

***

Ilya could not figure out how to bring it up. Shane called him the next day when the worst of the meds had worn off, and they had had a frighteningly normal conversation. Shane didn’t bring up Ilya’s visit, the cottage, or them being soulmates, and for once Ilya floundered when faced with needing to take the lead.

So instead of comforting Shane and ensuring him that they were soulmates and Ilya would love him for the rest of his life if Shane would let him, they returned to something comfortable: meaningless texts. Ilya had been living in a constant state of mild upset, not sure what to do now that it seemed like Shane didn’t remember their conversation. 

At the same time, though… it might work out in his favor. Ilya began to plan.

He packed a suitcase full of anything he thought he could possibly need during a few weeks at Shane’s mysterious cottage, and wrote down ideas of what he could say. He needed it to be perfect; he couldn’t have Shane leaving the conversation with any doubts. Shane probably would anyway with his propensity for overthinking, but Ilya was already looking forward to spending the rest of his life reminding the other man how much he loved him.

Ilya spent the entirety of the final game of the playoffs switching between texting Shane and thinking about confessing his love for the other man. He wanted to raise Shane’s hand to his face, to guide the other man to the scar behind his ear, and to beg to see his own name arcing over Shane’s. He wanted to tell Shane that he would love him as best he could for as long as Shane was willing to have him, wanted to tell Shane that he was sorry it had taken him so long but he wasn’t leaving now.

Instead, he had to watch Scott Hunter break out of his amber like the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park, skating across the ice like he had something to prove. And he did, of course. Hunter had experienced yet another crash and burn followed by yet another surprise improvement that season, and Ilya was beginning to wonder when the medical team would drag him off the ice and into a nursing home.

Ilya lifted his head like a dog hearing a whistle at the sound of his phone vibrating beside him, and he was opening another aimless text from Shane without a second thought. He loved talking to the other man even if they were talking around the proverbial elephant in the room, and he typed out a quick response before returning his gaze to the screen, where the Admirals were throwing their arms up in victory.

Rolling his eyes, Ilya reached for his remote to turn the screen off, not keen on watching a team that wasn’t his or Shane’s celebrate that victory, only to freeze at the sight of Scott Hunter. There was something about the way the man was staring into the crowd that had the hairs on the back of Ilya’s neck standing up.

There had been only a few times in his life that Ilya had gotten the feeling that something big was coming: at the age of 12 coming home on an otherwise innocuous day, standing outside the arena at the International Prospect Cup in 2008, and, more recently, answering a phone call from his deadbeat of a brother in the middle of a locker room.

Something was going to happen, Ilya could feel it.

He watched with bated breath as Hunter beckoned at someone in the fans, discarding the announcer's guess of ‘is it a fan?’ without a second thought. There was too much familiarity in the way that Hunter helped the man on the ice for him to be a random fan. 

Ilya watched Hunter drag the man closer, watched as they had a quick conversation, watched as Hunter dragged the man in for a kiss. It felt like he wasn’t even in his own body, as if he was floating somewhere up by the ceiling as he watched the impossible.

Well, if grandpa Hunter can do it–

Ilya was up and with his phone in hand in seconds, his thumb tapping on the ‘call’ icon next to Shane’s– Jane’s– name. He couldn’t wait any longer; he needed Shane to know about them as soon as possible. The other man picked up on the second ring.

“What the hell–”

“I would like to come to your cottage. Please, Shane.”

***

In the car on the way to Shane’s cottage, Ilya felt like he was finally going home. 

He hadn’t had a home in a long time– not since he was 10 years old and racing around fields with his mom, before the sadness began to creep in at the edges of her vision. Now, though, he was sure he had found another.

Shane was rambling beside him, something about groceries and stopping for food, and Ilya couldn’t help but to smile like an idiot as he watched him. His eyes tracked over his hairline, wondering where exactly his name sat under Shane’s dark hair. Was it just above his ear, or was it further up? It was difficult to tell on Ilya’s own head, as the scar had stretched as he grew. He was lucky enough that his thick curls covered the hairless patch and the uneven skin, he wasn’t sure how Shane had made it so long without anyone noticing the curl of letters under the close-cropped hair on the side of his head.

Part of Ilya wanted to shave Shane bald so that he could stare at his name on his soulmate’s skin whenever he wanted, but he dismissed the ridiculous thought almost as soon as he had it. 

Before Ilya could concoct an actual plan for what to say– somehow his attempts during the playoffs had been unsuccessful– they were pulling into the driveway of the cottage.

“So… we’re here,” Shane said, his voice strained in that way it got when he was feeling awkward. Ilya smiled reassuringly as he stepped out of the car, making token protests as the other man grabbed his suitcase before he could.

Ilya had been committed to the idea of telling Shane as soon as they crossed the threshold of the cottage, but now that they were here… Ilya let his eyes trail over Shane’s body, drinking in the sight of the man after too much time apart. He stepped closer, his hands rising to clutch at Shane’s waist, and tugged him into a kiss.

The kiss felt different somehow, now that he knew the truth. It was just as heated as kisses between them usually were, but Ilya swore he could feel the love behind it. He stumbled as he pushed at Shane, following eagerly when the man led them through the entryway and over to his couch. Ilya tumbled down without a second thought, covering Shane’s body with his own as he pressed deeper, his hands coming up to cradle his jaw.

“Wait, wait–”

Ilya jolted back as Shane’s hand pressed at his chest, his eyes flying open to dart between Shane’s eyes.

“Is everything–”

“Everything’s fine!” Shane rushed out, leaning up to press a quick peck to Ilya’s lips. “Sorry, I just… I had an idea.”

Heat rushed through Ilya, and he smirked down at the man beneath him. “Oh? What kind of idea?”

“Not like that,” Shane groaned. “I was thinking maybe we could be honest with each other? Just while we’re here. I’m not asking you to like– spill all your secrets or anything, but I thought maybe we could be honest about how we feel about each other, you know? And maybe–”

“I think you’re my soulmate,” Ilya blurted out. He closed his eyes briefly, embarrassment warring with frustration within him. That was not what he had planned. “No,” he continued, reopening his eyes and taking in Shane’s slack mouth. “I know you are my soulmate. I– maybe this will help.” He muttered the last part to himself, sitting up where he had been straddling Shane’s hips and tugging his hair up and to the side.

“I have a soulmate. I know I said that time that I don’t, but I do. I just never knew who it was.”

The silence following his words stretched too long, and Ilya turned his head away to face Shane again. His eyes were wide open and dazed, and for a moment Ilya began to panic. 

“You weren’t just high when you said I was your soulmate, were you? I am, right?”

“Yes.” 

The word came out of Shane’s throat like it had been dragged out, and Ilya let out a shuddering breath. 

“Okay. That is… that is good.”

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane’s voice was quiet and wrecked, but Ilya chose to believe it was a good kind of wrecked. It did sound similar to his personal favorite good kind of wrecked–

“I can’t believe this is happening. I thought– I don’t know. I thought maybe the universe knew I didn’t mean that much to you.”

Ilya’s heart broke, and he dropped himself down onto Shane both in an effort to comfort him and to hide his own tears.

“No, no– never. You are everything to me, Shane. I am sorry I did not see it sooner. I thought you must have perfect soulmate waiting somewhere for you, and I maybe did not want to hear that if I asked anything. I did not want to know who you were waiting for when you were with me.”

Shane let out a choked laugh, his hands digging into Ilya’s back in an oddly comforting way. “I was waiting for you, you fucking idiot. Oh my God, I can’t believe this is happening.”

Humming happily, Ilya twisted his neck to press a loud kiss to Shane’s cheek. “Is this enough honesty for you, then? Because I can think of some ways to celebrate.”

***

Curled up in bed together with sweat cooling on their skin and their arms wrapped tightly around each other, Ilya almost felt silly for never thinking that Shane could be the person marked above his ear. It made sense, really. They fit together perfectly. He ran a hand carefully along Shane’s spine, pressing down on his lower back just to feel the muscles move.

“I am sorry,” he said eventually, keeping his voice soft in an attempt to not disturb their peace. He could feel Shane’s face scrunch where it was pressed into his neck, and he held back a frown as the other man pulled back to look at him.

“For what?”

“It must have hurt. When you thought… that I did not care for you. As a soulmate. That I did not want you.”

Shane smiled at him gently, his head shaking. “You weren’t trying to hurt me, Ilya. And I always knew you wanted me, I just… wasn’t sure how much.”

“I’m sorry.” It pained Ilya to think of a younger Shane, eager to meet his soulmate outside the rink in Saskatchewan, only to leave confused and disappointed.

“I’m sorry,” Shane returned, his lips pressing together momentarily before he continued, “I’m sorry for how hurt you must have been. The whole time we were together, thinking I was going to leave you for someone else… And before that, too. I’m sure it wasn’t easy growing up and knowing what your father did.”

Ilya hummed, his chest warming with love for the other man– his soulmate. “That is alright,” he murmured, “it was all worth it to bring me here. To you.”

With that, Shane dropped back down onto Ilya, tucking his face back into his neck to hide the blush that Ilya could see spreading to his ears. “I’m glad. I… if you ever want to talk about it, Ilya–”

“I would like that,” Ilya said without thinking, blinking rapidly as he realized how true it was. He had never been eager to talk to anyone about his family, preferring to keep it all to himself so nobody would have to worry, but with Shane he thought it might be nice to talk about it for once.

“Not now, though. We have time. Forever, yes?”

“Yeah,” Shane agreed, “forever.”