Chapter Text
Of all the memories that have come back to Shane, that moment in Vegas during the MLH Awards has reverberated in him the most. At first, it shocked him because he had never known Ilya—the Ilya who was an influencer from Boston—to be so harsh and cold. And it’s stayed in the forefront of his thoughts because it was one of the turning points of that life. Shane could have told Ilya to fuck off after his shitty behavior over the past six months. That would have been a natural endpoint for their involvement.
But in those seconds when Ilya was finally getting close to Shane again, Shane found that he didn’t want to tell Ilya to go away, because Shane’s deepest self wanted Ilya’s presence more than it resented his cruelty. And, in a way, the game Ilya had started between them wasn’t completely cruel. Maybe other people wouldn’t understand it—maybe Shane himself didn’t fully understand it—but Ilya’s firm hand on Shane’s jaw, his little slap on Shane’s cheek, were things that Shane loved, at least sometimes. Ilya knew that because he knew Shane as nobody else did in that life.
I did not answer your boring texts was Ilya turning his back. Let’s make a deal was Ilya reaching out.
All the same, it’s hard to reconcile that stone-faced Ilya with the mostly sweet Ilya in front of Shane now. Though both Ilyas like to ruffle people’s feathers, this Ilya has been more careful with Shane’s heart.
This Ilya looks like he might pass out, actually. Before Shane can touch him to steady him, he’s sitting down on the steps again. Anya is whining and licking his face; Ilya mumbles something in Russian to her, probably trying to calm her down.
Trying not to think of a night when he was holding his hoodie to his chest, listening to Ilya say such a good trick, Shane sits on the step next to Ilya.
After a few deep breaths, Ilya asks, “You remember?”
Oh fuck. It is real, then. If Ilya has the same memories, then Shane has to be right, doesn’t he? Somehow, his time in Montreal was real. “You remember? For how long?”
“Always. Since I woke up here,” Ilya says.
“Since you woke up—what, after we were talking on the phone, when you were in Russia?”
“Yes. Jesus fucking Christ.” Still pale, Ilya’s leaning back against the wall. “How long have you remembered?”
“About ten minutes, I guess! You remembered this whole time?!” A lot of what Ilya has done recently is suddenly cast in a very different light. Ilya showing up at Shane’s penthouse, having guessed who Shane was; Ilya perfectly anticipating all of Shane’s desires in bed. All along, Ilya was playing the part of a stranger, but he knew him. “Holy shit, we were dating and you never fucking said—”
“What the fuck was I supposed to say, Hollander?” Ilya’s voice is loud, echoing in the stairwell, and his lips are thin. “You would think I am some crazy fucking fan and do restraining order, no? You are saying you would have believed me?”
Are those footsteps clanging on the stairs higher up? Hurriedly, Shane says, “We can’t do this here. We can talk at my apartment.”
“Okay,” Ilya says. Anya’s whining again; Ilya pets her comfortingly. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Papa is sorry for yelling.” He presses a kiss to her head. His eyes are glossy with unshed tears.
Oh god. It’s all too much. “Meet you back at my place,” Shane says. It’s way too casual, he knows. But it’s a phrase he’s used to saying, and sometimes in times like this he can’t come up with new words. He does manage to add, “Don’t drive down Storrow.” The last thing he wants is for Ilya to drive distracted and get in a crash with some Masshole going 30 miles above the limit.
“I know, Shane,” Ilya says, softer than before.
In accordance with his own advice, Shane takes the slower route of Brighton Ave to Comm Ave where it’s a peaceful boulevard through Back Bay. Of course that doesn’t mean the car behind him isn’t honking at him for going slow, but fuck them; Shane’s entire body is shaking from adrenaline. It’s only halfway down Comm Ave that Shane realizes he definitely should have called an Uber. Then again, the thought of having to talk to a stranger and breathe in someone’s artificial car air freshener makes him want to be sick.
Somehow Shane makes it back to his apartment in one piece. Once he’s there, he strips off his clothes, leaving them on the floor for possibly the first time in his life, and gets in his en suite’s shower, turning off the waterfall function and turning the showerhead spray to maximum force and heat. Obviously he doesn’t need to be cleaner, since he showered less than an hour ago, but he needs this sensation or else he might—lose it. The water beating hard over his body—sometimes it helps when the world is overwhelming and Shane needs to stop thinking and just feel.
Shane doesn’t know how long he spends in there, wasting water, but he hears his front door unlock while he’s still in the shower. He turns it off, towels himself dry rapidly, and pulls on the first sweatpants and sweatshirt that his hands meet when he opens a dresser drawer. He’s sweating a little already from the warmth of the shower.
Ilya is giving Anya some fresh water in her bowl. “I took her for short walk on the Common. Because she has not had a proper walk all day,” he says, straightening up as though Shane has caught him doing something wrong. “I texted you.”
Ilya is as beautiful as he’s been in all the forms Shane’s known him in: cocky rookie, powerful rival, gorgeous influencer, brand-new teammate. His face is slightly flushed, which could be from exercise. His curls are soft, unstyled around his face.
“Sorry, I was, uh. Showering.” Shane licks his lips, pushes his wet hair back from his forehead. “Should we talk? In the bedroom?”
Silently, Ilya nods and follows Shane there. After Shane closes the door, Ilya sits on the edge of the bed, resting his forearms on his thighs and looking at his own feet. Shane follows suit.
Shane’s peaceful bedroom, with his neatly made bed and his reading glasses folded on the nightstand, is a bizarrely mundane place to be having the weirdest fucking conversation of his life. “Shit. I don’t even know where to start,” says Shane.
A brief huff of laughter. “Me either.”
“Do you know what the fuck happened?” Shane asks at last. “So you were in Russia after your dad passed away. You called me. We talked. And then right after I hung up, I—forgot you. I forgot everything, and suddenly I was the captain of the Raiders instead of the Metros?” It sounds ridiculous when Shane says it out loud.
“I think,” Ilya says in a flat tone. His thumb is rubbing over the back of his other hand. “After we talked on the phone, I think I made a wish. In my head, I wished . . . that I could ask you on a date without being afraid of police or losing my job. Right after that, I slipped, and I hit my head. When I woke up, I was in Boston, not Russia, and I was American citizen and a trainer at gym owned by two gay guys. Ta-da, no more problems,” he says sardonically.
Shane’s mouth falls open. It’s impossible to believe that their surroundings, the cotton comforter and the oak bed and the bedroom rug and the apartment and Shane’s entire life, are all the creation of a wish, a single thought.
It’s almost as impossible to comprehend that the wish in question was for Ilya to go on a date with Shane.
“You really think all this happened because of a wish? Your wish, like . . . rewrote the whole world? It erased my fucking memories and made up a fake past for both of us so that you could be a US citizen?”
“I don’t know. I think so. I didn’t fucking know it would do that, or I would have been more careful about what I wished for!”
“Holy fuck,” Shane says. “Wait. That’s why—your brain injury or whatever! Your accent, and your amnesia—”
“Yes,” Ilya says, awkward or frustrated, Shane can’t tell which. At last, he stops staring in front of himself and turns to Shane. “You said you got your memories back . . . when we were in locker room? You didn’t remember before?”
“I was starting to remember for a while,” Shane says. “But I thought I was—imagining stuff.” I was terrified, he doesn’t say.
Ilya nods slowly. “I knew something was wrong.”
“Sorry,” Shane says. It’s easy to say that. Much harder to not to drown under the flood of questions and realizations overwhelming him. “Fuck, did I not really win three Cups? When was it real?” The phone call with Ilya was in—what year?
“No, it’s okay. You won three,” Ilya says, touching Shane’s wrist in reassurance. “Two in fake Boston memories, but also two with Montreal, and one with Boston after the wish.”
Exhaling, Shane says, “Okay.” He turns his hand to take Ilya’s. “Thanks.”
Ilya’s hand is warm in Shane’s. “But I count this as only one Cup ahead of me, because I was not in the league for most of 2017 or after.”
“That’s fair,” Shane says, because it is.
In his Montreal life, Shane had never held Ilya’s hand like this. But . . . Ilya had wanted it, probably, given his wish and how he’s behaved in a world without Russia looming over them. And now they’re together, which is yet another unbelievable thing. Back then, Shane hadn’t even let himself try to envision what being in a relationship with Ilya would be like, because Ilya didn’t do relationships. Everyone knew that.
It’s been really nice being Ilya Rozanov’s boyfriend. Learning what they both could be if they were a little truer to their own hearts.
Shane lets Ilya’s hand go, but only because he needs to turn to Ilya fully and touch his cheek. And kiss him.
Ilya melts into the kiss immediately, putting his arm around Shane, kissing Shane hard and deep. It’s a little sloppier than his kisses usually are, not that Shane minds. Then—Ilya’s crying, pulling back and trying to wipe his cheeks dry with his fingers, except they’re wet again too fast.
His own vision blurring, Shane pulls Ilya into his arms and maneuvers them both sideways to lie on the bed. Ilya’s face is hidden against the shoulder of Shane’s rapidly dampening t-shirt; he’s silently shaking with hitching breaths, and it hurts Shane like a stab wound. This wish, if it is a wish, was so fucking unfair: during that phone call from Russia, they were so close to letting themselves be something to each other for the first time. And then Shane fucking forgot Ilya. Ilya was all alone in an unfamiliar life, and Shane didn’t know he should be missing one of the most important people in his world. They spent a whole year apart.
Shane holds Ilya’s solid, familiar frame tighter, breathes in the familiar scent of Ilya’s shampoo. Thank God Ilya made a place for himself in Shane’s life a second time. Shane can’t imagine how terrible it would be to see Ilya on a billboard and understand that he was a stranger to Ilya, merely another face on the street. How hard it must have been for Ilya, that first time they met here in this remade world, to knock on Shane’s door.
If only Ilya could have known that there was no way Shane wouldn’t fall for him again, right from the very start.
As Ilya’s breathing steadies, Shane strokes Ilya’s back and says, “I love you.”