Chapter Text
Sleep had come easy, for once. Marleau had slept in long enough for the sun to spill through his curtains, slowly heating his room until he had woken damp and sweaty with sticky skin and faint curls at the nape of his neck. Dust drifted lazily through the curtain gap in slow little spirals and settled on the surfaces. For a while, he let himself lay there. He’d always loved quiet mornings like these; somewhere outside he could hear the faint distant bark of a dog and the gentle hum of early traffic beginning to wake the city while the rest of it remained undisturbed. The comforter hung loosely around his waist, cool air hitting his lower stomach much like the cooled spot on the other side of the bed. He shifted in the linen and brushed his fingers across the empty space. Rose would fit nicely here, fill the empty-
“Jesus,” Marleau muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. Enough of that. He glanced over to his phone that was sitting abandoned beside him on the mattress, battery probably drained- he hadn’t even really remembered what time he had gone inside last night. It had been so easy to tune out the noise and listen to her sleepy breathing through the speakers while Boston blurred past his windshield into soft streaks of red and grey. Something in his chest had gone strangely soft, and he did little to shake it off.
The house was quiet when he wandered downstairs, in a pair of grey sweats, an old Raiders hoodie and his hair still damp from the shower he’d forced himself into taking. Sunlight poured bright through the kitchen windows now, warming the marble countertops and turning the cat into a puddle of fur where she slept sprawled across one of the dining chairs, peacefully unbothered by the sound of his footsteps. The espresso machine had just started to whirr and the smell of coffee had filled the kitchen when his phone buzzed against the counter.
“Hey Ma.” Marleau called out, and put her on speaker to rummage through the cupboards for the chipped mug that had always been his favourite.
“Oh, there he is!” Her voice burst warm and crackling into the empty kitchen. “Stanley Cup champion Cliff Marleau finally answers his phone. How ‘bout it?”
He snorted softly, leaning against the counter. “Yeah, yeah. You guys okay?”
“Don’t you brush me off now,” she scolded fondly. “Do you have any idea how proud we are of you?”
He stared out the kitchen window toward the quiet street outside, one hand curled loosely around his coffee mug while she talked. Something in his chest squeezed a little at the sentiment. His grandparents had watched every single game- even when the games started way past their bedtimes back home in Oregon and his grandfather kept falling asleep in the recliner halfway through the second period, insistent he was only resting his eyes. They had always shown up, even when he didn’t ask them to. The big maple tree out front stirred gently in the breeze, sunlight flickering gold between the leaves- since when did Boston have so many Maple trees? They were all he could notice now.
“You should’ve seen your grandfather after the final horn,” his grandmother laughed. “Lord above Cliffy- he nearly woke the neighbors up yellin’.”
Marleau grinned into his coffee, the little bubbles pooling at the sides of his cup and swirling in the centre. “Oh yeah? I bet he’s tired after all that then.”
“Oh you betcha. He’s still asleep right now, actually. Been sleeping a lot these days.”
“Is there anything I can do to help you out? I know I can’t do much from here, but..”
“Oh, honey, don’t you worry about that.” She had brightened her voice noticeably enough for something to shift in his stomach. “You just enjoy your summer. God knows you earned it. He’s as stubborn as a mule.”
Marleau huffed a quiet laugh, and let the conversation drift off a little while longer after that. About the game, the afterparty, about Boston- whether that ‘sweet Russian boy’ was still attached to his hip or not- until eventually she uttered her polite goodbyes and sent him off with one last affectionate fussing that left Marleau rolling his eyes. The drive to Rozy’s place was washed in a clean summer sunlight. Boston always looked sweeter in the mornings, storefronts slowly rolling open for the day as opposed to the neon tinge of nightclubs; he could even spot a few Boston Raiders flags hanging from apartment windows, and in coffee shops that were crowded with posters still advertising their win like they couldn’t quite bear to take them down yet.
Marleau drove with the windows down and let the warm air dry his hair, music low through the speakers that he wasn’t really paying any mind to. His thoughts had drifted elsewhere entirely. He thought of Rose, half-asleep in bed; slightly embarrassed by how much it was bothering him that she hadn’t messaged him since- and thought of Shane’s face last night after asking him if he really wanted to stay with Montreal. The slight dip in his brow that suggested he was more nervous than he was letting on. It was bothering him, slightly- not to have everything about Shane figured out. He felt useless this way, and by the time he pulled into Rozy’s street, the easy comfort of the morning had worn thin around the edges with worry instead.
Still, when Rozy opened the door in a pair of sweats and sleepy hair sticking up in every direction, Marleau smiled automatically. Some things, at least, could still feel like second nature.
“Good morning,” Rozy mumbled around a yawn as he stepped back to let him in, one hand dragging through the mess of his hair. It stuck up in soft blond tufts from sleep, and his sweatpants hung low on his hips with one sock half-on. Marleau kicked his shoes off by the door automatically, not bothering to straighten the one that had fallen on its side and padded through the hallway on his socked feet. The apartment smelled faintly like coffee and detergent and whatever candle Rozy had burned down to nothing the night before.
“Looking rough, Rozy. No sleep?”
“Ah, go fuck yourself.” Rozy replied immediately, though he was grinning. “Some of us had a busy night.”
From somewhere deeper in the apartment came a muffled, “Marly?” as Shane appeared from the hallway a second later in sweats and a faded training shirt. He looked unfairly awake compared to the other two of them, though there was a faint pinkness high across his cheekbones that gave his fatigue away.
“Shaney- are you blushing?”
“What? No I’m not.”
“You are,” Rozy cut in delightedly, not even looking up. “He absolutely is.”
Shane rolled his eyes and shoved lightly at Rozy’s shoulder as he passed him toward the kitchen. “I’m not. I was working out.”
“Ah. Yes Marly. We were working out.”
Marleau barked out a laugh before he could stop himself, shaking his head while Shane swore under his breath. “Don’t say that cause he’ll actually believe it, asshole.”
Rozy pouted theatrically, sighing a dramatic sigh. “Fine, he is not lying, sadly. I was about to join him. You want to join? Ah, but Shane is done now, though- Shanya, tell him what happened-”
“Nothing happened.”
“-Shane nearly threw his back out trying to impress me. Was very cute.”
“That’s not what happened.”
Rozy leaned against the counter, entirely unrepentant. “I’m just saying. Shane wants to show off like peacock and suddenly thinks he’s Olympic athlete.”
“I am an athlete. An Olympic athlete, even. Silver medalist.”
“He’s not wrong there,” Marleau admitted.
Shane huffed a laugh despite himself, ducking his head a little as he reached for the coffee pot. Every single time he saw it Marleau couldn’t help but relish in how unguarded Shane was here; the tension in his shoulders was so gone they drooped, even- and a gentle smirk twisted the corners of his lips, one that he felt safe enough to keep instead of warping it to his polite-press smile like he would anywhere else. He looked best like this, Marly thought. Sleepy in a content sort of way rather than exhausted. It suited him.
The gym in Rozy’s basement was quiet, nothing but the low hum of the overhead lights and the soft rhythmic thump of their feet on laminate. Marleau had expected an easy session- light cardio, maybe some upper body maintenance before things started up again- it was off-season, after all. But halfway through his set he met Rozy’s eyes; who shot an amused eyebrow up in the air and jerked his head towards Shane.
Shane hadn’t spoken once they started. He’d stuck his two headphones back in, focused his lazy, slack expression from earlier into one of concentration- and by the time Marleau finished one set, Shane was already halfway into the next exercise. The sweat had darkened the back of his shirt within at least twenty minutes, a long line that traced the outline of his spine as he trained like he was trying to survive something,
“Jesus,” Marleau muttered under his breath after watching him deadlift an amount of weight that frankly offended him personally. Rozy snorted from nearby.
“Yeah. Annoying, isn’t it.”
“Does… does he like, know he’s not being held at gunpoint?”
“Mm. He’s worse during season. Such a showoff.”
“I can hear you,” Shane said flatly without looking up. “Don’t be weird.”
Marleau watched him reset his grip, watched the muscles tightening sharply through his forearms and shoulders before he lifted again with a startling ease. The strength sat differently on him than it did on most hockey players Marleau knew- Shane was much leaner and quieter than most of the big burly brutes amongst them, but dense in a way that made it obvious he’d built himself that way intentionally. Ilya cocked his head to one side like a lovesick puppy, ogling him from the rowing machines. He looked hungry and Marly decided not to dwell on it.
“You train like a psychopath,” Marleau called out between sharp exhales.
Shane glanced over slightly out of breath. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
Marleau rolled his eyes fondly and scoffed. “Don’t lie. You probably love hearing people tell you that.”
“Okay,” Shane cracked a smirk. “Maybe. But I’m not doing anything crazy,” he protested- ignoring the way Rozy cackled from afar.
By the end of the workout Marleau’s shirt was sticking unpleasantly to his back and Shane somehow still looked capable of doing another hour. It was irritating enough that Marleau considered telling him so, but settled for a towel thrown in his face and a ruffle to the jet-black hair on his sweaty head.
Back upstairs, Rozy took over the kitchen with the confidence of a masterchef, despite being somebody who knew only about three meals, give or take. Marleau sat at the counter nursing another coffee while Shane stretched his legs out on the living room floor. They were all pleasantly sore now that the workout had settled into their muscles.
“So,” Rozy said casually while cracking eggs into a bowl. “What’d you get up to last night?”
Marleau’s head shot up and he scrunched his face up. “Nothing.”
Rozy whipped his head round, delighted by how hard Marly had tried to feign casualty. “Nothing?” The wicked glint in his eyes shone through the soft blue. “That sounded suspicious.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Oh you liar! You sound like you really did do something. What did you do?”
Shane’s head perked up from the floor and met Marly’s gaze. “I literally just went home. It was late.”
“Mhm.”
Marleau grabbed his water bottle and took a long swig, mostly to avoid having to look at either of them. “Okay. Maybe on my way home Rose called me to talk.”
The kitchen went quiet for maybe half a second too long as both of them processed at different speeds. Shane’s expression softened almost immediately into something far too knowing for Marleau’s comfort, smiling down into his lap privately as he stretched his legs outwards. Rozy; who’s lack of media training was now showing, had gasped in awe like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “No fucking way.”
“How’s she doing?” Shane asked after a moment.
“Good,” Marleau answered, quieter now. His cheeks were hot. Why were they hot? He fucking hoped they couldn’t tell they were hot. “She uh, just called to chat, she was like. I dunno- tired. I guess. She fell asleep halfway through talking, anyway, so..”
A smile tugged automatically at the corner of Shane’s mouth before he could stop it and Marleau felt the warmth spread from his cheeks down to his neck. Rozy turned back toward the stove with the kind of shit-eating grin that made Marleau want to throw something at him. “Aw. That’s so cute, Marly.”
“Fuck off.”
“It is.”
“We didn’t even talk for long,” he lied- and Shane chuckled gleefully.
“Oh I’m sure. You look like she proposed to you. Pink is definitely your shade, Marly. Let me tell you that now.” Rozy drawled, gesturing to his own cheeks with waggling fingers.
Marleau groaned and dropped his head back dramatically. “Stop. I hate both of you.”
“Mmmm, I don’t think so.” Rozy had switched the stove off and was dishing up food, smiling like he had won the lottery.
“I do. I hate you.” he lied.
Breakfast was eaten in a comfortable silence after that, only interrupted for the occasional chirp. Eggs, toast- and fruit that Shane insisted cutting up with unnecessary precision were polished off while the two complained about Ottawa pricing- a topic that Marleau had stopped listening to halfway through- snorting at the occasional bitchy remark that slipped from Shane. At some point, Rozy disappeared to shower while Shane cleaned the kitchen, humming a tune softly under his breath that swayed with his movement.
“I’m glad you’re being all weird about her,” Shane said eventually without turning around.
Marleau frowned slightly from the couch. “Who?”
Shane looked over his shoulder flatly and Marly rolled his eyes back at him. ”I’m not being weird.”
“You are. It’s not a bad thing Marly.” He picked the rag up from the counter and wrenched his hands dry in it. “One of my favourite things about Rose was how funny and confident she was. She’s great, like actually. One of the best women I’ve ever met. We got along really well. But.. I don’t know. I always wished that I could give her ..that,” he said, gesturing towards Marleau.
“I’m not giving her anything. She’s just-” He stopped himself and scratched the back of his head.
Shane waited patiently as Marleau scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “I don’t know. It’s complicated,” he huffed, defeated.
“Okay.”
“It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Okay.”
“Stop saying okay,” Marleau groaned into the couch pillow, and Shane snorted.
“She’s great. She also has plenty of people to call and keep her company. But she chose you. So it probably wasn’t for no reason.”
That earned him a quieter look than he expected, and Marleau looked away toward the window. Outside, the midday sun had started turning golden against the buildings across the street. Soft splatters of warmth and the occasional gleam of sunlight against glass.
“I don’t even know if I’m the kind of person she’d like… want, I dunno. Don’t exactly have the greatest rep.” he tried weakly, looking up to Shane’s scrunched face of confusion. He scowled down at Marleau from the kitchen counter.
“That’s ridiculous. She’s not stupid, Marly. I think she knows exactly what kind of guy you are, and you’re still the one she called.”
By the evening, they’d migrated fully into the living room- scattered with odd blankets, pillows and duvets that both Marly and Rozy had insisted on turning into some sort of fort. Two takeout boxes lay scattered on the table; and the lights had been dimmed low enough for the TV to paint blue shadows across the apartment walls that flickered in tandem with the speakers. Rozy insisted horror movies were best ‘for the atmosphere,’ despite the fact he spooked at every loud noise. Shane and Marly had obliged; and had spent at least ten minutes finding one that they both hadn't watched- Ilya’s scowl getting increasingly more and more stroppy and theatrical as they listed off the ones they’d watched together without him.
“This one?” Rozy pointed at some sort of poltergeist found-footage movie and they both immediately began to shake their heads.
“You screamed during the trailer,” Shane pointed out. “We watched it a couple months back, remember?”
“Mmm, no. And I was probably caught off guard. Russians do not get scared.” Ilya retorted, jutting his chin up in defiance. “And anyway. They’re not scary, just loud.”
“You say that, but you found The Hunger Games scary.”
“Ooookay Shane- not fair. I was scared on behalf of the kids.”
Marleau snorted softly into his beer bottle as Rozy flipped him off without even looking away from the screen; and eventually they landed on a cheap looking slasher; one that looked like it would make them cringe more than jump. Shane settled into the opposite end of the couch with his feet nudging against Marleau’s leg absently, and Rozy immediately stretched out half across both of them like a cat claiming it’s territory.
“You’re so fucking heavy bro,” Marleau complained.
“Ahh, go fuck yourself. The word you are looking for is beautiful.”
“That’s true,” Shane said solemnly, ignoring the groan Marly let out as Rozy preened at the praise.
The movie started- rain hammered onscreen against dark windows with a heavy rhythmic splatter; the ominous music crept through the speakers and panned out to the opening scene of a woman in some sort of forest. Not even ten minutes into the movie, Rozy grabbed Shane’s arm at the first jumpscare, despite his persistent protests. For the first time all day, the noise in Marleau’s head finally quieted a little. The move to Ottawa could wait. Hockey could wait. For now, there was only Rozy’s dimly lit living room, the sound of his two best friends laughing already at the movie’s terrible acting, and the warm comforting feeling of being exactly where he was supposed to be for one afternoon.
-
Ilya was tidying the dishes away, stacking each plate into their spot- courtesy of Shane, of course, because he had never been one to care about which way his forks faced in the drawers until Shane. Soon, he’d be a man who made sure every single fork was facing up in a new place that they would both call home. The thought was so exciting it made him nauseous.
Ilya leaned his hip against the counter for a moment and let himself look around properly. This apartment had been his life for years, each imperfection it carried he felt had been branded into his own skin until it became his own to bear; the same flickering kitchen light over the stove; or the same warped floorboard near the hallway that creaked no matter how carefully he stepped over it- though he never actually got it fixed because it reminded him too much of Moscow. Several winters he’d spent alone here with the television murmuring in the background just to fill the silence; or with Svetlana, curled on the couch- and Marleau filling his fridge with beers in the summers where the heat gathered heavy in the curtains because he’d bought the wrong kind. And now, suddenly, there was going to be someone else there- someone that wasn’t him.
Because he’d be with Shane. Shane would just.. be there. Whenever he wanted him to be. Half-asleep on the couch- their couch, or swearing under his breath assembling furniture they definitely could have paid someone else to build. So much of loving Shane had existed in fragments, in hotel room keys and late-night phone calls with code names and months waiting for a text to break the silence that felt like eternity. It had felt like each moment was already over before they’d even finished living through it, he’d grown so used to their love arriving with an expiration date that the permanence of it all felt unreal now.
How did he get so lucky? He wanted to climb back in time and rattle the shoulders of his eighteen year old self and tell him that one day they would be mixing their groceries together until neither of them remembered who bought what. There’d be two toothbrushes and two sets of keys and two pairs of skates drying by the door after practice. He didn’t have to leave anymore. There’d be fewer handfuls of stolen nights before catching a flight in the morning; there’d be fewer countdowns and departures and texts goodbye at airport gates he wished he could kiss him goodbye at. Ilya swallowed hard and reached for another plate before he could think about it too long, before his phone buzzed softly in his back pocket.
“Hello?”
“Hey, honey-” Yuna’s voice was muffled with movement as she rummaged through something. “Congralutions! We’re so proud of you, all of us. Did you get the picture? I told Shane he should send it-”
“Yes, he sent it to me.” He chuckled. “I loved it. You bought one of my jerseys?”
“Well it only made sense to, right? I have my other son’s jersey.” My other son. Ilya swallowed the lump at the back of his throat and rode the wave of pain that strained in his chest. What a gift it was, to have been accepted so easily like this. Ilya wasn’t sure if he was ever going to be someone’s son again until Yuna Hollander had swept him up in her schedules and spreadsheets and gentle pinches at his cheeks she had to get up on tippy-toes for.
“Thank you, Yuna. I loved it. Is- is everything okay?”
“Oh, yeah- I’m just stopping by Shane’s place to water the plants. You should have told me about the flowers honey, I’m sorry, they’ve all dried up. I’ve only just gotten here now-”
“What?” Ilya came to a standstill in the kitchen, fingers drumming on the counter. Pinky to index, he strummed them across the marble, letting the cold surface soothe each fingertip. The two men behind him were laughing, Marly clutching his sides and Shane trying all too hard not to look smug with how much he had amused him. “I didn’t send Shane flowers.”
“Oh?” Yuna was quiet for a long while on the other end of the line. “You- you didn’t? There's flowers, I thought you sent them. Maybe Hayden did, then. There’s a card and everything. ”
“A card?” Ilya said. His fingers had stilled and pressed into the counter, tips of his fingers pink from the pressure.
“Hold on- I’ll open it.”
“What does it say?” Paper rustled over the line, soft scrape of parchment against her manicured nails evoking a sound that made Ilya wince.
"They're nice flowers. Not my choice, personally, but um- okay, hold on. I’m opening it. It’s..” Yuna seemed to still on the other line. “It’s that article on Cliff Marleau.” Yuna said uncertainly. “Maybe.. one of the boys? Hayden told me about all the teasing, but this- I mean this seems a little- I don’t know, cheap.”
The words didn’t really land properly at first- perhaps the language barrier but most likely the unsettling feeling of something sharp-edged and sour in his gut. His gaze flicked instinctively across the room again- Shane, his Shane, was still on the couch; now laughing at something Marleau had said instead. His shoulders were loose the way they only ever were in private spaces, he looked utterly and completely unguarded. Ilya’s jaw tightened. It didn’t look like teasing, not at all- it looked like a fucking threat. Were things really that bad? Shane would tell him, if things were bad, surely. He had to.
“It’s probably a joke, yes.” He said finally, voice low. “Can- can you send me a picture?”
“I guess? Ilya, honey, I don’t understand-”
“Send a picture,” he repeated, sharper now- but he forced himself to soften it. “Sorry. Please. I would like to see.”
His phone buzzed at his head and it felt strikingly loud. He fumbled clumsy fingers into their chat and opened the picture. A small, cheap bouquet of white and yellow pansies set down on Shane’s counter; the very counter he had hauled Shane up and kissed him on not even a few weeks ago. The memory felt tainted now. Pansies. A bouquet of fucking pansies. The flowers themselves were innocent enough to anyone else- small, white and yellow petals, wrapped in cheap cloudy plastic from some kind of grocery store florist. But Ilya knew exactly what the word had meant; the words changed languages easily, but the intent never did. He’d known since he was thirteen years old and angry and closeted in locker rooms full of boys twice as cruel as they were clever. Suddenly all Ilya could picture was somebody standing outside Shane’s apartment, setting the flowers down hoping he’d open the door and find them.
Beside the bouquet lay a thick, glossy article that had been ripped straight from a magazine, the big bold lettering: ‘Penalty Machine or Public Threat?’ Ilya knew the article- practically everyone knew the article by now, another hit piece and attempt to turn Marly into a spectacle. But now someone had paired it with pansies and left it in Shane’s apartment like some sort of twisted, taunting message.
Ilya remembered, with startling clarity, being nineteen years old and finding a similar bouquet slipped underneath the wipers of his car outside a junior arena in Moscow. And then, weeks later- the unmistakable scratches of somebody’s keys across the doors and a hastily scrawled slur spraypainted onto his windshield. He remembered the sick humiliation of scrubbing at the paint with frozen fingers while his teammates pretended not to notice as they pulled out in their own unmarked vehicles. The certainty afterward that somebody was always watching him had never truly left him, not until he worked hard to erase it and replace it with the certainty Shane gave him. He hadn’t even been out then, purely just suspicions from his team. But Shane was. Shane had told them. Could it get worse than this?
“Did you see it?” Yuna asked softly through the speaker.
Shane had spent too long being tense and guarded and careful. Too many years flinching away from suspicion he'd only have to imagine to be real to him. It had not been until recently that he had started to let himself soften around the edges; let people in without constantly checking over his shoulder. Ilya had fought for that softness, protected it viciously- and now somebody else from the outside had noticed it too.
“Ilya.” Yuna tried again, more defensive now.
“Yes.” He shut his eyes briefly, pressing his fingers hard against the bridge of his nose. думать. “Yes,” he repeated quieter this time. “Sorry. I think it was a joke with his team, probably. Let me talk to him and then I can call you back later?”
Across the room, Shane looked up to meet Ilya’s gaze- his smile faded a fraction when he saw Ilya standing rigid by the kitchen counter. “Everything okay?” Shane called, padding across the living room to meet him in the kitchen.
Ilya swallowed hard. Shane looked so gentle, and Ilya was standing in the kitchen suddenly wanting to lock every door in the apartment. That should have calmed Ilya- it was supposed to calm Ilya; it always had. But now there was a crack- something outside that had touched the edges of this sanctuary he had spent so long trying to coax Shane into. “Yuna is just confused about something in your apartment.”
Shane studied him for another second. “Confused? About what?”
Marleau glanced between them now too, his big toothy smile dimming as he watched their expressions. Ilya forced himself to move finally and locked his phone. He slid it face-down onto the counter and leant forward, let the cool marble numb his forearms.
“You look weird,” Shane questioned. “Was Mom okay?”
“Mm. Your mom came to your apartment,” Ilya replied slowly. “To water the plants. And, some flowers were on your doorstep.”
The smile slowly crept off of Shane’s face and he blinked at him, confused. “Flowers?”
“Yes,” Ilya said. “Flowers.”
Marleau shifted slightly on the couch and Shane glanced over at him for a split second like he was checking whether this was a joke he was missing.
“Okay…” Shane said slowly. “Were they from you?”
“No,” Ilya shook his head. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
A scoff came from the couch and both of their heads snapped towards it. “Dude,” Marleau was pulling a face in disbelief. “You don’t seriously think that he’d get them from someone else?”
“What? No, no. That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Well what are you saying then?” Shane grimaced.
“Was not just flowers.” Ilya hesitated. “There was also a- whats it called- fuck. Envelope, was an envelope too. It had Marleau’s article inside.”
The words landed wrong in the room- he hated how much it mattered, how it seemed to change the temperature just saying it out loud. Shane’s expression shifted slightly into something unreadable.
“What?” Marleau was leaning over the back of the couch to look at the two of them.
“Which one?” Shane had tensed up and was rocking ever so slightly on his heels.
“Most recent one. Shane,” he started. “You told me it wasn’t bad. With your team. And now they’re putting out anonymous hits on Marly and threatening you at your home? Like some kind of fucking movie?”
“You think that was someone from his team?” Marleau had crept behind Shane and put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder; ignoring the way he flinched at the contact.
“It’s just flowers.” Shane stammered, trying to force a shrug.
“Shane,” Ilya hissed. “Is not just flowers, is it. Fucking pansies on your door and an anonymous tip trying to ruin Marly’s reputation? That’s not just flowers.”
"They wouldn't. They're professionals. This is work."
“Are you hearing yourself? You’re telling me you come out to your team and get these on your doorstep not even a few weeks later and you don't think it’s your team?”
“It could be anyone- I don’t know!”
“Mmm yes, because Shane Hollander’s address is just out there for anyone to stop by and have a cup of coffee at. Bullshit. You’re lying and I can see it on your face. This has gotten so out of hand they’re threatening you and you didn’t say a word to me about it.”
“So what am I supposed to do then?” Shane’s voice was rising and he shrugged Marleau’s hand off of the back of him, carding a hand through his hair. “If it’s a threat what the fuck do they want?”
“I don’t know, Shane!” Ilya yelled, spittle flying. “Not like I put those there myself, is it? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You were busy!”
“Busy? Fucking busy doing what? All I do is play fucking hockey Shane.”
“Which is your job. I’m not going to give you anything more to stress about in your life, you have enough.”
Ilya’s nostrils flared and he paused, stunned. “You are my life, Shane. Why aren’t you able to see that? I even asked you what was going on, which means you lied. You fucking lied, Shane. I thought we were being honest with eachother.”
Marleau finally stepped back and coughed awkwardly. “I’m uh, gonna go for a cigarette,” he said. “Just.. suddenly feeling the need. To smoke.”
He spun back on his heels right as Shane said ‘Go’ and Rozy said ‘Stay’, freezing awkwardly mid motion. His brain lagged for a moment, debating which command to listen to; and after a few moments he shuffled in little steps towards the patio.
“Traitor,” Ilya shouted behind him on his way out.
-
“Shane,” Ilya turned to him the second Marleau slid the porch shut, taking his hands into Shane’s. The soft tremble in them didn’t go unnoticed. “Don’t give me lies. Tell me what’s been going on.”
“It’s really no big deal,” he mumbled. “It’s just been locker-room talk- don’t,” he stressed, rolling his eyes at the way Ilya immediately opened his mouth to object. “It’s been mostly harmless. Some of them move my stuff, some of them whisper shit about me. I don’t even really hear it, it's hockey I’m there for. Ex-except for the Marleau thing. I’m going to apologise to him. If someone from my team really did do that, then I’ll have somebody look into it. I’m so sorry.”
“Shane.” He repeated, softly. “It is not Marleau I am worried about.” One hand reached forward to cup his jaw, thumb and forefinger finding their spot under his chin. “You can’t continue like this. We need to do something.”
“I know,” Shane whispered. Tears pooled shiny at the bottom of his eyes, threatening to spill over his lashes, and the dip in the middle of his lips wobbled ever so slightly. “But it’s not part of the plan.”
“The plan didn’t account for something like this, Shane.”
One tear traced its way down Shane’s cheek and he released his hands from Ilya’s to wipe it away furiously; like he was embarrassed it was even there in the first place. He looked up towards Ilya in soft, stuttering glances- then focused hard at a spot on the floor.
“The plan is safe.”
“No, it isn’t safe.” Ilya stepped forward feeling the frustration curl its way into his throat. “You’re not safe. They’re threatening you outside your fucking home.”
“With flowers.”
“It’s not flowers and you know that. Don’t be fucking coy. It’s maybe flowers for now. What happens when the new season starts?” Shane tensed and Ilya gestured wildly with his hands as if he’d proven his point for him. “What if they get violent? What if they try to ruin your career? Sabotage you?”
“I don’t have an option that won't."
“This is why you haven’t signed your contract,” Ilya whispered after a while- mostly to himself.
“I’m going to sign with them.” Shane clenched his fists and stepped backwards, fidgeting.
“So why haven’t you? You always do it first thing. The deadline is in a week, Shane.”
Shane opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. The silence that filled the kitchen was staggering, tension pulled so taut it threatened to snap at any moment. Ilya could feel it, the shape of the truth pressing at the back of Shane’s teeth- but Shane was still standing there with his eyes fixed on the floor like he could keep it all contained if he just refused to look him in the eyes. Ilya swallowed and closed the distance between them, and held a hand to Shane’s face again- firmer this time- pulling it upwards to meet Ilya’s gaze.
“Come to Ottawa,” he whispered, tightening the hold on his face as Shane tried to squirm away in protest.
“I can’t,” Shane mumbled like he was trying to convince himself. “You know I can’t, we have a pla-”
“A plan, I know. Sweetheart, please.” Ilya traced his thumb over his bottom lip, plush and soft and parting almost instinctively at the contact. He pressed it gently against his lip and replaced it with his own lips instead, a soft kiss that made Shane hitch a breath.
“Listen to me,” he whispered. “Come to Ottawa. We can both have a clean slate together. Please. We can figure it out.”
Shane’s breath trembled against Ilya’s mouth. “It’s not that easy,” Shane said quietly.
Ilya let his forehead fall against Shane’s. “It could be. No one is watching us as much as you are.”
“That’s not true.”
“No,” Ilya admitted after a moment, voice softer now. “You’re right. People will be surprised. But no one is watching us the way you think they are. We will be headliners for many months, but there will be nothing about how we fuck.”
Shane laughed under his breath at that, the sound frayed at the edges. His hands had loosened from fists somewhere in the last few minutes, and his fingers curled instead into the fabric of Ilya’s sleeves like he needed something solid to hold onto. Ilya could feel the warmth of them even through the hoodie, rubbing the material softly between his fingers.
Shane finally looked at him then- really looked at him. Ilya saw it through his big brown eyes all at once- the fear, the want, the exhaustion of holding himself together for so long and the guilt that had to have been eating away at him. It hit Ilya with enough force that he almost flinched himself. Instead, he brushed his thumb once more across Shane’s lip.
“Come with me,” he murmured.
Shane shut his eyes; leaned forward just enough that their mouths brushed together again, lingering there for a soft moment before he exhaled shakily against Ilya’s skin. His grip tightened in Ilya’s sleeves, but he didn’t let go.
-
How many cigarettes do you have to smoke before an argument is over? Marleau could tell you the answer- it was four. At least, four was the number of cigarettes he’d burnt through before he decided he actually enjoyed breathing air with working lungs. He’d started to pile them up into one big pile on Rozy’s garden table until the sound of the patio door was sliding open causing him to flinch.
“Shane Hollander just walked you like a dog. What other tricks did he teach you?”
“Fuck off. I didn’t know what to do,” Marleau stuffed the cigarette butts into one big fistful and tossed it in the trash, sliding the remaining ones back into the carton. “I don’t like when he’s mad at me.”
“I don’t like when he’s mad at me,” Ilya mocked- and punched his arm. “Traitor.”
“Is everything okay? Like, are you guys good?” Marly asked, peering over his shoulder to see if he could spot Shane inside. Ilya nodded solemnly- he looked eerily calm, all things considered, and ushered Marly back inside.
Shane was perched on the end of the couch, with a laptop balanced on his legs. His glasses were on the bridge of his nose and he peered through the lenses. He looked so much like his mother like this, Marleau thought to himself.
“Sit,” Shane gestured to the other end of the couch and Marleau sat down immediately; eyebrows raised when the two of them snorted.
“Sorry,” Shane chuckled. “Ilya was saying I walked you like a dog, and then-”
“Very funny,” Marleau sneered. “Uh huh. He told me. Woof. Nice fucking glasses, four-eyes.”
Shane stuck his foot out and drove it into Marleau’s thigh hard enough to make him yelp, but other than that ignored his remark with an impressive commitment. His big broad shoulders were hunched over the laptop and the blue glow of the screen reflected across his face.
“What are you doing?” Marleau leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and nodded towards the laptop. Shane glanced down at the screen again. For half a second, something nervous flickered across his expression- quick and private and almost boyish. Then it settled, and when he looked up there was a determined shine in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
“I’m signing my contract,” he said, finally. “With the Ottawa Centaurs.”