Shane woke up disoriented. His alarm had been blaring for half an hour already. Missing it wasn't like him. What the hell had happened?
Memories from the night before slammed into him all at once. Ilya had been drunk, cut his hand on the shattered lightbulb… and then he'd said it.
Shanyusha. I missed you, my Shane. I could never hate you.
Shane's chest tightened. Ilya knew. Maybe he always had. Shane was completely fucked. Heart hammering, he shot out of bed. He needed to see Ilya now.
He practically sprinted to Ilya's door, knocking more times than needed. Shane knew he'd be waking Ilya up. He didn't care. His whole life was on the line here.
There was a muffled groan from inside the room.
"What the fuck do you want, Shane?"
Shane barged in without answering.
"Ilya," he said uselessly, arms hanging at his sides.
Ilya groaned again, rubbing his eyes. His hands were covered in the bandages Shane had placed there last night. Oh god.
"Shane. Why are you here?"
"You—you got really drunk last night. And you said things." Shane blurted.
Ilya's demeanor shifted. "What things? What did I say?" His voice was thick with sleep, eyes clouded with worry.
"You called me Shanyusha."
Ilya froze for a split second, then let out a short laugh. "Oh… right. Is a Russian thing, you know. Nickname for friends. I must have been really drunk to use it on you."
Shane's heart stuttered. That sounded like a deflection, but… maybe it was true. Maybe Shanyusha hadn't been only for him like he'd thought.
"You… you don't remember then?" Shane asked, hope threading through his panic.
Ilya shook his head, rubbing his temples. "No, not really. I might have said a bunch of nonsense. I don't remember anything from last night clearly. You should probably just forget it too."
Shane swallowed hard, his chest tight with a mix of relief and fear. Maybe Ilya had recognized him in his drunken state, maybe even when he said "Shanyusha," but he didn't remember now. And, most importantly, he hadn't recognized him sober. Everything would be fine.
Shane nodded to himself. "Okay. Yeah, I'll, uh–I'll forget it."
Ilya looked lost in thought for a moment as he studied his hands.
"The bandages… they are from you?" he asked slowly.
Shane suddenly felt caught, as if he'd been doing something wrong when really he'd just been looking out for his roommate. "Uh, yeah. You were kind of bleeding a lot. So."
Ilya chewed on his bottom lip. "Thank you," he said softly.
"It was nothing."
Ilya shook his head. "No. It was something."
Shane's breath hitched.
"So… you come into my room just to tell me I got drunk, or?" Ilya started, eyebrows raised.
"Sorry. Just wanted to make sure you—you were okay. That's all."
Ilya smirked faintly. "Okay."
Shane retreated without looking back, shutting Ilya's door with a quiet click. He stood there for a long moment afterward, heart still racing, listening to the silence on the other side.
Part of him wanted to turn around. To go back in there and tell the truth—spill everything, consequences be damned—if it meant getting the Ilya he used to know back. The one who laughed and smiled and called him Shanyusha.
But he couldn't.
That wouldn't fix anything. If Ilya found out like that—found out now—he'd hate him. For not telling him. For lying. For leaving.
Shane shook the thought away and grabbed his bag, forcing himself toward the door and out into the hallway. He felt strange as he walked, a little lightheaded, edges of the world slightly blurred. Maybe it was just the adrenaline. Or the emotional whiplash of seeing Ilya like that—drunk and soft and all too familiar.
God, he missed him.
No matter how much he didn't want to admit it.
The library didn't help.
Shane tried to hunker down and push through his assignments, but nothing stuck. Words blurred together on the page. His thoughts kept sliding sideways every time he tried to focus. A faint headache pressed at his temples, dull but persistent, like someone had their thumb buried there and wouldn't let go.
He rubbed at it absently, telling himself it was nothing. He was just tired.
He got through as much as he could before packing up and heading to practice.
Getting on the ice would help.
It always did.
Except it didn't.
By the time Shane stepped onto the ice, he felt worse.
His legs were unsteady beneath him, like his balance point was just slightly off. His stomach clenched sharply every so often, enough to make him suck in a breath and grit his teeth. The headache hadn't faded. Instead, it had deepened—a heavy, throbbing ache that made the rink lights feel too bright.
He missed a pass.
And then another.
At one point, he stumbled. Not enough to fall, but enough that his skate scraped awkwardly and he had to catch himself with his stick. His stomach lurched unpleasantly.
"You okay?" Hayden called.
"Yeah," Shane said automatically, even though it wasn't true.
From the corner of his vision, he caught Ilya watching him, eyebrows furrowed.
Shane looked away.
When practice finally ended, he felt wrung out. He moved through the locker room on autopilot, barely speaking, head down as he stripped off his gear. His lower abdomen ached constantly now, a deep, pulling pain that made his skin crawl. He chalked it up to overexertion, to nerves, to literally anything else.
He grabbed his towel and headed for the showers.
It was only when he stepped into the stall and peeled off his compression shorts that everything stopped.
There was blood.
Not a lot—but it was there. Bright against the fabric, smeared where it shouldn't be. Where it couldn't be.
Shane stared at it, his brain refusing to catch up.
No.
No, no, no—
He hadn't had a period in years. Years. This wasn't supposed to happen. He'd done everything right. Between the testosterone and the birth control—this couldn't be happening. He'd been so careful.
His vision swam. A sharp spike of pain split through his head, white and blinding, and his stomach cramped hard enough that he had to brace a hand against the tiled wall to stay upright.
"Oh my god," he whispered.
The air in the stall felt thick, humid, pressing in on him. His chest tightened, breaths coming too fast. His hands shook as he turned the shower on, stepping under the spray more out of instinct than intention.
The water hit his shoulders. It came out too hot, then lukewarm, then hot again as he fumbled with the knob. His knees gave out and he slid down the wall until he was sitting on the tile, arms wrapped around himself, water streaming down his face.
This couldn't be happening. He refused to look down. He knew if he did, he'd see an unmistakable trail of red drifting through the water. He couldn't handle that right now.
His stomach twisted again and he gasped, forehead dropping forward. Tears mixed with the spray before he even realized he was crying. Every cramp, every pulse of pain felt like proof, like his body was dragging him backward, undoing years of work, years of certainty.
He didn't remember stepping out of the shower.
Only that he got dressed as fast as he could, skin raw and red from scrubbing too hard, hoodie tied tight around his waist. He barely registered the walk back to the dorm. All he could feel was the pounding headache, the nausea rolling through him in waves, the crawling disgust under his skin.
Once in his room, he tore through his drawers until he found the emergency stash his mom had insisted on packing.
Pads and tampons, Shane, just in case, she'd said quietly. Shane had rolled his eyes, brushed her off. Mom, stop. I don't need that stuff anymore.
Turns out he did.
Using them made his stomach turn. He felt so gross, so wrong. Like he was betraying himself with his own hands. But the pain was getting worse, and he didn't have the energy to fight his body anymore. The last thing he needed right now was to wake up to sheets covered in blood.
After he was done, he curled up fully clothed on his bed, hoodie still on, blinds drawn tight. The room was dark and still and mercifully quiet.
He told himself he'd just rest for a little while.
He slept for a long time.
Shane drifted in and out of consciousness, time stretching and collapsing in on itself. Faint dreams—or maybe memories—slid through his mind in disjointed flashes.
Moments from his past surfaced without warning. They looped and overlapped, taunting him, refusing to let go.
Some memories burned sharp and fast. Others drifted in slowly, heavy with the weight of time.
This one pulled him under.
Back to a day that had started wrong before he even knew why.
Shane had been having a rough day. From the moment he woke up, there'd been a sharp, restless urge lodged beneath his skin—an overwhelming need to do something. By midmorning, it had crystallized into a single thought.
He wanted to cut all his hair off.
All of it. Beauty be damned. He wanted it gone.
He'd tested the idea out loud first, like he always did. Floated it casually to his friends, trying to sound light.
"What if I buzzed all my hair off?" he'd blurted with a shrug. "Like, just for fun."
They laughed, assuming it was a joke. Then they saw his face.
"Well… I mean," someone hedged, uncertainty creeping in. "If it'd make you happy?"
Another voice chimed in, louder, firmer. "Shane, you're the prettiest girl I've ever seen. Why would you wanna ruin that?"
"Oh my god, Shane," someone else groaned. "If you cut your hair, I'll never forgive you."
Shane had laughed along with them, heat rising to his cheeks. He'd waved it off, said he was joking, ignoring the way his chest had tightened painfully at their words.
But he hadn't been joking at all.
He'd been thinking about it for a long time.
He didn't know exactly what he wanted—only that he hated his long hair. He knew it was stupid. Everyone told him how lucky he was. He'd inherited it from his mom: long, thick waves that always fell just right. People were always touching it, complimenting it, telling him how gorgeous it was. How gorgeous he was.
But that was the problem.
He didn't want them to think that about him.
The feeling followed him all day, a restless orbit around something he couldn't name. Like a word on the tip of his tongue that refused to surface. Maybe it had been there longer than just that day. Maybe much longer.
It only got worse when he sat down to watch Ilya's practice. Shane watched the way the boys shoved each other on the ice, trading easy grins and casual smacks to the shoulders. And Ilya—he was just so…Ilya.
Shane couldn't describe it. There was something powerful and effortless about him. Beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with hair or softness or anything you could take away. It was just him.
Watching them, Shane felt an undeniable ache settle in his gut—a yearning to be something other than what he was. To be something he couldn't be.
When he eventually slipped into the girls' bathroom to change, he lingered in front of the mirror longer than necessary. Staring at himself. At his hair. His chest. The way the shorts he'd borrowed from Ilya hung loose around his thighs but pulled tight at his hips.
It was all wrong.
He was all wrong.
Shane scrubbed a hand over his face, eyes burning as tears welled up. Ilya was probably waiting. He was probably annoyed. The thought made his chest seize. He couldn't take another second of his own reflection.
He crumpled to the floor, back sliding down the cold tile, pressing his hands over his mouth to smother the sound of his sobs.
He didn't know how long he stayed there. Long enough for the room to stop spinning. Long enough his throat to ache from the crying. When he finally dragged in a shaky breath, it felt like breathing through glass.
Why couldn't he just be normal?
The thought came unbidden, cruel and familiar. Shane hugged his knees to his chest, nails digging into his palms like maybe pain could anchor him to something real. He tried to picture himself standing back up, pulling his clothes on, walking out like nothing was wrong. Like he wasn't split open from the inside.
There was a knock.
Shane already knew who it was. He could tell by the sound of his footsteps alone.
"Shane?"
He didn't answer.
"Shane, what the fuck are you doing in there? I've been waiting forever."
Shane scrubbed at his face and pushed himself up off the floor, legs shaky.
"Sorry. I'm just—I'll be out in a sec," he said, voice cracking despite his best effort. He needed to wash his face, breathe. Make himself presentable enough that Ilya wouldn't know he'd been having a breakdown.
There was a pause on the other side of the door.
"Shanyusha."
The nickname hit him square in the chest. The tears came back immediately, hot and humiliating.
"It's fine," Shane said, definitely not sounding it.
Another beat.
"I'm coming in."
"Wait, Ilya, you can't just come into the ladies—"
The door opened before Shane could protest. Just enough for Ilya to slip through, then it shut softly behind him. He took in the scene in one glance—Shane's red eyes, his hunched shoulders, the way he was bracing himself against the sink like he might collapse.
Ilya's expression changed instantly.
"Hey," he said, quieter now. "Hey. What is this?"
Shane shook his head, staring hard at the faucet. "It's nothing. I just—had a weird day."
Ilya didn't buy it. He never did. He stepped closer, careful, like Shane might run away if he moved too quickly. "You are shaking."
"I'm not—" Shane broke off, a sob catching in his throat. He hated this. Hated being seen like this. Hated that Ilya was here at all, that he felt obligated to do this.
Ilya reached out, then hesitated, hand hovering between them. "Did I do something?" he asked, and for the first time there was something unsteady in his voice.
That did it.
Shane laughed weakly through his tears. "No. God, no. This isn't about you."
"Then tell me what it is about," Ilya said. "Because you look like you are falling apart in a public bathroom, and I do not like that."
Shane finally looked at him. Really looked. Ilya's hair was still damp from the ice, curls escaping where his helmet must have been. His face was open in a way Shane rarely saw—concern written plainly across it, unguarded.
"I'm—I don't even know," Shane said. The words tumbled out, clumsy and raw. "There's something wrong with me. Like—really wrong. And I don't think it's something I can fix."
Ilya shook his head immediately, frown deepening. "There is nothing wrong with you."
"No," Shane said quickly. "Ilya, you don't—you wouldn't understand."
"Then help me understand," Ilya said, steady.
Shane hesitated, throat tight. "I wanna cut my hair."
Ilya blinked. Then he laughed, the sound too bright, echoing sharply against the tile.
"So cut your hair, Shanyusha."
God. He really didn't get it. And Shane couldn't tell him why. He couldn't even put it into words.
"All my friends said it's stupid," Shane said quietly. "They're probably right anyway." He swallowed, shame burning hot in his chest. "I'd be gross without it."
"They are the stupid ones," Ilya said immediately. "You would be perfect no matter what your hair looks like."
Shane laughed wetly, shaking his head, tears stinging his eyes. "I'm—I don't understand why I can't just be normal."
Ilya's smile faded. He studied Shane for a long moment, something heavy settling behind his eyes.
"Shane," he said softly, "this is not really about hair, is it?"
Shane shook his head again. The tears came freely now, sliding down his cheeks without resistance.
Ilya stepped closer. Slowly—like he was afraid of spooking him—he reached out and gently pulled Shane's hands away from his face. Shane flinched, then stilled.
"Come here," Ilya said.
Shane didn't know when he started crying in earnest. Only that suddenly he was leaning forward, forehead knocking lightly against Ilya's chest, breath hitching. Ilya's arms came around him without hesitation, solid and warm.
"There," Ilya murmured, one hand settling between Shane's shoulder blades. "It is okay. You are okay."
Shane clutched at the front of Ilya's jacket, fingers twisting in the fabric like he might fall apart without it. He felt ridiculous. Too much. Wrong in a thousand ways he didn't have words for.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," Shane whispered.
Ilya's grip tightened just a little. "You do not need to know yet," he said. "Just be here with me,"
Shane let out a broken sound, half sob, half laugh.
"Ilya—"
"Shh," Ilya interrupted gently. "I have you. I promise."
The next memory faded in softly.
Not sharp like the bathroom floor or the blood or the panic—but heavy in a different way, still as painful as it had been the day he experienced it.
It was two months into summer.
Two months since the last day of school.
Two months since Shane last saw Ilya.
The mirror was still there—but now it was a different one. The bathroom at home, sunlight spilling in through the small window above the sink. The fan hummed softly, steady and ordinary.
Shane barely recognized himself.
His hair was shorter. Not perfect–his mom had cut it, trying her best to replicate a picture he'd found, but he still loved it. It was off his neck. Off his face. When he tilted his head, it didn't fall into his eyes. It didn't hide him the way it used to.
It just… was.
He ran a hand through it, fingers brushing his scalp, and his chest loosened a little.
God.
He looked right.
Not quite all the way there yet, but closer than he'd ever been.
The binder pressed tight around his ribs, uncomfortable if he thought about it too long—but when he looked down, when his chest was flatter and quieter and not the first thing anyone would see, the discomfort felt worth it. Like proof that he was making progress towards who he wanted to be.
There were other changes, too.
His voice caught lower now, especially in the mornings. Sometimes, in the early hours of the day when his voice was still rough with sleep, he'd catch himself sounding like an actual guy, and he'd erupt into joyful laughter, too happy to contain it. There was a faint shadow at his jaw he kept touching like it might disappear if he didn't keep checking. His face—his face—looked a little sharper. Less soft around the edges.
Testosterone was working.
And for the first time in his life, Shane felt something dangerously close to happiness when he looked at himself.
The thought came immediately after, almost automatic.
Ilya would hate this.
The guilt hit him so hard it almost knocked the breath out of him.
Shane sank down onto the closed toilet lid, elbows on his knees, phone heavy in his hand. He didn't need to unlock it to know what was there.
But he did anyway.
The screen lit up.
Ilya: Shane please call me
Ilya: Did I do something wrong
Ilya: I don't understand why you won't talk to me
Ilya: I miss you
Ilya: Please just tell me what I did so I can fix it
Ilya: I need you right now
They blurred together, days and weeks of messages piling up, starting out casual and joking, and then turning desperate, hopeful, pleading.
He'd read every single one.
He'd typed replies he'd never sent. Deleted drafts over and over until his thumbs cramped. I'm sorry. I don't know how to explain. I miss you too. Please don't hate me.
He imagined seeing Ilya again—really seeing him. Imagined the look on his face when he realized Shane wasn't who he remembered. When all his softness was gone. When his voice was lower.
Shane's stomach twisted.
Ilya loved the old version of him. The girl with the long hair. The one who fit into the world neatly enough to stand beside him without explanation.
This version—this real version—was a disappointment waiting to happen.
Tears stung his eyes, sudden and unwelcome.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to no one.
His phone buzzed again.
Ilya: Please
That's what broke him.
Shane stared at the screen for a long time. Then longer. His chest ached with how badly he wanted to answer, to call, to hear Ilya's voice and let himself fall apart into it. To tell him everything he'd been feeling.
But he didn't.
Instead, he opened a new message.
His fingers shook as he typed.
I'm so sorry.
I'm not who you thought I was.
I love you more than anything, Ilya. I want you to know that.
But you should forget me.
He read it once, and then scanned over it again.
It felt like cutting something out of his own chest.
Before he could second-guess himself—before he could be weak—he hit send.
The message was delivered.
A second later, Shane blocked Ilya's number with a trembling hand.
The silence that followed was immediate and suffocating.
He set the phone face-down on the counter and pressed his hands to his face, breathing through the ache as it bloomed full and hot in his chest.
Shane was happier than he had ever been in his own body.
And he had never felt more alone.
Shane woke up with a gasp, sweat slicking his face.
He couldn't tell what time it was—only that the pain had gotten worse. He groaned, shoving his face into the pillow. His head felt like it was splitting open. His stomach twisted painfully every few minutes, dragging a quiet, miserable whine out of his throat before he could stop it. He stayed still, eyes squeezed shut, drifting in and out of consciousness, counting breaths, waiting for it to pass.
Why the fuck was this happening to him?
He was just starting to drift again when a knock sounded at his door.
"Shane? Hello?" Ilya called, his voice threaded with worry.
"What?" Shane snapped, head pounding.
The door opened anyway.
"Shane?"
The hallway light flooded in, white and brutal. Shane made a noise somewhere between a whine and a growl.
"Just—just come in and close the door," he muttered.
It shut.
"What the hell," Ilya said quietly. "You haven't come out since practice yesterday."
Yesterday?
Shane's eyes flew open. "Practice—" His voice cracked. "Fuck. I missed practice. What time is it?"
"Relax," Ilya said immediately. "I told Coach you were sick. It's 6:00. You've been in here awhile."
Shane didn't answer. He just groaned again, rolling over so his head rested on the cooler side of his pillow. Ilya came closer to the bed, approaching carefully, slowly.
"Are you alright? You look–not good."
Shane scoffed. "Gee, thanks. Are you here because you noticed your dishes didn't get washed last night?"
Ilya's expression flickered. "I–no. I just wanted to see if you were alive, Shane."
"Well. Here I am. Can you go now?"
Ilya shifted on his feet, looking unsure.
"I'm–is something going on? Are you sick?"
Sick. Shane almost laughed. It'd be better if he was sick. Then maybe there would be a cure for what was happening to him. Medicine he could take to make it better. This was just Shane, his body betraying him again.
"No," Shane said quickly. "I don't need anything. I'm fine. Nothing's—"
His voice broke.
Once it started, he couldn't stop it. The tears came fast and hot, spilling down his face as his chest caved inward. He turned his face into the pillow, humiliated.
Before he could register it, the mattress dipped.
Ilya was there.
"Hey," he said urgently, hands already on Shane's face, thumbs wiping at tears without thinking. "Did someone hurt you? Was it Troy?"
"No," Shane sobbed, shaking his head. "God, no—"
Ilya's hands stayed, steady, grounding. He cupped Shane's face like he was something fragile, something to be protected. Shane hated how much Ilya's touch still soothed him. They didn't do this. They never got close to one another. So why was Ilya here all of a sudden, swooping in to bring him back out of the deep end?
"Hey. It's okay."
Shane shook his head, tears falling faster now. "It's not."
"Okay, maybe not. But I'm here, Shane. I've got you."
His fingers slid up into Shane's hair, pressing gently at his scalp.
Shane gasped.
The pressure cut through the headache for just a second—just enough that his whole body relaxed.
"Oh," he breathed. "Wait—do that again."
Ilya did. Slowly, gently.
Shane let out a broken, relieved sound. "That's—fuck. That's so nice. My head just stopped hurting for like… one second."
He stiffened, reality crashing back in. "Sorry. You don't actually have to—"
"Do you want me to call Troy?" Ilya asked. "Maybe he—"
"No," Shane said sharply. "It's not like that."
Ilya's face softened. He hesitated. "If it helps… I can keep doing this. If you want."
"Would it be weird?"
Ilya shrugged. "No. You helped me when I hurt my hands. Now I want to help you."
Shane swallowed.
"…Okay."
Ilya slid fully onto the bed, careful not to jostle him, and continued massaging Shane's scalp with slow, deliberate pressure. Shane melted into it despite himself, eyes fluttering shut, breath evening out just a little. He gripped Ilya's arm gently, pulling him closer. It was so nice that he barely even registered it–Ilya was in his bed. And they were basically cuddling. But for the first time in hours, his head didn't feel like it was being hacked open. He felt sleepy, relaxed, safe.
He drifted off peacefully, the gentle pressure of Ilya's fingers against his scalp lulling him to sleep.
This time, when Shane woke, it was slow. Pleasant.
He was pressed against something warm and solid, and—
Ilya.
Shane was tucked against his chest, Ilya's arm still around him, one hand tangled in his hair, the other resting at the small of his back like he'd never moved. Ilya was asleep, mouth parted slightly, his face smooth—free of the tension he carried like armor when he was awake. He looked younger like this.
He looked like the boy Shane remembered.
The urge to touch him was almost overwhelming. Shane lifted his hand, hesitating, then traced the air just above Ilya's cheek, mapping the familiar constellation of moles without quite making contact. His throat tightened.
Ilya shifted.
Shane froze.
A quiet sound slipped from Ilya's throat as he blinked awake, eyes unfocused at first. He looked down, registering the weight against him, the arm around Shane's back.
"Oh," he murmured, voice rough with sleep. "Hi."
Shane swallowed. "Hey."
Neither of them moved.
Ilya's fingers flexed once in Shane's hair, reflexive. He seemed to realize what he was doing a second later—but he didn't pull away. "Did you… sleep?"
"Yeah," Shane said softly. "I think so."
"Good." Ilya exhaled, relief obvious. "You were hurting."
Shane nodded. "It's better. Still there, but… manageable." He hesitated. "You didn't have to stay."
Ilya gave a small, tired smile. "You were holding onto me like I might disappear."
Heat rushed to Shane's face. "Sorry."
"Don't be." Ilya's thumb traced a slow, absent line at Shane's back. "I didn't mind."
Silence settled between them—comfortable, fragile. The early light filtered through the curtains, painting everything soft and unreal.
Neither of them were ready to acknowledge what was sitting between them. This was not normal roommate behavior, Shane knew that. And it certainly wasn't normal for Ilya. He usually avoided Shane like the plague.
What had changed?
After a moment, Ilya spoke again. "You scared me, you know."
Shane's chest tightened. "I'm sorry."
I'm not trying to make you feel bad," Ilya said quickly. "Just… you are so—fuck, I don't know the word. You are always holding yourself together." He shook his head, searching. "It seems like nothing ever phases you. You fall, and then you get back up like it's nothing. So seeing you like that—" His voice dropped. "It scared me."
"That's not true," Shane whispered. "Everything phases me. I just… don't want anyone to see me break."
"You know," Ilya continued, gentler now, "it's okay if you aren't perfect all the time. You don't have to pretend. Not around me."
"Okay," Shane said softly.
For a moment, they just lay there, gazes locked, legs tangled beneath the blanket. Ilya was looking at him like—like he could really see him. Not the version Shane showed everyone else. All of him.
Then Ilya cleared his throat.
"You should eat something. And drink water."
"Oh. Right."
Ilya sat up, tugging Shane with him. "Come on, sleeping beauty. I will make you something for breakfast."
Shane followed him into the living room—and stopped short.
The dorm was spotless. No empty bottles. No stray dishes. The counters looked wiped down, the trash gone, the air somehow lighter.
He stared at Ilya. "Did you do this?"
Ilya shrugged, already rummaging in the fridge. "I knew you wouldn't want to wake up to a mess. It's not a big deal."
"I thought you said I couldn't change you," Shane said quietly. "I thought you didn't care what I wanted."
Ilya paused. Then he turned, expression serious. "That was…I shouldn't have said that." He exhaled. "I was an asshole. I have been an asshole most of the semester. I'm sorry."
Shane blinked, something warm spreading through his chest. "Thank you. For saying that. And for cleaning." He hesitated. "It means more than you think."
Ilya smiled—small and real this time.
"So," Shane said, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, "could we maybe be friends? I mean—we live together. We're on the same team. It'd be nice not to feel like I'm tiptoeing around you."
Ilya didn't even hesitate. "Yes, Shane. We can be friends."
Relief washed over him so hard his knees almost gave.
"Good," Shane murmured. "I'd like that."
Ilya turned back to the stove, pulling out a pan. "Sit," he ordered gently. "You look like you will fall over if you do not."
"Yes, chef."
Ilya snorted. "You are lucky you are sick."
"What are you making?"
"Eggs. And a smoothie. I know your diet is strict."
Shane blinked. "You know about my diet?"
"How could I not?" Ilya said dryly. "You wake me up at six in the morning with your stupid fucking blender."
Shane laughed. "Sorry."
He watched Ilya move around the kitchen—cracking eggs one-handed, flipping them with practiced ease, dumping frozen fruit and protein powder into the blender without measuring. It felt strangely intimate. Younger Shane would've killed for this: sharing a space with Ilya, watching him make breakfast like it was the most natural thing in the world.
When Ilya was done, he slid a plate and a glass across the counter. "Eat. I don't want you to waste away."
Shane took a bite of the eggs.
"Oh," he said, surprised. "These are actually…really good."
Ilya's mouth twitched. "I am offended you thought they would not be."
Shane smiled, taking another bite, the knot in his chest loosening with every chew. He hadn't realized how hungry he was—not just for food, but for this. Being near Ilya again.
They ate in companionable silence for a few moments, the AC humming faintly in Shane's ears, like proof that this was real.
"You feel better?" Ilya asked eventually, quieter now.
"Yeah," Shane said after a second. "Not perfect. But…better."
"Good." Ilya leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with an unreadable expression. "If it happens again—whatever that was—you tell me. Okay?"
Shane hesitated. Then he nodded. "Okay."
The next few weeks were actually nice. Ilya had started cleaning up after himself. Shane no longer had to worry about picking his wet towels off the floor or throwing away empty soda cans he'd left on the counter.
That wasn't the only change. Ilya—who, for all intents and purposes, had once seemed perfectly content to ignore Shane's existence—had become a friend. He cooked most nights, and Shane cleaned. They ate together on the couch, knees brushing, a movie half-watched as they traded quiet commentary and stupid observations. Sometimes they argued over what to put on, sometimes they fell asleep halfway through, plates balanced dangerously on their laps.
Ilya even talked to him at practice now. During drills, he'd skate close enough to whisper hushed jokes under his breath, lips tugged into that crooked grin that always made Shane's focus stutter.
"Your backhand is shit today," Ilya muttered once, shoulder-checking him lightly as they passed.
Shane shot him a look. "I beat you in sprints yesterday."
"Fluke."
"Liar."
Ilya laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, and Shane felt it settle somewhere deep in his chest.
They started stretching together after practice, sitting side by side on the locker room floor. It felt so much like the days they'd shared in high school, lingering on the ice long after everyone else had gone. Sometimes Ilya would wordlessly hand Shane his water bottle if he noticed he'd forgotten it.
And Shane tried—really tried—not to read into it.
He told himself this was just what friendship looked like. That the way Ilya hovered in doorways, or waited for him before leaving the rink, didn't mean anything. That the occasional brush of fingers, the shared looks, the soft "night, Shane" murmured before bed were all harmless.
But late at night, lying in the dark with the faint sound of Ilya's breathing through the thin wall between their beds, Shane's chest still ached.
Because it felt good.
It felt like they were slowly finding their way back to something they'd lost—even if Ilya didn't know there had ever been anything to lose. Shane told himself that was fine. Maybe it was better this way. Friendship was manageable. Friendship didn't need explanations Shane wasn't ready to give.
Apparently, it also didn't go unnoticed.
They were sitting in a café on campus, steam fogging up the windows as students came in and out around them. Thick snowflakes drifted through the air outside. Shane was halfway through his coffee when Hayden leaned back in his chair, studying him over the rim of his cup.
"So," he said casually, "how come you and Rozanov are all buddy-buddy now?"
Shane nearly choked. "We're not—" He coughed, setting his cup down. "I mean. We're just… friends."
Troy's eyebrows shot up, a slow, exaggerated climb. Shane felt heat rush to his face immediately.
"Shut up!" Shane snapped.
"I didn't say anything," Troy replied innocently.
Shane groaned, dropping his elbows onto the table and covering his face with his hands.
"I mean," Hayden went on, undeterred, "you guys used to be, like, arch enemies. Now he waits for you after practice so you can walk back to your dorm together."
"We were not arch enemies," Shane said, muffled. He dropped his hands and shot Hayden a look. "He was just—he was an asshole at the beginning of the semester. And I was probably too quick to judge. He apologized."
Troy blinked. "Wow. Rozanov knows how to apologize?"
"Yes," Shane said sharply. "And he meant it."
Hayden leaned forward, interested. "Huh."
"He's actually—" Shane hesitated, then pushed on, "he's really nice when you get to know him. He helped me when I was—"
He stopped himself, throat tightening.
Both of them were watching him too closely now.
"When I was sick," Shane finished quickly.
Troy's expression shifted, something more thoughtful replacing the teasing. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Shane said, a little too firm. "He didn't have to. But he did."
Hayden exchanged a look with Troy. "Okay," he said slowly. "So… not-enemies to besties? Or, like—more than besties?"
Shane rolled his eyes, standing abruptly and grabbing his coffee. "You're reading into it."
"Maybe," Troy said easily. "Or maybe you just don't want to."
"You two are exhausting," Shane muttered, already halfway out of his chair.
"Tell your boyfriend we said hi," Hayden called after him.
"He's not my—" Shane cut himself off, flipped them off without turning around, and kept walking.
But the words stuck.
Boyfriend. That wasn't—that wasn't an option with Ilya. Not after everything Shane had done. Everything he'd hidden.
The idea followed him all the way back to the dorm, buzzing under his skin in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine. When he opened the door, Ilya looked stressed.
"Hey. What's going on?"
Ilya exhaled roughly, dragging his hands across his face. "The fucking heater is broken. I've been on the phone all morning trying to get it fixed, but they say they can't come for at least another week."
Shane's eyes widened. "A week? It's fucking freezing."
"I know," Ilya said irritably. "They say the best they can do is give us one space heater. One. Fucking bullshit."
"How the fuck are we supposed to stay warm with one space heater?" Shane dropped his bag and rubbed his arms, suddenly very aware of the chill in the room.
"I don't know," Ilya snapped, then sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I'm just—pissed."
"Okay. Okay." Shane took a breath. "We keep all the windows closed. Stuff towels in the cracks."
"That might help a little," Ilya admitted.
"And maybe we just… spend most of our time elsewhere," Shane added, a little too quickly. "I could go to Troy's dorm."
The moment the words left his mouth, something in Ilya's expression tightened.
"Oh," he said flatly.
Shane hesitated. "I mean—just during the day, just until they fix it. His building's newer. Probably actually has heat."
"Right," Ilya said. "Of course."
He turned away, grabbing a blanket off the back of the couch and shaking it out harder than necessary. Shane watched him, unease curling in his stomach.
"Um. Unless you…"
"What, Shane?"
"Unless you wanna hangout. I mean—I guess sharing body heat is also a viable option."
Ilya smiled. "You want to share body heat?"
"Well—it's efficient. Thermodynamically."
"Of course," Ilya said, very carefully. "Thermodynamics."
The silence stretched, thick and charged. Then Ilya cleared his throat.
"We can move the space heater into the living room. They just dropped it off." he said. "Set up blankets. Make a nest."
"A nest," Shane repeated, lips twitching.
"Do not mock me," Ilya warned. "I am cold and angry and I will bite."
Shane laughed, real and warm. "Okay. Nest it is."
And so, after practice, Shane and Ilya returned to a frigid dorm. Shane had already set up the couch, piling it high with blankets and pillows. The space heater sat on the floor in front of it, humming softly, doing its absolute best against the Montreal winter.
Ilya dropped his bag and surveyed the setup. "Hopefully there are enough pillows," he said, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
"Shut up," Shane said, already flushed. "I just—I wanted it to be comfortable."
Ilya's expression softened, just a little. "Go change," he said. "I will start on dinner."
"Okay."
Shane padded down the short hallway to his room and changed quickly, tugging on sweats and the thick cable-knit sweater his dad had given him last year. It was oversized and a little worn at the cuffs, but it was the warmest thing he owned. The second he pulled it on, he felt himself relax, shoulders dropping as the familiar weight settled around him.
When he came back out, the dorm smelled faintly of chicken and warm spices, and Ilya was already at the stove, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from his post-practice shower.
Shane paused in the doorway longer than necessary.
"Aren't you cold?"
"A little," Ilya admitted, stirring the liquid in the pot. "But it is okay. The nest will fix it, no?"
Shane laughed softly. "Yeah. Let's hope so."
He crossed the room and settled onto the couch, wriggling until the blanket was tucked just right around his shoulders. The cushions were still cold beneath him, but the space heater's weak warmth was starting to gather. He looked up just in time to catch Ilya watching him—something fond in his expression that made Shane's chest stutter.
A few minutes later, Ilya returned from the kitchen, carefully balancing two steaming bowls of soup.
"We— we shouldn't eat soup on the couch," Shane said automatically.
"Our heater is broken," Ilya replied, deadpan. "We can break rules a little, I think. If we spill, I will clean it."
Shane snorted. "You're very convincing."
"I know."
He took the bowl Ilya handed him, cradling it in both hands. The ceramic was almost too hot, heat seeping into his palms. He inhaled the steam, then took a cautious sip.
It warmed him instantly, spreading through his chest and stomach like a slow exhale. He couldn't help the little hum that slipped out.
Ilya's eyebrows lifted. "Good?"
"Perfect," Shane said honestly. "Seriously—how'd you learn to cook like this?"
Ilya paused, his expression shifting. "I–my mom used to do all the cooking." He took a slow inhale, hesitating before going on. "When she died, I had to learn."
Shane's heart almost stopped. When did Ilya's mom pass away?
"What?"
"Um. I don't know what you mean."
"Your mom. She's–she's dead?"
Ilya stiffened, shoulders going tight in a way Shane recognized immediately now. A shutdown. He stared down into his soup like it had suddenly become very interesting.
"Yeah," he said after a moment. "She died. She was…sick."
Shane's chest went hollow. "Ilya… I didn't know."
Ilya sighed, rubbing his thumb along the rim of the bowl. "It is not exactly something I announce."
"When?" Shane asked gently, voice low.
Ilya swallowed. "The summer after I moved to Canada."
Oh god.
The word hit Shane like a knife—sharp, echoing. That summer. The one that lived in him like a scar.
The summer he stopped answering his phone.
The summer he disappeared.
The summer he told himself he needed to let Ilya go, that he couldn't be anyone's anything while he figured out how to survive becoming himself.
The summer Ilya's mom died. Shane's brain flashed with images of Ilya's texts from back then.
Please. I need you right now.
Please just tell me what I did so I can fix it.
Shane's grip tightened around his bowl. The soup sloshed dangerously close to the edge, but he barely noticed. His ears were ringing.
"Oh," he said again, stupidly.
Ilya didn't look up. He kept tracing the rim of the bowl with his thumb, slow and precise, like if he focused hard enough the past might stay where it belonged.
"She was unhappy," he added quietly. "I think maybe she is in a better place now."
Shane's chest ached. He wanted to reach out, to say something that mattered, something that didn't sound like an apology for a crime Ilya hadn't accused him of—couldn't accuse him of, not yet.
"I'm really sorry," Shane said finally. It felt inadequate, not even close to enough to make up for the damage Shane had done. But it was all he could say without cracking himself open at Ilya's feet.
Ilya nodded once. Still didn't look at him.
"Mm," he hummed.
They ate in silence after that, the warmth of the soup doing nothing to thaw the cold creeping up Shane's spine. Across from him, Ilya was quiet and solemn.
"Sorry. I think I may have brought the mood down." He said softly, swallowing another spoonful of soup.
"No–no, it's okay. Do you wanna put on a movie? You can choose." Shane offered.
Ilya smiled sadly. "Yes. I would like that."
Shane set their bowls aside on the coffee table and reached for the remote, handing it over like an offering. Ilya scrolled slowly, pausing on titles without really seeing them. Eventually, he picked something familiar and low-stakes, the kind of movie you could half-watch without thinking too hard.
As it started, Ilya tucked himself back under the blanket, close enough that Shane could feel the heat of him through the fabric. After a second's hesitation, Shane shifted too, angling his body toward Ilya. Not touching. Just closer.
Onscreen, someone said something meant to be funny. Shane laughed a beat too late. Ilya didn't laugh at all. Shane could feel his gaze burning into the side of his face.
He shifted, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. The room was warm now—not really, not in any practical sense, but the blankets trapped what little heat they had, and the soup sat heavy and comforting in his stomach. His eyelids felt thick. Weighted.
Shane told himself he'd just close them for a second. It was much longer than a second.
The movie blurred at the edges, dialogue melting into background noise. His breathing slowed without him noticing, head tipping slightly until it brushed Ilya's shoulder.
He jerked awake for half a second, mortified. "Sorry—"
"It is okay," Ilya murmured immediately, voice low. "We can turn it off. If you want to go to sleep now."
"I think I'm gonna go to bed," Shane said, rubbing his eyes. "I'm wiped."
"Okay," Ilya said. "I'll move the space heater for you."
"What?" Shane blinked at him.
"I will move it. To your room."
"You'll freeze," Shane said immediately. "You're really gonna sleep without a heater?"
"I'm fine," Ilya replied. "I run hot, anyway."
"I thought we said we'd both sleep in the living room," Shane said, frowning slightly.
Ilya hesitated. "The couch is small. And uncomfortable. I don't want you to hurt your back."
"So come to my room, then," Shane blurted. His cheeks went hot the second the words left his mouth.
"My bed is—well, it's not big, but it's definitely better than the couch."
Silence fell between them.
Ilya blinked at him, clearly caught off guard. "Your… room?"
"Yeah," Shane said quickly, suddenly very aware of how fast his heart was beating. "I mean—just to sleep. It's freezing out here, and the heater'll work better in there anyway."
Ilya studied him for a moment, searching his face like he was looking for something unspoken. Finally, he exhaled.
"If you are sure," he said carefully.
"I am," Shane said, maybe too fast.
They moved quietly, like the sound itself might spook the moment. Shane plugged the heater in near his bed while Ilya lingered awkwardly by the door, hands shoved into his sleeves.
"You can take the bed," Shane said, then immediately backtracked. "Or—half. I mean. We can share. Or not share. Whatever you want. God."
Ilya huffed a small laugh. "Relax," he said softly. "We will share. I am not made of glass."
They climbed in under the covers, careful at first, leaving a polite inch of space between them. The space heater hummed faintly, useless against the cold air seeping into the room.
Shane shivered, tugging the blanket tighter around his shoulders.
"Shane," Ilya said quietly.
"What?"
"You are shaking."
"Uh—yeah," Shane muttered. "I mean. It's freezing."
Ilya shifted closer, close enough now that Shane could feel the heat radiating off him. His hand hovered over Shane's arm, hesitant.
"Can I… can I touch you?"Shane blinked, breath catching. "Um. What?"
Ilya flushed faintly. "It's like you said. Thermodynamics. We will be warmer if we—" He gestured vaguely between them. "Share body heat."
"Oh." Shane swallowed. "Right."
"Only if you want," Ilya added quickly. "I just—you look really cold."
Shane hesitated for half a second, then nodded. His voice came out soft.
"You can touch me."
Ilya didn't hesitate. He wrapped his arms around Shane, firm and careful all at once, pulling him closer until their noses brushed. His hands were impossibly warm, splayed solidly across Shane's back.
Shane let out a quiet, contented sigh.
"That's so nice," he murmured. "How are you so warm?"
Ilya chuckled softly, the sound low and vibrating through his chest. "I don't know. Maybe it is a Russian thing."
Shane smiled despite himself. He tipped his head down, hesitating just a beat.
"It's fine, Shane," Ilya said gently, reading him the way he always seemed to now. "You can hold onto me."
Shane didn't waste any time. He buried his face into Ilya's collarbone, breathing him in, hands curling into the fabric of his shirt like he was afraid the warmth might disappear if he let go.
Ilya's breath hitched slightly, instinct pulling him closer. His arms tightened around Shane without thought, one hand cradling the back of his head, fingers tracing slow, steady circles through his hair.
"Sleep, solnyshko," he murmured again, voice low and certain. "I've got you."
Shane's brain stuttered at the Russian word, heart skipping. "What… did you call me?" he murmured into Ilya's skin, heavy-lidded and fuzzy with sleep.
"Nothing, Shane. Just… sleep," Ilya said, soft, reassuring, pressing him closer.
Shane exhaled against him, letting go of the day, of the cold, of the ache in his chest. His eyes slipped shut, the warmth and steadiness of Ilya's presence pulling him into a deep, untroubled sleep.
Ilya didn't let go.