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Ilya: Mama, don’t worry about me. I have a family now, I am happy.
Ilya’s birthday celebration had stretched into nearly a week of binge drinking, eating (no bird food allowed, Shane!) and partying with friends and family. But on the evening of his actual birthday, Ilya chose to spend it with Shane and his parents, the Hollanders: his chosen family.
Everything was handmade: the banner, the cake, which he had requested to have 35 candles but could only fit 20, and even a few Russian dishes they had managed to cook for him. At the other end of the table sat a framed picture of his mother.
imagining shane hanging out with his parents and while he's away from his phone doing something with his dad a call comes in. yuna sees this and goes, "shane, someone's calling you!"
and shane says, "who is it?"
"lily!"
"oh." shane immediately sets aside what he's doing and walks over, saying to his mom, "that's ilya."
yuna looks at him in confusion as he picks up his phone. "why is ilya saved as 'lily' in your phone?"
and shane looks at her, away, shrugs as if it's obvious and simply says, "I can't have ilya rozanov saved on my phone, mom" before answering the call with a, "hey, baby" and walking away.
leaving yuna (and david) standing shocked and, once again, shaken at how little they knew about their son and the layers of concealment he's had to operate under for years just to love who he loves.
I truly believe shane is exactly one mic'd up game away from losing that golden boy status. he is vicious. utilizing that idodetic memory for evil. every chirp is highly personalized and succinct. he's giving these men insecurities they didn't know existed before he opened his mouth. forget the weak backhand. he's referencing the fact your team has been trying to force trade you for the better part of three seasons and how your commitment to being the worst player in the western conference is perhaps the only thing you don't have issues committing to.
My favorite thing about Hollanov is how obviously down bad they are for each other that it would be so obvious to anyone with just a little bit of context.
They thought they were soooo slick with the Montreal Jane and Boston Lily thing but if there had been one just one voyager that was friends with a raider they would have clocked that shit soooo fast
They’re going through Yuna and David’s movie collection when Ilya comes across a VHS with ‘Shane - Bell Center 1994’ written on the sleeve and insists they watch it.
Shane, on the other hand, is not super into the idea.
“My parents don’t have a VHS player.”
“Is literally right beside your knee, Hollander.”
“Well, it’s boring! Why do you want to see a dumb recording of me as a kid anyway?”
“Because it’s adorable?” Ilya says incredulously. “And you are adorable?”
“Oh, I forgot we had that!” Yuna exclaims, coming to sit on the couch with her glass of wine. “God, I miss those days. Shane was the cutest timbit.”
Timbit, Ilya mouths to himself, his fingers curling around the tape. This is Shane as a timbit? In all his tiny little hockey gear at the Bell Center? Ilya needs to see it. “Shane.”
Shane looks at him and sighs.
They put the tape in.
Ilya almost dies as the grainy screen resolves itself into an MC and a tiny Shane, dressed in his hockey gear. His helmet is crooked on his head, his stick tap tap tapping against it as he stares at the interviewer, determined. His cheeks are big and round and pink from the cold of the ice, and though Ilya cannot make out his freckles, he knows from pictures that they’re there. The MC crouches down and a packed Bell Center is visible behind them.
“And here we have number 24, Shane Hollander!” The MC says in heavily accented English. “Let’s give him a round of applause. Shane, how are you feeling tonight, are you excited to be here?”
“Um. Yes.”
“And how old are you, Shane?”
Little Shane closes his eyes for a moment, taking a big, deep breath before reciting: “My name is Shane Hollander and I’m a hockey player. I am three years old and I go to Glebe Co-operative Nursery School in Ottawa and my mommy and daddy are Yuna and David. And I’m three.”
The MC laughs a little. “That’s a great introduction, Shane, thank you. Do you have anyone here with you tonight, cheering you on in the audience?”
Shane’s eyes open, but he doesn’t break out into a toothy grin. No, instead, Shane—serious, no-nonsense Shane—nods and leans in to the microphone like he’s giving a post-game interview. “Yes, my mommy and my daddy.”
“And are they big Metros fans?”
“Yes.”
“What about you?”
“Yes, too. They’re gonna go all the way this year. They have all the pieces for a winning team.”
“That’s what we love to hear, Shane, we agree and we love the confidence. Can we expect to see you on the ice someday? Do you want to be a hockey player when you grow up?”
“Yes, I’m a hockey player.”
“Do you want to play for Montreal?”
“Yes.”
“Can we get some encouragement for the team from you, Shane? Maybe a Go Metros Go?”
This, Shane takes extremely seriously. Ilya watches him nod with all the solemnity of a general going to war, and then releases his own tiny, passionate battle cry: “Go Metros Go!”
“Shane Hollander, everyone, let’s give him another round of applause!”
Ilya watches Shane stick out his little hand and the MC laugh a little as he shakes it, before tint Shane toddles back to his parents on his skates. The mic picks up, Mommy can I skate again nowww? before the tape stops.
Ilya is going to fucking die. He already feels as if his heart is too big for his body, his fingers pressing into his knees to keep from grabbing Shane and doing—something to him. Kissing him or hugging him or fucking. Eating him. Consuming him. Crawling inside of him.
Shane is curled up beside the couch with his hands covering his face in embarrassment and Ilya is sitting less than a meter from him, dying of retroactive cuteness.
“You were so pissed when we told you that your turn to skate was done,” Yuna murmurs fondly. “Full meltdown.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Shane mutters, shaking his head in his hands. “JP made fun of me.”
Yuna scoffs. “JP was copying his parents, because they were pissed that you were better than him. And that we were out of towners but got the interview.” She raises a brow. “And now look: you’re a professional hockey player and JP is probably working at some office back in Trois Rivières and hates his life.”
“Mom, seriously?”
“What?” Yuna asks, getting up and heading towards the kitchen. “His parents were assholes. They made an asshole. I won’t apologize for that.”
Ilya takes the opportunity to crawl closer, slinging an arm around Shane’s back. He presses one kiss, then two, then three to Shane’s cheek. “Shane,” he breathes.
“Mm?”
“You were cutest fucking tiny hockey player in the entire world.”
Ilya feels Shane’s blush against his mouth. He kisses it again. “Fuck off,” Shane mutters, cuddling into him. He turns to press a soft, barely there kind of kiss to the corner of Ilya’s lips, burying his pink, hot face into his neck. “I was too serious. They called me a robot and did that stupid dance at me.”
“Well, they’re idiots. Hockey is serious, so you are serious, and they were probably ugly.”
“Ilya,” Shane laughs. Ilya feels his huffed breath in the juncture of his own neck and grins, thumb moving up to caress the small hairs at his nape.
They’re still too far away.
Ilya shifts, immediately attacking Shane’s face with kisses the minute he becomes visible. Shane laughs, shrieks, says stop even as he pulls Ilya closer, until they’ve toppled over onto the carpet.
Shane pulls back to look him in the eye, chewing his lip. “I think my parents still have some camcorder home videos of me.”
