All’s Fair In Love & Hockey: A six-part limited series, only on ESPN!
INT. THE HOLLANDER-ROZANOV HOME - MORNING, 06:12AM
SHANE HOLLANDER, 35, stands at an expansive marble countertop in the couple’s downtown Ottawa home. He’s wearing Centaurs-branded workout gear, a pair of dark-rimmed glasses, and has his dark hair pulled into a small bun.
HOLLANDER: He’ll be down in a minute. He woke up late, so we’re a little behind.
PRODUCER: Long night?
HOLLANDER: We were visiting friends in New York this weekend, and our flight didn’t get in until, like, three. Not great for the body clock.
At Hollander’s feet, their rescue dog ANYA sniffs for scraps of the breakfast he’s meticulously preparing.
HOLLANDER (ABSENTLY): You don’t want this, baby, it’s just vegetables. The blender is gonna scare you, c’mon. Go get your papa.
PRODUCER: Are you nervous for your first day back?
Hollander glances up from the vegetables he’s chopping and scooping into a NutriBullet, smiling just beyond one of the cameras.
HOLLANDER: For the new season? No. For you guys being there? I mean, yeah.
PRODUCER: You’ve done things like this before, though. Ilya showed us the clips from your old At Home With The NHL segments.
HOLLANDER: Mm, I bet he did. Asshole. No, that was different, though. It was… I mean, I guess I wasn’t totally honest. I mean, obviously, I wasn’t. This feels more… Intrusive? No offence?
PRODUCER: None taken.
HOLLANDER: Good. I’m really sorry, this is gonna be loud—
Hollander switches the blender on. The vegetables and supplement powders inside blend into a grey-green blur. It looks, frankly, disgusting.
ILYA ROZANOV, 35, finally strolls into the kitchen. He’s wearing a plain black workout set, a black toque already pulled down over his golden-brown curls. He looks visibly annoyed at the sound of the blender.
ROZANOV: You are having breakfast late today, no?
HOLLANDER: Fucking— Say good morning to the Hollywood set in our kitchen, asshole.
Hollander lightly slaps Rozanov’s hands away from various sliced fruits waiting on the chopping board, all of which had avoided the same fate as his vegetables. Rozanov looks towards them with a grin.
ROZANOV: Good morning, nation of Canada and Hollywood transplants. I am sorry your first impression is Hollander’s boring fucking breakfast.
PRODUCER: We really need you guys to try and swear less.
HOLLANDER (Laughing): This guy? Good luck with that. Do you guys want anything to eat?
The last line is targeted towards the camera and, presumably, the crew behind them. Rozanov looks incredibly fond, and drops a kiss to Hollander’s head.
HOLLANDER: Not in front of the cameras, jackass, Jesus.
ROZANOV: Is the whole point they are here. Keep up.
HOLLANDER (Thoughtful, uncomfortable): Oh. Yeah. I guess.
Hollander pushes the sliced fruits onto a plate, retrieves a second smoothie from their large, chrome refrigerator , and places both on the kitchen island in front of Rozanov.
ROZANOV: Spasibo, moy benzopila.
HOLLANDER: My… Chainsaw?
ROZANOV: Yes!
HOLLANDER: He’s trying to teach me Russian. I’m trying to teach him French, but, it’s less important—
ROZANOV: Is very important!
HOLLANDER: —It’s less important, obviously, because French isn’t my first language. We both speak English, which is my first language, so it’s only fair I try and learn Russian.
ROZANOV: He is good student. What? Why are you looking at me like this? I am being nice.
HOLLANDER: It just— It sounds, like, dirty when you say it.
ROZANOV (Grinning): Is just my natural sexual charisma.
HOLLANDER: Jesus fucking Christ. I am so sorry. I wish I could say he isn’t usually like this.
CUT TO a short montage of Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov throughout their NHL careers, almost exclusively shots of them standing side-by-side at press conferences, or facing off at center ice. A few shots of them hosting the NHL awards, or standing together at events, and later of them together at events hosted by the Irina Foundation.
Word Count: 463
————————————————————————————
A c!Jack one-shot where he gets a dog and heals.
Shoutout to @averagekrtzyyenjoyer for the inspiration!
————————————————————————————
Jack couldn’t remember the last time he had a pet, if he’d even had one before at all, pets weren’t the best idea to have here. Like most people he’d probably swore off keeping a pet long ago. Yet now here he was, sitting in the forest caring for a random stray puppy.
He’d come here for something, maybe in search of materials to build, but soon enough this puppy had run up to him all alone. No collar, no sign of a previous owner it’d run away from, he’d looked around the area but there were no other dogs nearby. Whoever this puppy had been with before they were long gone now. Jack’s best guess was that it’d been left behind with no knowledge of where the others had gone, no one coming to look for it. Jack saw a glimpse of himself in that, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the poor pup.
Now he’d given himself the responsibility to care for it, but he didn’t know a damn thing about taking care of dogs. What breed was it? What kind of meat do you feed them? Was any kind okay? How do you keep them happy? How do you clean them? He felt that it probably wasn’t as hard as he was making it out to be, but the more he thought about it the more he worried he’d fuck it up.
Out of the forest, he found a library and searched high and low for books on taking care of a dog. Eventually he found a guide, and in it he figured out what Daisy was(that’s the name he’d decided to give her), she was a brown pitbull. After finding this out he was very tempted to start calling her Mr. Worldwide but he restrained. Needless to say brought the book home and started making it Daisy’s home too.
He made her a bed(although she’d much rather sleep on his) and made her some toys, he thought they were shitty but she seemed to love them. He’d lay in bed not wanting to get up but Daisy needed feeding, he’d realize how hungry he was too, might as well grab an apple while he’s up. He wouldn’t want to leave the house but Daisy needed to go out for a walk, so he’d get his shoes and coat and walk under the sun. They’d play together, nap together, and learned about each other. Jack learned early on that she hated the smell of alcohol, so he put the crate away in the cupboard.
He had to keep this dog alive, healthy and happy goddammit, and through that he was keeping himself alive, healthy and happy. Maybe, keeping a pet wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
CW for this chapter: Panic attacks, unrealistic depiction of the bullshit US immigration system, almost-blowjobs, homophobia
CHAPTER ONE | READ ON AO3 | READ ON TUMBLR
you guys have been so so sweet to me abt this au so far….i hope u enjoy this next chapter + i begrudgingly admit that its gone up to being 4 chapters….waow…..as always no ai was used here, fuck ai to death, if u see any mistakes no u dont, im playing fast and loose w canon timelines here also <3 love yall!!
The doctor provides him with instructions and prescriptions and important things to remember— He needs to try not to get his stitches wet, he shouldn't drink alcohol or smoke for a while, he needs to take his antibiotics —And gives copies of it all to Shane.
"Okay," Yuna smiles, when the doctor leaves. "We'll move on your time, sweetheart. I'm gonna go and talk to the office about having your care transferred over to Ottawa Central, and then we can get going."
"Thank you, Yuna," Ilya says, always polite. Shane rolls his eyes again when his mom leans over to kiss Ilya's head.
"Nothing to thank me for, sweetheart. We'll stop by your apartment first so you can pack what you need, and then start the drive back."
They have to drive, because Ilya can't fly so soon after surgery. Or, he can, it's just not recommended. Which means Shane put a hard no down, and agreed with his mom when she suggested they road trip back up to Ottawa. It's about seven hours on the road, which is a long time, but the doctor had given them the all-clear as long as they stop every hour so Ilya can stretch his legs and reduce the risk of a blood clot.
Ilya smiles again, tight and anxious, and all of Shane's impulse control flies out of the window.
"Mom, why don't you and dad just book flights for yourselves?" He says, hoping that she'll get the message. Ilya is tired, and hurting, and probably wants nothing less than spending seven hours cramped in a car with his boyfriend's parents. "I'm on dad's insurance. I'll leave my car in Ilya's garage and drive yours back up, meet you guys at the house?"
They're getting increasingly desperate in their plans to get out of Boston, but they don't need to say it for it to be true: Ilya can't go home. It's a crime scene, to start with, still covered in police tape and flocked in reporters and news vans. Something horrible happened to him there, and Shane doubts either of them will be able to sleep in Ilya's bed knowing his blood was still staining the kitchen tiles.
He knows he made the right choice when Ilya squeezes his hand on the comforter.
———————
NHL STAR ILYA ROZANOV RELEASED FROM HOSPITAL AFTER HORROR SHOOTING WITH BOYTOY IN TOW
by TMZ staff | February 16th 2018 | Sports & Entertainment | More like this
[IMAGE DESCRIPTION: Ilya Rozanov leaves the front entrance of Boston General Hospital wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. He's followed closely by Shane Hollander and his parents, David and Yuna Hollander.]
[IMAGE DESCRIPTION: Shane Hollander holds open the door of a green Audi as Ilya Rozanov climbs inside.]
ILYA ROZANOV WAS SPOTTED this morning leaving Boston General after the horror shooting that almost killed him. The hockey star, 26, is a Russian national and star player for the Boston Bears, although our sources inside the hospital have thrown his future career prospects into debate.
"The shooting was bad," Said one anonymous source, "It's possible he'll never play again. You only see these kinds of wounds in mafia cases, organised crime, that kind of thing. It was intended to ruin his career, in my opinion."
Another source close to the Rozanov family expressed concern about his older brother's gambling problems. "He's got a bookie on every continent. It wouldn't surprise me if this had something to do with him. Ilya tends to find trouble wherever he goes."
Trouble indeed, as he was followed out of the hospital by his alleged boyfriend and sports rival Shane Hollander. This is the news that has everyone talking, even moreso than the shooting and the potential end of Rozanov's career. Not only is he gay, but he's gay for… His rival?
It's the stuff of soap operas. An unnamed Voyageurs contact let us know that to them, this isn't news.
"Everyone knows that Hollander is gay. He came out to his team a few months ago, and the guys weren't happy. You don't want to share a locker room, share a shower, with a guy who might be jerking off to it later."
[IMAGE DESCRIPTION: A grainy paparazzi shot of Yuna Hollander ruffling Ilya Rozanov's hair through the open car door as he settles in the back seat.]
As for his romance with ra-ra-Rozanov, our Montreal source told us: "Yeah, it's f**** weird, but I guess it makes sense. He probably lets the ********** win if he promises to f*** him after the game, or something."
Strong words from the Montreal camp, and radio silence from Rozanov's Russia-based team. Is this the end of the ice hockey captain's career? Is he chasing trouble across the border to the Great White North? Time will tell!
TMZ reached out to Rozanov and Hollander's teams and received no response.
—————-
The drive is uncomfortable, but it passes fairly quickly. Traffic isn't too bad, and Ilya sleeps for most of it, startling awake every hour when Shane jostles him awake. They'd said goodbye to Shane's parents a few blocks away from Ilya's apartment building; Shane had paid for their cab to the airport, and they'd embraced the both of them tightly, insisting that they call if they need anything.
Getting Ilya's stuff was a little more difficult, with the reporters staking the place out, but Shane managed to get in and out without having to hit anyone. Ilya had written him a list on his phone; clothes, documents, his passport and visa. A startingly small collection of things, but Ilya had never seemed to keep much close, anyway.
One of the officers posted up outside the apartment let him through, and Shane all but sprinted past the kitchen and up the stairs to Ilya's room, stomach in knots.
Everything was easy enough to locate, his clothes and underwear and the folder full of his documents and contracts. Shane filled the duffel bag quickly and preciesly, and threw in a few extra pairs of pyajamas, workout clothes, sneakers. Some PlayStation games, a framed picture of Ilya and his mother. And, at the last minute, he snagged a pillow from the bed.
The pillow still had an indent from where he'd slept on it a few nights ago. Had it only been two days? How was that possible? Well, it didn't matter. The next stop was the bathroom; Shane swept Ilya's array of hair products and skincare and fancy lotions and bodywashes into a seperate bag, dropping his toothbrush in for good measure. Finally, Shane grabbed his own suitcase from the hallway, and made his exit.
A few journalists caught him on the way out, but Shane had nothing to say to the vultures intent on blowing their lives up. Sunglasses on, head down, he pushed through the crowd until he was back at the car.
Now, as Shane pulls up into the dark driveway of the cottage, he can't help but feel like they got away with something. With what, he doesn't quite know.
"Ilya," he jostles him gently, hand on Ilya's shoulder, "Baby. Wake up."
"No, Shane. I do not have blood clot, just keep driving."
"Driving where?" Shane teases, and presses a kiss to his jaw because he can, "No, we're here. C'mon."
"Home already?" Ilya mumbes, and Shane's heart clenches in his chest. It's almost certainly just a combination of the painkillers and heavy sleep, but still. Hearing Ilya call the cottage home makes his stomach flip, because it's been home to him, too, since he built it.
"Yeah. I'm gonna take the bags in, I'll be back in a sec, okay?"
Ilya doesn't even take his seatbelt off; just nods into the pillow and closes his eyes again.
Shane jogs up to the front door, unlocking it quickly and speedwalking through the entryway and living room, flipping lights on as he goes. It makes him nervous in a way that coming to the cottage never has, walking into each dark room and turning on the light, like he expects to see someone there already. A space filled where it should be empty.
It's not something he's ready to look too deep into, yet.
It takes two trips to get all of their bags into the hallway, and on the third he shuts the trunk as gently as possible and moves around to the passenger side. It's not hard to get Ilya unbuckled, and from there it's just an arm around Shane's shoulder, and he's carrying all 200lbs of his big, beautiful boyfriend.
"Silly," Ilya mutters, still only half-conscious. Shane doesn't feel silly. Ilya needs to rest, and he's sore, and Shane can carry him. He'd carry him around for the rest of their lives, if he had to, if Ilya asked him to. It's a privilige, and it's not one that Shane takes lightly.
"I love you," Shane says sternly, arranging him carefully on the couch and dropping down heavily beside him. "It's not silly to me."
This is a courtesy email to confirm that all contact regarding Mr. Rozanov's NHL career (including his IR status, media, and any other obligations covered under his contract) are to be forwarded to myself as his interim manager.
Regards,
Yuna Hollander, MBA
—————
The morning is lazy, as time spent at the cottage often is. The adrenaline has left Shane's system, and he crashes hard immediately. They sleep for near ten hours in each other's arms, bundled up in bed, Shane being careful not to jostle Ilya's stitches.
They only wake when Shane's chirping alarm demands that Ilya take his pharmacy's worth of pills, and Ilya dutifully swallows down the antibiotics and painkillers ant anti-inflammatory medications as directed. They fall back into bed immediately, and when they wake up again, the sun is hanging heavy at the top of the sky.
At the cottage, the peace they find always feels earned. It's no different now, but when Shane sits down beside Ilya at the kitchen counter, freshly showered, there's a new kind of tension in the air.
"They won't do it," Ilya says, staring down at the granite of the counter. He's so still that Shane is scared to touch him, like there's a marble statue sitting where his boyfriend should be. "I mean, it just… They won't. They wouldn't."
"Has Svetlana said anything else?"
Ilya shakes his head. His phone sits between them, face-down; they've both had the good sense to avoid social media since they left the hospital, but Shane's already been ignoring calls from his coach, and Svetlana had texted Ilya earlier that morning in a panic. Or as close to panic as Svetlana ever gets, which was enough to shake Ilya.
Apparently her father, an ex-soviet goaltender turned minister in the Kremlin, had warned her that the news wasn't being well-received in Moscow. There was talk of revoking Ilya's passport, with a committee coming together that afternoon to discuss whether it would be worth trying to have a national hero deported and charged for "spreading propaganda."
Shane didn't really understand, at first, but Ilya had been kind and patient, if uncharacteristically somber, when he explained it all. In Russia, he'd said, it's not illegal to be gay. But it is illegal to promote "non-traditional sexual dispostions," and with Ilya's fame and status amplified tenfold in his home country, well. They might want to keep their enemies closer.
"Shane," Ilya says, and the cut of his voice through the silent kitchen makes him jump. "I really want a fucking cigarette."
"You can't."
"I know. But I want one."
"Well, you can't. Nicotine is, like, really fucking bad for you after surgery. The doctor said I can't let you—"
"I know, sweetheart."
Shane slumps forwards as if the pet name alone had sucked all the life out of him; the counter is cool beneath his forearms.
"What do we do?" He asks, eyes on the individual grains splitting through the counter. It's polished granite, slate gray with lighter, marble-like streaks. His decorator said it was timeless. All Shane knows is that it's a fucking pain to clean.
It feels wrong to be asking Ilya what to do, like he's failing at some important part of being a boyfriend
"Svetlana says I should go back to Boston. Is better for my visa if Immigration does not think I am… Dangerous, ah, going to run?"
"A flight risk."
"Yes, this. If Russia revoke my passport, then it could void my visa. I do not think they would deport me, but…"
"Anything can happen," Shane finishes for him. If there's anything he's learned over the past fucking decade, it's that anything can happen. You could be drafted into the NHL, start fucking your rival, fall in love with him, watch him get shot right in front of you.
"They won't do it," Ilya repeats, but he sounds more like he's trying to convince himself than he is Shane.
They lapse into silence again, sitting shoulder to shoulder at the counter.
Ilya remains half-convinced and half-hopeful that nothing will actually happen, but Shane isn't willing to take the chance.
Technically, there's no problem, not really— Svetlana has already offered her empty penthouse apartment to them, since she's still in Russia and Ilya's apartment is still a fucking crime scene.
Ilya still can't fly, so they have to make the near 5-hour drive back to where they started. Initially, the plan is to stay another night at the cottage and then drive back, but Shane was so obviously nervous that Ilya caved almost instantly, and by midnight they're back in the fucking States.
——————
ROSE INTERACTED x3 @rosieposiess
okay i finally listened to the 911 call and i actually feel sick. like that's so fucking scary, he sounds terrified. to think that could've been rosie….
⤷ angela @golesbiansgo
??? in what world would rose landry be in ilya rozanov's boston apartment??
HOCKEY NEWS TODAY @hntoday
SHANE HOLLANDER GAY? Rumours that male voice identified as 'Shane' in Rozanov shooting call are apparently being taken seriously by NHL upper management, according to anonymous sources.
⤷ DREWSKI @bardownboy
There are literally pictures of them leaving the fucking hospital together bro who cares if he sucks dick montreal need the cup this year
evie <3 @puckeruphollzy
like obviously its shane on the call u can hear that its him NOT TO MENTION THE HOSPITAL PAP PICS (he looks so good in protective mode ugh) but??? jesus fucking christ his boyfriend almost died can we hve some tact please
⤷ Johno123 @bigjohn1976
We don't need more homos in the league its Bad enough with scott hunter shoving it down everyones thoats every fucking game hockey used to be about sport
⤷ evie <3 @puckeruphollzy
????? THIS IS A TWEET ABT ROZANOV ALMOST DYING?? TIME AND PLACE?? (never & in hell)
Ilya Rozanov Official @rozanov81
Big thank you to boston emergency services and boston general for not letting me die :)) big fuck you to guy breaking into apartments to steal shit and shooting nhl captains before playoffs :(((
⤷ shayden is real @shaydensdaughter
is this not proof enough lol NO mention of hollander here…..pretty fucking obvous it was just a different shane. probably smth psychosexual re: the rivalry but not actualy hollander
⤷ beep beep gay! coming through @shaynetopphat
literally no matter what fucking happens there will always be a fuckin shayden standing there with a fucking microphone
shayden is real @shaydensdaughter
ILYA ROZANOV FUCKING BLOCKED ME????
—————
The next week passes uneventfully, painfully slow; time turns to syrup, trapped in Svetlana's addmittedly trendy apartment. Ilya's follow-up appointments with the visiting doctor go well, and by the 24th, his stitches are removed.
"Look," He grins, all bravado, holding up the hem of his t-shirt. "Do I look very rugged, Hollander?"
Shane resists the urge to do something stupid, like lick his lips at the sight of Ilya's Adonis belt and the smattering of thick, golden-brown hair leading into the waistband of his shorts.
They've gone longer without sex, but for the past eight days the most Shane has given is a lazy, unhurried handjob in the shower. Not for lack of wanting; he can't comprehend a situation in which he wouldn't want Ilya. But he doesn't want to hurt him, and the stitches were delicate. No strenuous activity, the doctor had said.
Now, the scar sits puckered and pink, marring the skin just above Ilya's hip. It's a miracle the bullet didn't hit anything important, like his liver or his kidneys or some other anatomical junk.
"You look like an idiot," Shane says, looking up at him over his book. It's still February, and even if Boston wasn't a mess of snow and slush, the reporters outside would only hound them back into the building. Shane has resorted to reading one of the books from Svetlana's shelf, a visual history of hockey.
"No, I look sexy?" Ilya argues back, but it lacks the flirty teasing it usually does. He sounds… Unsure. Like there's a question in it. Shane raises an eyebrow.
"Fishing for compliments, Rozanov?"
"From NHL's Sexiest Player? Always."
The stitches were delicate. Ilya isn't. It takes about ten seconds for Shane to parse the uncertainty behind Ilya's bravado, close the book on the couch, and slide down to his knees.
"Stay still," Shane chides, when Ilya instinctively steps forward, "Get your mind out of the gutter. I'm just looking."
"Just looking, hm?"
With the stitches gone, the scar sits raised and pink and fresh against Ilya's tan skin. It's smaller than Shane expected it to be, what with all the blood, but in the light of day it's no bigger than a penny.
Shane presses a gentle kiss to the iritated skin just below the scar, resting his forehead against Ilya's hip bone. He takes a deep inhale as Ilya winds a strong hand into Shane's hair; he smells like antiseptic and the pine and bergamot shower gel he likes.
The awful combination of his position, Ilya's hand in his hair, and the smell of his bodywash has a Pavlovian effect on him, and Shane wills himself not to get hard while looking at his boyfriend's fucking gunshot scar. Or at least to get hard in a way that Ilya won't notice.
Wishful thinking, because when he tilts his face back up, he notices immediately that Ilya is in very much the same position as him. The bulge in his low-slung basketball shorts is noticeable, and Ilya is grinning down at him like a wolf.
"Needy boy," Ilya teases, and the words send a shudder down Shane's spine. "You want it?"
Shane wants. The sheer scale of how much he wants confuses him, because it's not like it's their first time, but still, every nerve ending in his body is suddenly on fire. He tries to nose forward, essentially face-planting into the synethetic fabric of Ilya's shorts, but the fingers tightening in his hair stop him.
"Words, please, Shane."
Shane groans. "Yes, asshole. I want it."
"Want… A million dollars? Want a new pair of sneakers? Be more specific."
"I want to suck you off," Shane says, almost too far gone to hear the whine in his own voice, "Please."
Ilya's smile grows, gets sharper at the edges, and fuck, Shane wants.
"Well," He grins, "Since you asked so nicely."
Shane is so close to that lovely, fuzzy, floaty pace that Ilya is so good at sending him to that the clatter from the kitchen startles him doubly. He winces out of Ilya's grip, leaving him standing with a few dark hairs still clasped between his fingers.
"What— Shane," Ilya intones, surprised and horrified and shaking his hand rapidly, letting the few hairs float slowly to Svetlana's gaudy purple carpet.
"Shh, sh."
Ilya feezes, frowning at Shane in obvious concern. He knows he must look crazy; standing in what could be a mock warrior pose, one hand held up at Ilya in a plea to be quiet; the other held towards the kitchen.
"Did you hear that?"
"Hear what? My fucking heartbeat in my dick?"
"Ilya."
"Shane."
Shane makes a small, frustrated noise, straightening up and levelling Ilya with a stern look.
"Stay here," He says, and stalks off towards Svetlana's kitchen, heart hammering in his chest. It's not smart, and he's not prepared, but Svetlana's apartment is relatively open-plan, and—
And the kichen is empty. The tiles are freezing cold beneath Shane's bare feet, chilled by the open window. Ilya had opened it when they arrived, along with the bedrooms and the living room, to let some air in.
Shane's heart doesn't get the message, and continues to try and beat its way out of his chest. His eyes scan the empty kitchen once, twice, catching both times on the spotless floor.
Svetlana's taste in interior decoration is interesting, to say the least. The floor is tiled in a way that's reminiscent of an old-timey American diner, red and white tiles in a checkerboard pattern.
It's a severely unfortunate choice, because Shane looks at the open window and the red tiles and can only see a puddle of blood on a different floor, in a different part of the city.
There's an assortment of wooden and metal utensils scattered across the tiles beside an empty metal container; clearly the source of the clatter, pushed from Svetlana’s messy countertop by a strong wind.
Shane blinks once, blinks twice, tries to take a long, deep breath. The air doesn't come, his chest rising and falling of it's own accord and with no care to what Shane wants his lungs to do.
And it makes no sense, no fucking sense, because the kitchen is empty. There's no-one there. Svetlana's security system is high-end, a requirement from her father if she was going to move to the States. If someone else were in the apartment, they would know.
All of the air leaves Shane's body when an arm wraps tight around his chest.
He moves on instinct, as well as he can when he can't fucking breathe, lashing out with an elbow and kicking back with his left leg. It does absolutely nothing; another arm wraps around him, holding him still.
"No, malysh, no," Ilya says, and it doedn't make any fucking sense, because he's right behind him, and— "Shane. Sweetheart, please. You need to breathe, okay? Like this, like me."
The chest pressed tight to Shane's back expands in a long, slow breath; Shane can feel his heart hammering against his ribs. Ilya must be able to feel it, too, because that is Ilya holding him fast in the doorway to the kitchen.
"Good, Shane, good," Ilya praises, when Shane drags a ragged breath in. He realises maybe a second too late that his cheeks are wet, eyes stinging.
"Fuck."
The gravity of the situation only really hits when Ilya doesn't make any teasing comment about how yes, they were going to fuck. He just kisses Shane's shoulder and loosens his grip, sliding his hands up Shane's arms and turning him around by the shoulders.
"No-one is here, Shane."
"I— Yeah. I know that. I do."
Ilya's eyes search his face, brows furrowed, and Shane feels as though his entire soul is being evaluated. Like Ilya has some kind of Shane-centric X-ray vision, and can tell when he's lying, when he's holding something back, when he's freaking out.
"Shane," Ilya says, slower this time, serious, "Is only us here. We are safe, yes?"
"Fucking— obviously," Shane scowls, shaking free of Ilya's grip and taking an awkward, shaky step to the side. For some reason, Ilya's pity, his concern, only makes it feel worse. "I know that. I just— I don't know. I'm overtired, maybe."
Ilya makes a quiet, non-commital noise, and the fight drains out of him as quickly as it had appeared. He sags forwards in Ilya's arms, forehead pressed against his shoulder.
"You're not safe, though," Shane says. Speaking the words into Ilya's t-shirt doesn't make them hurt any less. "I just— What would happen? If Russia, like, if… If they did revoke your passport—"
"—They won't—"
"But they could," Shane pushes. His hands land on Ilya's hips, keeping a careful distance from the tender skin and fresh scar. Instead, he runs his thumbs in small circles on Ilya's warm skin. "Svetlana wouldn't have told you if it wasn't… If it wasn't at least a possibility."
Finally, Ilya pulls back. He studies Shane's face carefully; he's sure he must look a mess. Red-faced, cheeks still wet. Shane is so tired he doesn't even have it in him to be embarrassed about whatever just happened, because there's so much that could still go wrong.
"If it happened, which I still think no, it won't," Ilya starts, "Then there is a chance that my visa—"
"I know that already. You know what I mean, Ilya."
"I— Fine. Okay, whatever, Hollander. Is not a big deal, okay? Maybe a fine, maybe prison. I have a lot of money and good connections, so, you know."
"Prison?"
"Worst case," Ilya shakes his head, but he doesn't look convinced. "I am not an activist, you know, I don't…"
Shane can feel the blood leaving his face. "You do, though. You always wear the pride jerseys, you go to fucking gay clubs, Ilya, there are pictures of you—"
"It has never been a problem before!"
"Because everyone though you were straight before!"
"Fuck, Shane, I know that!"
For a second the kitchen is silent, save from their heavy breathing and the howl of the wind outside. It's all so fucking ridiculous, and Ilya looks so fucking scared, it turns Shane's stomach. For a long, wild second, Shane thinks he might throw up; but then Ilya's nose twitches, and his head turns, and Shane has more pressing issues right in front of him.
Not for the first time, Shane finds himself wishing he spoke Russian. Any fucking Russian, other than the few novelty phrases Ilya had taught him on request— Harder, please, yes sir. They felt like a good idea in the moment, but now Shane wishes he'd asked for literally anything else.
There's so much he wishes he could say to Ilya in his first language, the tongue he grew up in and around. They've really faced a significant language barrier, not with each other, but Shane still wonders how it could be if they'd both grown up in Russia, or if Ilya had grown up in Ottawa. If they thought and cried and dreamed in the same language.
Ilya sniffs again. "Is not such a big fucking deal, Shane. My father—"
Just like that, Ilya cuts himself off, brow furrowing. It's easy enough to follow his train of thought, from the bits and pieces Ilya has been willing to share about his childhood and teenage years.
His father was awful, and angry, cold and cruel. But he was also well-connected, especially after Ilya's star began to rise. Well-respected in the police, the military, the government. Enough to make sure that anyone that mattered turned a blind eye to Ilya's vices, with the promise of his failings being dealt with at home; a family matter.
But Ilya's father is dead, and their family's reputation has been run into the ground by Alexei's gambling and drugs. Patience for the Rozanovs is growing thin, Svetlana said, voice thin and tinny over the phone. Ilya had translated for Shane with a wry smile, amused by the downfall of his father's name.
Maybe he'd forgotten that he shared it.
It doesn't matter, now; Ilya snaps his mouth closed. It breaks Shane's heart all over again, to watch the man he loves realise, not for the first time, that he is entirely unprotected.
Well. Not entirely.
"It doesn't matter," Shane decides, contradicting himself almost instantly. Because it doesn't matter, not really. If the Russian government revoke Ilya's passport, it changes nothing. They'll have to get through Shane and his entire, expansive fucking legal team to get anywhere near deporting Ilya, and even then Shane is more than willing to hide out with him in the Canadian wilderness until the storm passes.
He's getting hysterical again. He can't help it. Ilya unlocks that part of him that keeps his emotions so well hidden, has the unique talent of breaking the dam so gently that Shane doesn't even realise until the water is spilling out.
"It doesn't matter. I have so many lawyers, I don't— This is really bad, actually, I don't even know most of their names," Shane frowns, and squeezes Ilya's hips gently. "But they're really fucking good. Like, really good."
"Mm. No-one can come for me," Ilya agrees, "I have seen what you can do with a hockey stick. Very heroic, my Hollander."
"Shut up. Too soon."
It really is too soon, but Shane smiles despite himself. My Hollander.
i literally just had to write the post-miscarriage hollanov fic bc it wouldnt leave my brain…….
Everything is ready when they get to the cottage, which leads Ilya to believe that Shane's parents had come to open everything up for them. They're rarely here during the season, besides from maybe Christmas, and even then it's only for a night or two. Now it's March, and the both of them should be on the ice, but.
A lot of things should be, Ilya supposes. It's best not to dwell on it.
Since everything is ready, Ilya makes sure Anya is settled in her overtly-luxurious bed in the living room, kisses Shane on the cheek, and goes upstairs. He means to take a shower, wash off the few hours of driving and gas station bathrooms, but his body has other ideas. The bed is right there, and his body feels like it's made of lead; heavy and unyielding. He doesn't even take off his shorts, just climbs right in and wraps himself in the heavy winter comforter still left out from Christmas.
It could be minutes or hours later; the sun is still up, but that doesn't give much away. The days are getting longer, now, as they edge into spring. Shane opens the bedroom door quietly, sets about unpacking their bags and straightening the bedroom out, keeping his space until Ilya gives him some sign that it's safe to approach him.
It's an uncharitable thought, and Ilya immediately feels awful when Shane perches on the edge of the bed and cups the side of his face so, so gently.
"How was the call?" Ilya asks, blinking away some of the not-quite-sleep still blurring the edges of his vision. Shane shrugs. He’d been out on the patio as soon as they’d arrived, hoping to get everything squared away with management, trying to remove yet another stressor from Ilya’s field of vision.
"Fine. Your LTIR is staying as-is, management say you can take the rest of the season, if you want."
"That's… nice of them?"
Ilya doesn't mean for it to be a question, but there's a small crease between Shane's brows that doesn't quite match the information he's giving him.
"I can have two weeks," Shane says, after a moment of hesitation, "But they want me back before New York."
Oh. Ilya can feel his own brows drawing together, a mirror image of his husband; two weeks isn't much. He knew they wouldn't be able to spare the both of them for long— Fuck, Bood got three days when Cassie gave birth before he had to be on a plane to Ohio. And Ilya didn't even give birth, so.
So it makes sense, he supposes. He swallows thickly, tries desperately not to start crying, because he doesn't fucking mean it— It's just hormones. The doctor told him to expect it for the next few weeks, amongst other symptoms.
"I'll call them back," Shane says, resolute in that way of his, the Shane Hollander voice. "Two weeks isn't enough, and—"
"No, no," Ilya interrupts, wrapping his hand around Shane's wrist. "Is fine. You know the team cannot last this run without at least one of us, and Terry will not clear me to play for at least two more weeks, maybe four."
"The run doesn't matter, the playoffs don't—"
"You shut your mouth right now. The team does not deserve you speaking a bad run into existence."
He's trying to sound lighthearted, but he misses the mark by about a hundred miles. Shane snaps his mouth shut anyway.
"How are you feeling?" Shane asks, clearly deciding that a pivot is needed. His thumb rubs soft circles on the high of Ilya's cheekbone.
"Fine," And then, because he promised not to lie and he can't take any more broken promises, "A little sore, maybe."
"Do you want a pill?"
The hospital had sent them off with a little bottle of pain pills— Ilya can't remember the name of the prescription, but it's something strong. He'd taken two that evening and they'd worked a little too well, so he shakes his head.
"Maybe later."
Shane makes a little hum of assent, but he gets up anyway; Ilya watches him, half-curious, as he wanders into their en-suite and returns with a glass of water and a pill.
"It's just Tylenol," He says, before Ilya can protest, "I know you don't like the strong stuff, but you shouldn't… Y'know, if you're in pain, you should take something."
Ilya looks between Shane's hand, the little white pill sitting square in the center of his palm, and the glass of water. How can he explain to Shane that he wants to feel it? It's not a self-punishment thing, as much as Shane might think it is. Or maybe it is partially self-punishment, but not entirely.
If this pain is the last he's going to feel of her, he wants to feel it. He'll cling to the last vestiges of proof that she existed, that she was there, until they're all gone. The cramps, and the tenderness, and the awful, lingering headache; all of it are scraps of evidence that he's snatching from the floor and holding close to his chest, for better or for worse.
Shane would probably understand, if he voiced this. Or, if he didn't understand, he'd try to be supportive. But Ilya can't take anymore sadness, today, and Shane's brown eyes are wide and pleading. He plucks the pill from his husband's hand and swallows it easily, washing it down with a gulp of water.
"Thank you," Shane says, relief lacing his voice so heavily that Ilya knows he did the right thing.
They sleep for a little while, or Ilya does, and Shane just lays with his arms wrapped around him. When he wakes up again, the sun has set.
Ilya lets the moment breathe for a few seconds; Shane's strong arm wrapped around his chest, his breath tickling the hairs at the back of Ilya's neck. It's nice to be held. It doesn't fill the awful, cavernous emptiness inside of him, but it soothes the ache a little.
"I don't want to do this again."
It feels blasphemous to say it, even as quietly as he does, the words leaking out into the quiet darkness surrounding them. Ilya braces himself for the pushback, for the classic well meaning but annoying Hollander attitude; just give it time, you need to get back on the horse, if you fail at first just try and try again!
Well, maybe not those exact words, not in this situation. It doesn't matter anyway, because it never comes; for a second he thinks maybe Shane didn't hear him, but then he shifts slightly behind him, and presses a kiss to Ilya's shoulder.
"Okay," He says, voice so soft that Ilya can feel his eyes welling again, "That's okay. There are other options, y'know. Surrogacy, or… Or we could adopt. If it's still something you want, I mean."
"I want," Ilya says, voice cracking, and fuck.
Shane is so gentle, his strong, broad hands guiding him as he turns over, shuffling closer so he can cradle Ilya's head against his chest. The tears are flowing freely, now, and Ilya feels like he's been broken in two, because yes, he wants— but he wanted her. He'll love any children they have, if they have them, but he wanted her.
The few people he's spoken to about the miscarriage have framed it as an almost; Something like missing out on a big job promotion you thought you might get, or big plans falling through. None of them had been so dismissive, of course, but the general idea was the same.
But there was no almost, not to Ilya. She was there, she was real, he could feel her. Their daughter, with a heartbeat, and Ilya had already imagined her to have Shane's deep brown eyes and dark hair, but maybe with Ilya's curls. His mama's nose, because everyone always told him growing up how much he looked like Irina, especially his long, straight nose.
"Sorry," Ilya sniffs, because he's ruining Shane's sleep tank with his tears and snot. "I am okay, is just hormones, I think."
"It's okay if it's not. Hormones, I mean," Ilya can feel the rumble of Shane's voice through his chest when he speaks, lets the familiarity of it comfort him. "It's… Fuck, Ilya. I'm a fucking mess. I can't imagine how…"
He doesn't finish the sentence, and Ilya's glad for it. He doesn't want it to be a competetion. He just wants them to feel like shit together, in this objectively shitty fucking situation, and for Shane to keep reminding him that one day he might feel okay again.
Still, Ilya pushes on. The plan had been to announce his retirement during the third trimester, when he was officially in the throes of paternity leave, but he doesn't want that. Not anymore. The ferocity with which he wants to get back onto the ice scares him a little, but hockey has always been his constant, even when Shane was out of reach. Hockey can center him, can bring him back to some baseline of normal. Ilya has to believe that, or he might lose his mind completely.
"I want to go back," He says, when he can trust himself to speak without breaking down into sobs. "When Terry says is okay. Maybe next month, maybe the month after."
"Ilya. Management said you could take—"
"I know. I don't want to. I won't do anything before I get the all-clear, but I want to keep playing."
"Well, yeah, I mean… I want you to keep playing, too. But I want you to be ready, y'know?"
"Are you fucking ready?" Ilya demands, pushing himself up on his elbow to look at Shane. All of his edges are smoothed by the darkness around them, his hair still clinging to the hairtie holding it back. "You have to go back in two weeks, yes? Are you ready?"
It's bait. Ilya knows it, and Shane probably knows it, too. He's picking a fight, for reasons unknown, for reasons that only his stupid, fucked-up brain could comprehend. But Shane just presses his lips into a line, and exhales slowly.
"No," He admits, "I'm not ready. And it feels like shit. And I don't want you to feel like this any more than you have to. I know it probably sounds like I'm just being an asshole, I don't— It's not that I think you're fucking, delicate, or some shit. I just love you. And I don't want you to hurt if you don't have to."
"I'm trying to fight with you," Ilya mutters, letting his head fall back down onto Shane's chest. They've been together far too long to pretend like it's anything else, and Shane is being so fucking patient with him, he deserves the reward of being right. "Asshole."
"Yeah, yeah, Shane Hollander is an asshole."
"Thank you for saying I am not delicate," Ilya says, as a peace offering, "And thank you for saying you are not ready."
Shane hums into Ilya's hair, ghosts a kiss over the crown of his head. It's as easy as breathing, now, but if Ilya closes his eyes he could imagine it was their first summer all over again. So much has happened, since then. They've been dragged out of the closet, kicking and screaming. He almost died in what could have been a plane crash. Shane's third career concussion last year was almost a lot worse than it was.
Each time, Ilya reminds himself, things got better. They levelled out. He has survived the loss of both his parents, his home country, his team, his privacy. And each time Shane Hollander found a way to put him back together again.
Ilya knows that if he voiced this, Shane would disagree; he's of the stark opinion that Ilya put himself back together, and Shane just held the glue. It sounds suspiciously like something some pseudo-therapist on Instagram Reels would say, but it was so sweet and so sincere the first time Shane said it that Ilya couldn't bring himself to call him out.
He's not quite ready to step into that sunlight-drenched future, not yet. He wants these two precious weeks with Shane, where they can wrap themselves around each other and cry for the future they could have had and the daughter they couldn't hold. Maybe more than two weeks, if Ilya is being really, truly honest with himself.
He knows what grief feels like, and how it moulds itself into him, and he knows already that he'll carry this with him for the rest of his life. Their daughter will take her place there, right next to his mother, protected by the shelter of his ribs.
But still, he knows it's there. He won't be able to draw back the curtain, not yet, not for a while, but he knows that the lake will still be there when he does. The sunrise will still be there, when he's ready for it; Shane, sleep-worn and happy, holding out a mug of something warm. Anya barking at his heels, and maybe a second dog, by then. He doesn't dare imagine anything else behind the curtain, not while everything is so raw, but that picture alone is pretty fucking good.
Ilya lets all thoughts of the sun and the future and the dark, heavy curtain standing in his way fade out, and lets Shane's slow, steady breathing lull him back to sleep.
a little wip snippet of an au i probs will never finish……
Shane shifts his weight, ever so slightly, but he doesn’t back away. It’s pitch black outside; part of him was hoping Ilya would already be away to bed. Of course, he could never be that lucky.
“I thought you’d… I thought maybe you’d come to see me.”
He feels stupid. Childish, even, in the face of Ilya’s apathy. Is that what it is? Apathy? Or did Shane invent a man and pour him into the body that Ilya was willing to share with him? Have things changed so much?
No. Surely not. Shane has known Ilya since forever. They were boys together, weren’t they? Back before things were so complicated, before he really understood the wide chasm between them, status and propriety and politics. Always the politics. Shane can hear the rain getting heavier outside but he’s sheltered in the stone alcove, facing in to where Ilya stands deeper in the stables.
The candlelight turns his curls golden, and Shane forces himself to look away. It’s near midnight, and Ilya is rubbing wax into a worn leather saddle. The horses are nervous, this much even Shane can tell; a storm is approaching. The rain pours heavier still.
“You didn’t invite me to your wedding,” Ilya says, after the silence is almost unbearable. One of his heavy brows lifts, arches; a challenge. “Your highness.”
It’s a joke, of course, or some ghostly approximation of one. But Ilya’s words hit him square in the chest, and he has no armour to protect him. He wants to laugh, and he wants to be sick; you didn’t invite me to your wedding. It wasn’t much of a wedding in the firstplace; war-time marriages never are, or so his mother told him.
Still, the sneer on Ilya’s face tells Shane that the lack of an invite isn’t really the issue. And that just— It’s unfair. It’s so fucking unfair, because he has to know that Shane wouldn’t choose this. He has to know that. And Rose wouldn’t choose it, either; in their six months of marriage, Shane has been a wretched husband. Sullen, and distant, and longing, but not for her. He’ll be a wretched king one day, too. But even on the worst nights, pacing around on the cobbles in the courtyard, he could justify it, because marrying Rose would stop the war. It would bring Ilya home.
Rage swells up through Shane’s chest before he can stop it, and suddenly he’s furious, scoffing and throwing his arms out.
“The war had to end!” He scoffs, gesturing vaguely towards the walls of the castle. “It was a fucking— It was a political move, Ilya, the war had to end.”
Ilya tosses the rag to the side so forcefully it almost makes Shane jump. His chiselled features are overtaken with fury, snarling like a wounded animal.
“Tell me, your highness, what do you know of the war?”
Shane blinks. He thinks of the two days he spent on the front lines, the short glimpse of Ilya half-stripped of his armour and laughing with his comrades while the royal procession moved through. It’s important they don’t feel abandoned, Shane had argued, when his mother tried to forbid it. If every other young man in the country is being called to fight, why shouldn’t I?
At the time, he could convince himself that he meant it. That he wasn’t just desperate for a glimpse or a rumour or a shred of paper with Ilya’s awful handwriting on it. But two days is nothing compared to three years of conflict. Seeing the carnage is different to hearing advisors talk about it in a council meeting.
Okay, I have a question for you! I saw you've a ao3 account and I was wondering which one of your fics you'd recommend to read first? Do you have a favorite?
ALEXXXX this is such a good question okay hmm…….. prepare for overanalysis
i think probs the best place to start if ur looking for smth funny / cracky is the welcome to the internet series cause its just funny socmed stuff - the first one is a sex injury fic, the second is shane going feral for his husband, both very fun tropes imo
the one im most proud of is it’s gonna be my year bc i actually waited until it was finished before i posted it lmfaooo - i love hurt comfort <3 basically ilya goes into a coma and shane Deals With It. i love any fic where shane is like. having a very public breakdown its like crack 2 me
prescription made painkillers as a series im also quite proud of bc i love exploring ilyas relationship w the hollanders - basically he gets his wisdom teeth removed and has a wild reaction to the anaesthetic
and also the process of clearing out cobwebs / companioned with the bolter bc i liked exploring ilya having been arrested before and comparing it to being arrested as an Out Adult / how that meshes w how i imagined his childhood
if u end up reading any pls lmk what u think…..i love these idiot losers in love <3 <3 the only one i wouldnt recommend is knowing im on the street where you live bc im gna delete it soon LOLL
Tommy hauled his wagon full of luggage up to the school as Tubbo
walked alongside him with his hands in his pockets.
Tommy grunted to a stop, “Dude why, why can’t you like, help me? Where even is your stuff?”
“All in here, boss man.” Tubbo tipped his comically tiny top hat and Tommy heard a small quack come from inside.
“I- okay can you help me then please?” Tubbo grabbed the handle alongside him and they pulled it together all the way to their dorm.
Tommy bust open the doors and threw a suitcase on his bed quickly following it and flopping in defeat. Tubbo didn’t even make it to his bed before Tommy heard a thud behind him. He didn’t know how long they’d stayed like that until he heard Tubbo placing down his things. Tommy lifted his head to see all his furniture was already there, that was one thing he didn’t have to set up at least.
Tommy opened up his suitcase and started messily throwing the clothes inside to his right, not all of them made it on the bed. Most of them fell onto the floor or got caught on the banister.
“Oh stop dude you’re making a mess.” Tubbo told him after he got a face full of shirt.
“Shut up man, you’re wrong you’re so wrong, I’m being so neat and tidy and shit!” Tommy retaliated only to throw another shirt.
“You literally just missed the bed so far.” Tubbo let out a small laugh at the end and kicked some shorts off his hammock.
Tommy groaned and went to pick up his failed attempts, “Well don’t just sit there if you’re going to groan about it, come help me man!”
“You don’t need my help, you're just shit. Besides I already finished setting up my stuff so that just makes you look even more shit at this.”
“But that’s not fair you got here earlier than me! And it’s not even true, there’s still a whole other half of the room and you’ve just invaded into my space!”
Just as he finished the two boys heard the door open and someone step inside, they both turned to look at someone Tommy had never seen before. He was quite tall and looked funny, his skin was black and white split down the middle of his face, same with his hair but flipped around. He had wide open red and green eyes that seemed fake, like they were made of glass, open far too wide and he didn’t seem to ever blink, yet it seemed the boy was doing everything he could to avoid making eye contact with either of them. Maybe that was a good thing, they didn’t seem like eyes that’d be pleasant to stare at. He had tall horns atop his head and two tails as well, one black and the other white.
“What the fuck??” Tommy shouted raspily in confusion over the unexpected guest.
“Uhm, hi.” The boy managed to spit out as he tightened his grip on his luggage.
“I think you have the wrong room.” Tommy crossed his arms and lent against the bed, he slipped a bit trying to balance himself.
“No he’s got the right room.” Tubbo butted in, he adjusted himself to sit on the edge of the hammock so his feet dangled over the floor.
“What?” The boy and Tommy asked in unison.
“Yeah, something about a student miscalculation or whatever, not enough dorms so we all have to share.”
Tommy looked at the new guy, this wasn’t what he wanted or planned for but there wasn’t much he could do about it.
—
Tommy woke up to a sudden heavy weight on his stomach. Tommy lifted his head and rubbed his eyes to see a blond raccoon with a red handkerchief tied around its neck laid out flat on his stomach, it’s little arms and legs stretched out.
“Oh, hello!” Tommy cooed at the raccoon, giving it some scratches and pats as it chuckled and rolled around in delight. He looked out the window, it was still dark out but he could spot the sun’s light barely reaching over the horizon. Tommy wondered if it was too early to sneak out his dorm and go walk in the forest before breakfast, wasn’t much to do and he didn’t really feel like going back to sleep so taking a quick walk wouldn’t be that bad.
He got dressed and slipped on a white cloak and a small brown backpack as well. Tommy quietly snuck out the window and climbed down the vines on the side of the wall, before he could lift his head up the raccoon had already jumped and landed flat on his face.
“Clementine, I told you to wait.” Tommy groaned muffled under Clementine, she only replied with some chittering that sounded close to laughter as Tommy pulled her off his face. He looked at her and couldn’t bring himself to scold her anymore than that, how could he stay mad at that face. He let her scuttle over him and sit in the open backpack as they walked off into the forest.
On their walk they saw many different creatures and plants, they even stopped by the pond on their way back. By the time they’d gotten back into the dorm the sun was rising and Tommy’s pockets were full of small flowers, pebbles and anything else he could fit inside, even Clementine had a large hoard of berries she’d picked for her breakfast.
Before Ranboo or Tubbo had the chance to wake up Tommy and Clementine were already out the door and on their way to the castleteria, leaving the cloak and bag stuffed back inside the wardrobe. Dashing down the stairs and through the halls he skidded to a stop in front of the castleteria doors, rocking and bouncing back and forth waiting for the doors to open. A bell chimed, the doors opened and Tommy ran up to get his breakfast.
The lunch lady gave him a stack of pancakes with a side of eggs and sausage, he ran off with his tray and sped towards a lone table tucked in a corner. Despite running here full of energy he ate surprisingly slow, Clementine stuffed her face into her berry pile next to him. Students soon flooded into the castleteria including Tubbo and their new roommate, they walked up the stairs to his table and sat down with him.
“Hey Tommy!” Tubbo set down his tray and immediately started eating.
“Hi Tubbo,” Tommy looked up from his food and started at Ranboo, “…Hi Ranboo…”
“Hi.” The boy replied awkwardly, he didn’t seem like he wanted to make any conversation but Tommy didn’t want to talk to him anyway.
Clementine stopped her feasting and hissed in at Ranboo, running onto Tommy’s back and peaking at the stranger over his shoulder. Or maybe it was the gross looking fish soup she was eyeing, Ranboo slid the small bowl over as an offering and Clementine jumped for it, adding it to her stash. Tommy made a funny look at the soup before he went back to his own breakfast.
“ATTENTION STUDENTS!” The castleteria fell silent as everyone turned to look at Headmaster Grimm standing on the balcony, “As Legacy Day is coming very soon, today we’ll be practicing for it! During one of your classes you’ll be led out to practice pledging to follow your destiny and signing the Storybook of Legends! Thank you for your time, please continue your breakfast.”
—
Tommy walked out with the rest of the class to the stage, the place was white and regal, two large staircases either side of the stage and a pedestal at the front. They all lined up in alphabetical order of their last name and took turns practicing.
“Next!” Grimm called Ranboo up. Tommy watched him take the key and walk up to the pedestal.
“Uhm. I, Ranboo Queen, pledge to follow my destiny to be the next Evil… Queen? King?” Ranboo turned to look at Grimm, “Did I do that right?”
“It’s uh, it’ll do.” Grimm replied, taking back the key.
Tommy zoned out for a bit — That was Ranboo Queen? That’s the guy that was gonna poison him? He’d heard lots of mean things about how his destiny goes. He stared at the ground reconsidering how he felt about this guy.
“Next!” Grimm yelled, Tommy looked up and realized he was calling him up. He walked up to him and silently took the key.
“I! Uhm..” Tommy turned around to Grimm, “I have a question?”
“Yes?” Grimm sighed.
“It’s just, what if I don’t want to follow my destiny? Like, what if I want to do my own thing?” Everyone gasped loudly, Grimm looked shocked and angry, he strode over to him and Tommy backed up against the pedestal.
“Now listen here, if you don’t sign that book, your story will go poof. You will go poof.” Grimm stepped back and Tommy inhaled deeply only now realizing he’d been holding his breath, “Now I recommend we move on and continue.”
Tommy turned around and looked out on the crowd, everyone was staring at him judgingly, he looked down at the key in his hand. He threw it harshly onto the ground and started running as fast as he could from there, Clementine jumped off a chair she’d been watching from and scampered after him. Tommy grabbed his cloak from the dorm and ran into a place he knew no one would find him.
