Chapter Text
The final score is 4-3, and Hayden decides it’s a lot less fun beating Boston now Rozanov isn’t playing for them.
Okay, no, it’s still fun. Beating Boston will always be fun, but there’s always been something extra special about wiping that smug smirk off Roanov’s face. Especially at home. He says as much to Shane when he comes out of their shared hotel bathroom and sits on the bottom of the bed to put on his very boring, very sensible socks. Hayden’s socks have fucking monkeys on them.
“I’m starting to think you have a crush on him,” Shane says in that dry, snarky little tone he gets sometimes. Anyone who thinks Hollzy isn’t fucking hilarious doesn’t really know him.
The same goes for anyone who thinks he isn’t a huge asshole sometimes. It’s literally one of Hayden’s favorite things.
“I’d rather put my balls in a blender,” he replies. He is willing, reluctantly, to accept that Rozanov isn’t the devil incarnate, but that’s where he draws the line. The bar is in hell, and Rozanov frequently goes for the limbo championship. Literally the only good thing about him is his taste in cars. And maybe that he, on occasion, makes Shane smile. “I’m just saying.” It’s a lot more fun to beat someone when you kinda want to murder them a little bit.
Only a little. Mostly. For some reason, one that’s probably concussion-related, Shane loves the Russian asshole, and Hayden is doing his very, very best to be a Good Friend in an attempt to make up for all the years he’s not been.
Sooner or later, though, Rozanov is going to break Shane’s heart, and Hayden can kill with a clean conscience.
“Hmm,” is all the response he gets from Shane. He can deny it all he likes, but it’s obvious even he doesn’t enjoy the win as much as he used to.
Hayden sits upright against the headboard. A distracted Shane is usually a red flag for intervention. Or at least a distracted Shane who isn’t glued to his phone. Maybe they need to hit a bar? They don’t need to drink, but it’s been a long few weeks on the road, so any change of scenery is going to be a welcome one.
It occurs to Hayden that he’s never been out drinking with Shane in Boston.
Because Shane was always hooking up with Boston Lily, who is Ilya fucking Rozanov, and yeah, maybe they do need to drink. Or he does. He can drink for Shane, too.
When Shane looks at him from over his shoulder, his dark eyes are bright and worried. “Do… did Marlow seem weird to you?”
Well, there’s a question. “Marlow’s one head injury away from being a vegetable,” Hayden points out. “He’s always weird.” When Shane looks away and starts to chew on his lip, alarm bells ring. Shane doesn’t hold grudges against anyone, which is one of his more annoying personality traits. He’s not still pissed with Marlow, which means… yeah, he doesn’t know what it means. “Why?”
Shane doesn’t say anything for a while, which means he’s circling a bunch of thoughts. It usually gives Hayden ten, maybe fifteen seconds to decide if he needs to let him stew or stage an intervention. Thank god for hockey reflexes.
“He asked me how Ilya’s doing. There was a thing a while back. With him and my dad. Marlow saw it.”
Okay, there’s a bunch to unpack there, starting with the fact that, when they’re on the road, and on the rare occasion his name actually comes up in conversation, Ilya is always, always Rozanov. “Fuck,” Hayden leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “You think he knows?”
“No, probably not,” Shane admits. “We didn’t think he recognized my dad. Ilya says, and I’m quoting here, ‘Marly’s a good guy, but his braincells are lonely’.”
“God, he’s an asshole.” A funny one, but Hayden will swallow bleach before he admits it.
Shane's face does that thing where his eyes go all soft, and his mouth quirks up at the corner. "Yeah."
Hayden throws a pillow at him. "Jesus, you're disgusting. I can practically see the little cartoon hearts floating around your head."
When Shane catches the pillow and his expression shifts from lovesick to that familiar crease between his eyebrows, Hayden rolls off the bed and starts rummaging through Shane's suitcase.
Marlow might be a dumb sonovabitch, but he and Rozanov are two lumbering, murderous peas in a pod. If there was something to worry about, one of them would have thrown a punch by now.
"If Rozanov says you're fine, then you're probably fine." He tosses a blue button-down at Shane's head. "That asshole has many, many flaws, but he's not exactly taking out billboards about your secret romance. Come on, we're going out."
"I'm not really in the mood to-" Shane starts, but Hayden's already shoving his feet into his shoes.
"Dude," Hayden cuts him off, grabbing Shane's wallet and slapping it against his chest, "you have spent years missing out on the sheer fucking joy of being Shane Hollander on a night out in Boston. You can remind everyone that they hate you more than they hate your boyfriend."
Shane rolls his eyes. "I love that you think that's reassuring."
"What are friends for?" Hayden grins, dodging the wadded-up sock Shane launches at his head. "Besides, if anyone's gonna kick your ass, it's gonna be me. I've got dibs. Years of dibs."
Hayden’s wife is the best wife to ever wife. Ever. And the ice pack she settles lightly over his face is maybe a better feeling than any sex he’s ever had. Maybe. “Ow, ow…”
Jackie's cool fingers brush his jaw as she adjusts the ice pack. "You're worse than the baby," she chides, leaning over him and deliberately letting her hair tickle his neck. "Stop squirming and lie down."
"I am down!" Hayden protests, his head fucking ringing. He reaches for her wrist, misses, and flails dramatically. "Look at me all down and everything."
She catches his hand mid-flail and presses it back to the mattress. "Are you going to stay still?"
"What if I get lonely?" He tugs at her until she perches on the edge of the bed.
"I can go wake the kids up?" She threatens, but she's already reaching for the bottle of painkillers on the nightstand, shaking two into her palm.
"I am a statue. A tree. A calcified tree. I am planted, I am-" He opens his mouth obediently when she taps his lips with the pills.
"A fucking idiot," she says fondly, holding a lurid pink straw in a glass of water to his mouth. "Who should know better than to try stop his fall with his face."
He swallows the pills, then grins up at her despite the pain. "My hands were busy scoring a goal!" The best goal, he might add. Scott Hunter can kiss his ass. He tries to pout when she rolls her eyes, but that hurts as well.
He's starting to drift off, her hand in his hair, when some asshole rings the doorbell. He starts to sit, because it's the middle of the night. They're not expecting anyone. Do serial killers use doorbells?
Jackie pushes him back down with a firm hand on his chest. "Stay put, tough guy." She reaches for her phone, tapping to check the front door camera. Her playful expression shifts. "Huh. I think it's for you."
"Tell whoever it is I'm dead." He burrows deeper under the covers, wincing as the movement jostles his face.
"It's Shane."
"Then tell him I'm definitely dead and I'll see him tomorrow at practice." He peeks out with one eye, catching the worry lines forming between Jackie's brows.
"I think, shit, I think he's crying?" She's already on her feet, reaching for her robe.
Hayden nearly gives himself another black eye falling off the bed, tangled in sheets and panic because what the fuck. Jackie steadies him with both hands. "Easy! Jesus, you're going to-" But he's already stumbling toward the door, ice pack abandoned.
It is Shane. And he is crying. Wet and miserable in the rain, his eyes red. Worst-case scenarios immediately start running through Hayden’s head. Shane is a lot more sensitive than most people know, and his anxiety is hardly the best-kept secret, but fuck, he doesn’t ever really cry.
One look at Hayden and Jackie, both dressed for bed, and he folds himself smaller, which is a solid feat for someone built for a high-speed, brutal impact sport. “Sorry,” he says, not looking either of them in the eye. “Shit, fuck-”
Hayden grabs him by the front of his parka and drags him over the threshold.
Jackie’s fingers brush his back as she retreats to the kitchen, no doubt to brew up a batch of coffee. That leaves him with nothing to worry about but Shane, who he practically has to wrestle out of his wet clothes, into a pair of his own tracks, and dump in front of the fireplace under the seventeen thousand fucking designer blankets Jackie insists they need.
Turns out she’s right, as always, and they do need them.
Shane doesn’t talk, which is normal when he’s upset, and he doesn’t really help, which is also standard. But he doesn’t make things difficult, and he doesn’t go into a spiral when Hayden cautiously touches him. That’s only happened once in the past, but by fuck did it leave a wildly traumatic impression.
“Hey, sweetie,” Jackie waits patiently until she can press a cup of black coffee into Shane’s hands. He flashes her a grateful, wobbly smile, but doesn’t make eye contact.
She then passes Hayden his own mug and makes a small gesture with her head to let him know she’ll be in the kitchen. They both know Shane well enough to know he’s a better chance of getting through to him if he’s alone.
Christ, he loves her so much.
Adrenaline and the painkillers both kick in to leave his head the clearest it’s been all day as he sits down in the chair opposite Shane. “Your parents?” he asks, keeping the questions simple. Shane shakes his head. Okay, that’s good. “Did someone say something at practice? Do something?” He doesn’t want to believe anyone on their team would be like, a violent homophobic asshole, but fuck, too many of them have proved they are somekind of homophobic asshole, so what the fuck does he know?
Thankfully, Shane shakes his head again, but his hands are trembling so badly the coffee sloshes over the rim of the mug. Hayden lunges to steady it, wincing as his bruised face throbs. Okay, they might not be ready for coffee yet. He sets both their mugs down on the side table.
Which just leaves…
Yeah, he's going to fucking murder Rozanov tonight. He grabs a tissue from the side table and gently dabs at Shane's wet knuckles.
"Did he hurt you?" Hayden's voice is low, dangerous.
"What? No! Jesus!" Shane pulls back, eyes wide.
"I had to ask!" He tugs the blanket higher around Shane's shoulders, tucking it in like he does for his kids.
"Did you? Fuck, this was a bad idea. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-" Shane starts to stand, physically retreating even faster than he can dissociate.
"Sit your ass down, Hollander." Hayden guides him back with a firm hand on his shoulder, then crouches in front of him despite his aching body. "Talk to me."
Shane's eyes dart to the doorway, checking for Jackie. "I'm fine," he whispers, fingers twisting the edge of the blanket.
"Okay." Hayden reaches out, gently untangling Shane's fingers before he can fray the expensive fabric.
"Really." Shane pulls away, tucking his hand under the blanket.
"I totally believe it." Hayden shifts his weight, wincing as his knee cracks. "This is in no way out of character at all." He leans forward to dab at a tear track Shane missed.
Shane jerks back. "We're not fighting. Ilya's done nothing wrong-" His voice catches.
"-and I don't believe that." Hayden's hand hovers, uncertain whether to touch or retreat. He’s never actually been in this position with Shane. Comforting him after a fight or a break-up or whatever the fuck is going on. He feels a little sick at the idea of something upsetting Shane like this before… and Shane not having anyone to talk to about it.
"Jesus, Hayden, please don't." Shane's shoulders curl inward, defensive and small.
He lets out all the air in his lungs and tries to reset. “Okay, fine. So he’s not evil, and I don’t have to murder him-” the jury is still out on that one, but Shane finally meets his gaze, and he looks angry enough that Hayden backs off.
Hayden leans forward, his knuckles white against his knees. "Okay, so... is he hurt? Or like, sick or something?" He watches Shane's face for any flicker of reaction, mentally preparing a list of hospitals to call.
Shane laughs bitterly, which isn’t much of an answer, but then he shakes his head, fingers back to picking at a loose thread on the blanket.
"Christ..." Hayden runs a hand through his hair, wincing as his fingers brush against the tender spot on his scalp."Buddy, you gotta give me something here. I don't know how to fix this."
"Nothing to fix." Shane's voice cracks. "I just... fuck, needed company, I guess. Stupid, I'm sorry." He shrinks further into the blanket cocoon, hunched miserably.
"Don't be fucking sorry, asshole." Hayden tucks the blanket tighter around Shane's trembling shoulders, his touch gentler than his words. "Do you want me to call your mom?"
"No." Shane's head snaps up. "He'll probably be there."
"Rozanov? At your parents’?" Hayden's hand freezes mid-adjustment of the blanket.
"I mean, I hope so." Shane's eyes dart away, defensive.
Hayden had a concussion check when he headbutted the ice, but maybe he's not actually passed, and he's still waiting for the ringing in his ears to clear. He presses his fingertips against his temples, trying to massage away confusion. Nothing else is making much sense.
“Okay, so you what… just wanna hang out?” He tries again. As frustrating as Shane can be when he doesn’t actually use his fucking words, it beats the alternative. When Shane nods, Hayden slumps onto the couch next to him and grabs the TV remote. “And I don’t gotta kill anyone?”
“It’s too fucking late for that,” Shane says bitterly. Cryptic motherfucker. At least he relaxes a little, leaning back into the couch.
Hayden can chew his own arm off later, that’s fine.
Jackie sticks her head in shortly after they settle on one of the seventeen million superhero films he has on demand. She kisses him softly, then squeezes Shane’s knee, and retreats to bed with orders that he take more painkillers if he’s still awake in four hours.
Shane shifts guiltily and starts to retreat again. “Fuck, sorry Hayd, I should let you-”
“I will hot-glue you to this fucking couch, so help me,” Hayden threatens. He’s a girl dad. He does arts and crafts. He has a hot glue gun. And it has glitter glue, so…
Apparently, he says all that out loud because it makes Shane let out that little huff of a laugh of his, and loosen up a little more.
They’re maybe halfway through someone trying to destroy New York when the doorbell rings again.
“Stay,” he orders, shoving Shane back into the couch. They’re both a little bleary-eyed by that point, and Shane’s still in his head enough not to immediately start complaining, so Hayden jumps on the advantage and ignores the way his knee twinges when he gets to his feet.
No prizes for guessing who is at the door.
"Rozanov." Hayden's jaw clenches, his bruised face throbbing with renewed pain.
"Is he still here?" Rozanov stands rigid on the doorstep, his eyes darting past Hayden's shoulder. Looking for Shane.
"He says I don't need to punch you." Hayden shifts his weight, blocking the entrance completely. "Do I need to punch you?"
"Pike-" Rozanov runs a hand through his disheveled hair, the dark circles under his eyes matching Shane's.
"I'm not fucking around!" Hayden jabs a finger into his chest, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "What the fuck did you do?"
And of course Shane can’t fucking do as he’s told, because he calls Rozanov’s name, and apparently to fuck with the fact that this is Hayden’s house. One minute, Rozanov is blocked outside, the next minute Hayden is firmly - and somehow, hilariously politely - physically moved to one side so he can wrap his stupid Terminator arms around Hayden’s best friend.
Having sustained more than one bruised rib thanks to the Russian menace, he’s kinda surprised that he’s not just bodyslammed into the wall.
Rozanov's voice breaks on the word "Sweetheart," his hands trembling slightly as he cups Shane's face, his thumbs brushing away fresh tears.
Shane clings to Rozanov's jacket, knuckles white. "This is literally the opposite of what we agreed."
"Yes," Rozanov murmurs, carefully tucking a strand of hair behind Shane's ear. "But I only agreed because you were sad, and look." His eyes scan Shane's face with such tender worry it's almost painful to witness. "You are still sad, so you might as well be sad with me."
That's... oddly sweet.
Concussion. It's 100% a concussion. Hayden touches the tender spot on his scalp again. He's probably in the ICU that very minute, and this is all a very weird dream.
“I’m not sad,” Shane says, as if he’s not been silently crying for the past few hours. Hayden and Rozanov make the exact same sound of disbelief at the same time. “And the whole point was to let you be sad without me being sad making you more sad.”
Hayden massages his temples, wincing at the tenderness. "Okay, not to take Rozanov's side on anything here, but that's dumb as fuck," he says, his voice gentler than his words.
"Pike is right," Rozanov nods, one arm protectively wrapped around Shane's shoulders, thumb absently stroking the fabric of his shirt.
"Did that fucking hurt?" Hayden asks, watching how Rozanov's eyes keep scanning Shane's face, cataloging every detail.
"He is, what do you say? Like a broken clock?" Rozanov pulls Shane closer, pressing a kiss to his temple.
"Motherfucker, why do I even try?" Hayden sighs, but there's no heat in it. "Shane, you know where the guest room is. I'm going to bed before my brain starts leaking."
"Hmm, no," Rozanov shakes his head, carefully brushing Shane's hair from his forehead. "I am not having sex in your house."
"Jesus Christ!" Hayden throws his hands up.
"Shane is always less sad when I suck his dick," Rozanov says matter-of-factly, but his eyes are soft with worry as he fusses.
Fuck the concussion. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe this is hell…
"Ilya-" Shane flushes, leaning into him despite his embarrassment.
"Get out of my house, Rozanov," Hayden groans, heading for the stairs. "Shane, you owe me fucking breakfast. I want bacon. So much fucking bacon."
"Hundred percent. Thanks, Hayd."
Hayden is still grumbling to himself when he crawls into bed alongside Jackie. He trusts Shane to lock up behind them more than he trusts himself not to throw something at Rozanov’s head. He hates it when the people he loves are sad and there’s fuck all he can do about it.
Jackie turns over and curls into his side, her warm breath fanning against his neck as she nuzzles closer. Her voice is thick with sleep when she murmurs, "Everything okay?"
"Yes. Maybe." Hayden kisses her forehead, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo as he pulls the comforter higher around them both. "I still think I should kill him a little."
She pats his chest with a drowsy hand, fingers curling into his shirt. "In the morning."
Sure. Fine. In the morning.
In the morning, he ends up too distracted wrestling the kids into eating their breakfast to plot Rozanov's grisly death.
"Daddy, I want the purple spoon!" Ruby whines, flinging Cheerios across the kitchen in her displeasure at the plain old boring white spoon she’s been given.
"The purple spoon is currently hosting a spa day in the dishwasher," Hayden says, dodging a flying cereal. "How about the-"
The doorbell rings. Again. If it’s anyone other than the ghost of Maurice Richard himself, Hayden is moving.
Through the window, he spots Rozanov's dark blue 1961 Maserati gleaming on his driveway like a trophy.
"Sonovabitch," he mutters, wiping sticky hands on his sweatpants.
But there's no sign of the Russian menace, just a man in a suit holding a digital pad. "Please sign for delivery."
Hayden scrawls his signature while scanning the yard for an ambush. "Where's Rozanov? Hiding in the bushes?"
The courier's face remains professionally blank. "Paperwork is in the trunk, sir."
A second car pulls up. The courier climbs inside, and they're gone before Hayden can process that the Maserati is still there.
He approaches the car like it might contain a bomb, or worse, Rozanov himself. Finding only a folder, he's on the phone to Shane in seconds.
"Did your boyfriend just gift me his fucking car?" Hayden demands shrilly. More specifically, did Rozanov just gift him the fucking car of his dreams?
"Ilya!" Shane yells down the line. Then fucking hangs up on Hayden to the tune of, "—seriously, we talked about this—"
What the fuck is his life right now?
Rozanov - Ilya - is growing on him. Like black mold creeping across the wall, maybe, but it’s happening.
Shane adores him.
Jackie thinks he’s sweet and funny and hot, and that’s usually where he makes her change the subject.
The kids think he’s the coolest thing ever, to the point where it takes at least a week after any time he babysits for them to stop saying ‘Okay’ in a terrible attempt to replicate the way he speaks. The second they come out with a single word of Russian, Hayden is going to break his face, but for now…
Hayden gave back the car. Partly because fuck him for thinking he needed payment for looking after his best friend. Mostly because Shane and Jackie yelled at them both. It lives at Shane’s place now, though, and he’s encouraged to ‘borrow it’ every few months when he needs an hour or two of peace and quiet.
Growing. So long as he keeps his mouth shut, which is practically never.
Still, it’s hard not to at least tolerate a man who will drive two hours at the drop of a hat to look after Hayden’s kids when shit hits the fan with Jackie’s family, and Shane is in Toronto for a commercial about… something.
Shane thinks Ilya’s bored. Thinks he’s lonely. Hayden is tempted to point out that Rozaonv has probably never been lonely in his life, but figures it might actually be true. It’s not like the man is fucking his way through every city he visits anymore, and god knows he probably doesn’t have any friends the way he runs his mouth.
Jackie stays with her folks that night to help her dad look after her mom, leaving Hayden to hold down the fort back home. It’s late, and he’s tired as hell, but the kids will most likely be in bed, and even he’s not enough of an asshole to send Ilya back so late at night.
He’ll be hospitable. Offer him a beer. Maybe try find something likable behind all that sarcasm…
After dropping his keys in the pot by the front door, Hayden takes the silence in and figures he was on the money with the kids being asleep. He expects to find Ilya making himself at home on the couch.
Instead, he's in the kitchen, hunched over the sink with his shoulders up around his ears, surrounded by what looks to be the thousand and one pieces of the vase Jackie's grandmother gave them for their wedding. Blood drips steadily from his hand into the porcelain basin.
He whips around as Hayden enters, eyes wide before narrowing defensively.
"Pike." The word comes out clipped, tense.
"Everything okay?" Hayden steps closer, scanning the room for signs of a bigger disaster.
"Children are asleep. We read the moon story fourteen times." Ilya's jaw works back and forth. "I broke your vase, by the way. It was very ugly. You are welcome." His hand trembles slightly as he tries to hide it behind his back.
"…What? Jesus, are you bleeding?" Hayden lunges forward, grabbing Ilya's wrist before he can pull away.
"Very ugly," Ilya repeats, trying to tug free, scowling as the movement reopens the cut.
"It's a family heirloom," Hayden says absently, tightening his grip on Ilya's arm. He's not sure they're supposed to be anything but ugly.
"… I… well, if it must be fixed-" Ilya's voice falters, the usual confidence cracking.
Hayden yanks Ilya's hand back over the sink, blood spattering the stainless steel. "Shut up and stop bleeding everywhere." His pulse hammers in his throat. Shane is going to fucking kill him.
"Yes, that is how blood works." Ilya's fingers twitch in Hayden's grip. "Tell it to do something, and it listens."
"You're such a fucking asshole." Hayden tears off paper towels with his teeth, pressing them hard against the wound. Ilya hisses but doesn't pull away. So much for mending fences. Christ, he’s tired.
"Yes," Ilya replies, jaw tight. "One who broke your vase."
"I don't-" Hayden rubs his eyes with his free wrist. When he checks under the towel, he can see there are multiple cuts on Ilya’s fingers. They all, fortunately, look pretty shallow. "I don't think you need stitches. What even happened?"
Ilya's gaze darts to the shards, then back to Hayden's face. "Well, I saw the world's ugliest vase and thought to myself, 'even Pike is not so tragic as to think this is-'"
Hayden slams the roll of paper towels onto the counter. "Why are you like this?"
"Allergic reaction to ugly things." Ilya's voice is steady, but his knuckles have gone white. “But fine. I have a contact who can fix. You have a bag, yes?”
“What? Yeah, it’s not-” Hayden kinda hates the vase. That’s not the point. Why the fuck is Rozanov being so deliberately confrontational? “Fuck me, just sit down. I have a first aid kit upstairs. Park your ass and fucking wait, or I’ll call Shane.”
Ilya's eyes flash. "Fine."
"Fine!" Hayden's hands clench into fists.
Finding the kit means tiptoeing up the stairs to the master bathroom, which feels like a fundamental flaw in their system. His heart hammers as he passes the kids' bedrooms, planning some Mission Impossible-level stealth.
A floorboard creaks. Ruby's door inches open, her small face appearing in the gap.
"Hi daddy," she whispers, clutching her stuffed rabbit.
Hayden swallows hard. "Hey, baby, what are you doing awake?" He summons his best smile and marvels at how much steadier he feels just from seeing her.
"I feel bad." Her bottom lip trembles.
He crouches down, scanning her face. "Did Uncle Ilya give you too much candy again?" Someone is already bleeding, so naturally they need to add puking to the mix…
"No. Maybe." She glances nervously down the hallway. "Promise you won't tell him I told you? He said it was our secret." The floor drops out of Hayden's stomach, his pulse roaring in his ears.
"Pinky swear," he manages, extending a trembling finger.
"I broke nana's vase." Her words tumble out in a rush. "I didn't mean to! We were playing hide and seek and it fell over!"
"Thank you fucking jesus..." He exhales sharply, then catches himself. "Sorry, baby, no, it's okay, I'm not mad." Relief crashes through him, followed immediately by rage. He grips Ruby's shoulders gently and squeezes. "You should always tell me these things, okay? Always. You're not... no one else has ever told you to keep a secret from me, right?"
Ruby fidgets, twisting her rabbit's ear between her fingers. "Mommy told me not to tell you she was the one who forgot Chompy at the salon last week."
A laugh escapes him despite everything, his chest loosening. "Other than mommy."
"No." Her eyes, so much like Jackie's, search his face. He’s not sure he’s ever loved anyone or anything as much as he does her that second.
"Okay, let's get you back to bed, yeah?" He brushes her hair back, and is kinda proud his hands aren't trembling.
"You're not mad at Uncle Ilya?" Her voice quivers.
Oh, he is homicidally mad at Uncle Ilya. His jaw clenches so tight his teeth might crack. "No, baby." Once he has her back in bed, he tucks the blanket around her small shoulders, presses his lips to her forehead, and waits in the doorway until her breathing deepens. His heart hammers against his ribs, and he might just be having a fucking heart attack.
After grabbing the first aid kit, he storms downstairs to find Ilya exactly where he left him in the kitchen, blood-stained paper towel still wrapped around his hand.
Hayden slams the kit onto the counter. "Never, ever tell my children to keep secrets from me!" His voice shakes with barely contained fury.
It takes a moment for the words to sink in, then Ilya's face drains of color so rapidly Hayden thinks he might pass out. "What... no! Fuck, fuck, no that's not..." He lurches forward, his chair clattering to the floor. His eyes dart wildly, like a cornered animal. "Pike, I would never-"
"Jesus Christ Rozanov, it's a fucking vase!" Hayden slams his palm against the counter, making Ilya flinch.
"I..." Ilya's bloody hand trembles as he rakes it through his hair, leaving crimson streaks on his cheeks. "I did not want you to be angry with her."
Hayden crowds into his space, jabbing a finger at his chest. "She's an unholy terror who thinks the laws of physics are optional and walls make the best coloring pads. I'm almost always angry with her! What the fuck is wrong with you!"
"I..." Ilya backs up until he hits the refrigerator, magnets from a dozen family vacations cascading to the floor. His breath comes in short gasps, rising and falling in a crescendo of panic. "I should go. I am very sorry. I did not mean... I would never, I swear I would never-"
That’s the thing, though. Like him or loathe him, he’s never once had any doubts about trusting Ilya with his kids. Not since he and Shane watched them the first time. He’s never had a reason to.
Fuck, he’s pretty sure he still doesn’t have a reason to. Once his blood pressure calms the fuck down and he can understand whatever stupid fucking logic Rozanov is operating on…
"Rozanov. Ilya-" Hayden reaches for him, but Ilya twists away.
"Tell Jackie I am very sorry." He's already halfway to the door, leaving bloody fingerprints on everything he touches.
"Ilya, come on. Just..." Hayden's stomach twists as he watches Ilya fumble with the lock, hands shaking so badly he can barely grip it. "Just sit down, okay? You're bleeding everywhere."
"No, I' m-" Ilya's eyes dart wildly around the room, never meeting Hayden's. His chest heaves. "Sorry. Very sorry."
And before Hayden can say another word, Ilya has wrenched the door open and fled into the darkness, leaving nothing but a bloody handprint on the doorknob and the sound of uneven footsteps racing down the driveway.
Hayden doesn’t sleep that night. He also doesn’t call Shane. Whether that’s the right decision or not is half the reason he can’t shut his brain off.
He’s got three days, tops, before they’re back in practice, and he has to face his best friend. Shane will ask how it all went. He’ll be desperately seeking some kind of confirmation that Ilya and Hayden are becoming friends, and Hayden doesn’t know if he can sell a convincing lie when he doesn’t even know the answer himself.
For the entire day, he has to listen to the kids' demands to know when Uncle Ilya will be back, and to their complaints that Hayden only lets them watch Frozen three times in a row, not five. Wrangling them takes up all of his energy and most of his focus, and it’s nice not to really think about anything more complicated than the rules of The Floor Is Lava.
He tells Jackie when she's back. She drops her purse on the counter, keys clattering against the granite as he explains. Her eyebrows climb higher with each detail, then furrow, then climb again. She paces the kitchen, stopping to grip the back of a chair so hard her knuckles go white. Watching the emotions play across her face comforts him somehow. It's not just him being too dumb to function.
"Have you tried calling him?" She asks eventually, rubbing at the crease between her eyebrows.
"Not sure this is a conversation for the phone," he admits, absently wiping at the refrigerator door, trying to erase a spot of blood he’s long since cleaned up.
"No. Maybe not." She chews her lip. "Jesus, poor Ilya."
"Poor Ilya? You're not mad at him?" Hayden's hand freezes mid-wipe.
"Oh, I'll wring his neck when I see him again." She mimes the action, then her hands fall helplessly. "Then probably hug him."
"Huh." He blinks at her, lost.
"Go see him." She grips his forearm and pulls him in close. "Figure it out, or decide how you're going to tell Shane he can't bring his boyfriend round again."
"Wait, we're banning him?" His stomach drops.
"Until you talk to him, yes." Her eyes are worried but firm, the same look she gives the kids when they're about to learn a hard lesson.
"You think he would-" Hayden's voice catches. He can't even finish the thought, unsure when he stopped thinking of Ilya as a threat to the people he loves.
"I think we need to know what he was thinking." Jackie paces three steps, then turns back. "And I am sure it’s going to be okay. Once you talk to him."
"Do you wanna come and-" He gestures vaguely, already knowing the answer.
"Oh no, this is between you." She shakes her head, squeezing his shoulder. " Besides, it's been two whole days since I've seen Moana. I might forget the words..."
Which is how Hayden ends up driving to fucking Ottawa.
It's a little after midday when he arrives, and he's prepared to wait around until Ilya is home if he's at practice, but the lights are on, and he answers when Hayden buzzes the front gate.
He looks fucking terrible. Dark circles under bloodshot eyes, hair unwashed, wearing the same clothes from two days ago. Jesus, he should have fucking called Shane. He’s not even sure how Ilya made the drive back in one piece.
"Hey. So… we should talk," Hayden says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
Ilya steps to one side to let him in, gaze fixed somewhere over Hayden's shoulder. They awkwardly work through the round of 'something to drink/eat/smoke' before finding themselves standing around the kitchen island, Ilya's unbandaged hand twitching against the countertop.
"I gotta know what that all was," Hayden says, surprised by how calm he sounds when his heart is pounding like he's in the final minutes of overtime.
Ilya nods and swallows hard as if he has been expecting the demand. "Yes. It is… you will be patient with me? I have not… these are not words that are easy." His accent thickens with each halting phrase.
"Shit, yeah, of course." Hayden's stomach clenches with a dread he can't name. Years of enjoying every second Ilya’s not been wearing that fucking smirk, and now he wants it back with a need bordering on desperation.
"And you must promise me you won't tell Shane." Ilya's eyes finally meet his, pleading.
"I don't know if I can do that." The words taste sour in his mouth.
Ilya looks wrecked, shoulders curling inward. "No. Of course. That… that is fair. But I owe you explanation." He looks like he’s going to be sick.
But as much as Hayden really, really wants to call time, he can’t. "Yeah." His throat is suddenly dry.
"My father, he…" Ilya's eyes dart around the room, lingering in the few places the walls of light don’t reach. "Was not like you. When he was angry, the results, um, consequences? The consequences were not the same. I did not want Ruby to be in trouble." He hunches further. It doesn’t make him look smaller. He’s still fucking huge. Somehow that’s worse. This is Ilya Rozanov.
"What… what would he have done? About the vase, I mean?" Hayden's voice drops to barely above a whisper.
"If I broke family heirloom?" A muscle jumps in Ilya's jaw.
"Heirloom maybe isn't the right word. I don't think it's valuable or anything." Hayden's words tumble out too fast, as if they might somehow change what's coming.
Ilya doesn't seem to hear him. "Beat me, yes? Probably with belt." He says it matter-of-factly, like discussing the weather. "And I would have stayed at table until I fixed it." He unconsciously cradles his injured hand against his chest.
Hayden thinks of his bloody fingers and feels bile rise in his throat. The kitchen tilts sideways for a moment.
Hayden's knees nearly buckle. He grips the counter edge. "Oh my god..."
"I am... learning this is not normal." Ilya taps his temple with two fingers, gaze fixed on the floor. "Sometimes is hard to remember. Is not an excuse."
"Okay. Shit." Hayden runs both hands through his hair, tugging until he can feel something other than wild panic. "Okay, that's... fuck, that's fucked up. Shane doesn't know?"
Ilya's shoulders hunch further, and it occurs to Hayden how epically fucking wrong it is that he’s the one standing here right now. "He knows enough. The details… they would be upsetting. More upsetting." His voice drops. "You saw how he was that night."
No shit. Hayden's stomach churns. He's fucking upset, and he's not in love with Ilya. "That's what that was?"
"We have different ideas of normal." Ilya shrugs, the movement mechanical. "I don't always know until I have already upset him."
"So what, you've just never told anyone? Ever?" Hayden's voice cracks.
Ilya's eyes flick up to meet his, then dart quickly away. "There is not much to tell."
Heat floods Hayden's face. "Right. No. You being abused as a kid has absolutely nothing to do with you thinking I'd beat my kid, or you lying about it, or getting her to lie about it, or giving me a fucking heart attack, or-"
"I am sorry for that." Ilya's jaw tightens. Then he adds, almost inaudibly, "Was not abuse."
Hayden leans forward, heart hammering. He was fucking right. Ilya is going to break Shane's heart. Just not in the way he feared. "Yeah, no, one hundred fucking percent it was."
"Right. Of course." Ilya's hands begin to shake. "That is why you are here, no? So you can prove you were fucking right, that he's better off with anyone else and-"
"Fucksake!" Hayden slams his palm against the counter, making them both jump, and the guilt it brings tips everything over the edge. "I don't fucking like you Rozanov. We're not friends. I don't have to tiptoe around your fucking moods!" He steps closer, voice dropping. "So maybe fucking listen when I say that what happened to you was fucking wrong, it was absolutely abuse, and even though I think you are a huge fucking asshole, you didn't deserve any of it!"
Ilya stares at him, mouth slightly open, eyes wide with something that looks terrifyingly like hope.
"Shane loves you." Hayden's voice cracks. "You make him happy. And all of this bullshit makes it crystal clear you love him, so like..." He swallows hard, refusing to look away. "That's basically all I fucking want, okay? You're a good man. My kids love you. My wife loves you. So I will fucking learn to love you even if it kills both of us!"
"Fuck," Ilya chokes, and slumps to the kitchen floor, his back against the counter. His shoulders shake once, twice, though no sound comes out.
Hayden's stomach twists with shame. He just screamed at a man who'd been beaten as a child. About being beaten as a child. What the fuck is wrong with him? Shane is a thousand percent going to kill him. He wouldn't even blame him.
He circles around the island and slides down until he's on the floor opposite, careful to leave space between them. "So that didn't come out right. Sorry."
Ilya wipes roughly at his face with his good hand. "And everyone says I am the asshole."
"Yeah, well." Hayden picks at a loose thread on his jeans. "Guess you don't have a monopoly on that."
Ilya glares at him, but there's no real heat behind it. His eyes are red-rimmed.
"I mean it, though." Hayden offers quietly, not quite meeting his gaze.
"Which part?" Ilya's voice is rough. "We are not friends? You don't like me?"
Fuck, he really is the asshole, isn't he? Hayden's chest aches with the realization.
"The other stuff," he murmurs, risking a glance up.
"Right." Ilya's jaw works.
"Seriously." Hayden reaches out, hesitates, then awkwardly pats Ilya's knee once before withdrawing his hand. “And I don’t hate you anymore, so like… we’re heading in the right direction?”
Ilya's mouth twitches, a ghost of that infuriating smirk. Thank fuck. "So in fifty years…" He wipes his face with his sleeve, then seems to notice what he’s wearing for the first time. He pulls a face.
"Maybe we'll have worked our way up to casual acquaintances." Hayden shifts, wincing as his back protests against the hard cabinet. "I might even remember your birthday."
"Can't wait." Ilya's voice is dry as dust, but there's something softer in his eyes now. "Will send you reminder text."
Hayden picks at a scuff on the floor. "You really should talk to Shane, though. He loves you."
"I know." Ilya fiddles with his shirt cuff. He looks like he needs to sleep for a year.
"He'd want to support you." Hayden glances up, catches Ilya's gaze. "Not just the highlight reel, man. The whole you."
Ilya's throat bobs. "I know."
"He'd definitely punch me for saying that shit to you." Hayden rubs his jaw, wincing at the phantom pain.
"Maybe... maybe we are even?" Ilya's eyes flick up, hopeful as a stray dog offered scraps.
Hayden snorts, then reaches over to help him up off the floor. "You were trying to look out for my daughter. So. Probably I still owe you one."
"Hmm." Ilya's mouth quirks up at one corner. "You want vodka? Is medicinal."
"Only if you take a fucking shower first." Hayden waves a hand in front of his nose. "You smell like six-week-old kit."
"Okay, yes." Ilya's shoulders relax a fraction. "But only because I am generous host. Not because you are right."
“Course not.”
He watches Ilya head in what he thinks is the general direction of the bathroom and slumps back against the island. Fuck. Fuck. He doesn't now what to do.
He pulls out his phone and sends Shane a text:
When's Ilya's birthday?