Chapter Text
Ilya knew this corridor. By heart, at this point. It didn’t even look like the real one, back in his childhood house, in Moscow.
The walls were taller, the paintings on the walls undistinguishable, stretched into horrific gaping maws rather than the original portraits of Rozanovs that came before him. The shadows moved on their own, the corners dark and inviting, in the same way standing on the edge of a cliff called for you to jump in.
Ilya walked down, towards the only door ajar, blinding light coming from around it.
A tall shape appeared, like it melted off the wall, but her long, curly blond hair didn’t scare Ilya. He kept on walking towards her, until she turned around, her haunted eyes meeting his.
She looked gaunter than in his memories, than when he had found her on the bed, her eyes presently sunken and cheeks hollowed. He had never dreamt of her like that before, and that scared him. Was his memory twisting reality, slowly making him forget how beautiful she was, even in death?
“Mama,” he mouthed, not a sound coming out of him.
“Lisichka,” she extended a hand towards him, and he ran the last distance between them to grab onto her.
She didn’t let him hug her though, instead turning his attention towards the door. Holding his wrist loosely in one of her hands, she pushed gently against his back. Ilya put a hand on the door.
He didn’t want to open it, the same way he had not wanted either the day he had found her, even before he knew.
She pressed on. He pushed in.
Light did blind him; the room basked in white, a bed right in front of it, and a window directly opposite the door. If Ilya had known to look at the bed first, the same way he did every dream, this time it was empty, instead his attention calling at the shape standing at the window, his back to Ilya.
“Shane?”
Ilya didn’t startle awake, instead blinking back into consciousness, the remnants of the dream – nightmare – sticking to the edges of his mind.
He was on his side, turned towards Shane, who was lying awake on his back next to him.
His boyfriend had an arm thrown above his head while his other hand was wrapped loosely around Ilya’s wrist, the same way they had fallen asleep in, more for his sake than Shane’s.
Or at least, Ilya had fallen asleep. He wasn't sure sleep ever found Shane.
He didn’t say anything, just observed the perfect profile of the man he loved more than life for a while.
No, he couldn’t say that, anymore. He refused to love him more than life, because if he wasn't alive, he couldn’t love Shane, and where did that leave him, hm? Exactly. So he loved Shane so much he could live for him. So much so he was going to.
Galina would be proud of him.
No, she wouldn’t.
She would be neutral, make an appreciative moue, and moved on to the next step of his depression management.
When Shane’s life had fallen apart, it didn’t fix Ilya’s issues, to the contrary. But his priorities were clear: Shane. He was the priority. Shane had always been and would always be. Because there wasn't any point if there wasn't Shane.
He had told Galina as such, expecting push back. Expecting her to tell him it wasn't healthy, that he needed to learn to live for himself, blah blah blah.
Ilya had a full rebuttal prepared, ready to ditch her without even looking back.
She didn’t, though. She had hummed and nodded, writing something in her notes.
“Makes sense,” she had said, before looking back up at him, waiting on him to continue.
“Does it?” Ilya had replied, confused and weary, feeling like he was about to be caught in a trap.
“Does it not? He is your primary source of emotional support. You said it yourself, as long as he is around, you didn’t feel like you needed any professional help. He is your motivation to get better and to manage your depression. If his world crumbles, as of right now, so does yours.”
Ilya had been left speechless, because, yes, exactly.
“So you’re gonna help me… help him?”
She had taken a deep breath through her nose, putting down her pen.
“Are you familiar with the plane allegory?” she had asked in English for the first time during the conversation.
“Plane allegory?” Ilya repeated, tasting the last word for the first time. “No.”
“It’s a quite simple one. When a plane cabin is depressurized, oxygen masks fall from the ceiling. The rule is,” she said firmly, her own accent cutting the syllables as she looked pointedly at Ilya, “to put your mask on first before helping anyone else around you.
“I like this allegory for patients who live normal lives. I even liked it for you when you mentioned last time that you were worried about Shane’s eating habits. As I said then, yes, he sounds like he needs help, but you are not equipped to be the one providing it, he needs professional help.
“But circumstances change. What Shane is going through, and sounds like he will be for the foreseeable future, is more significant than something that has been going on behind the scenes for a while, maybe even before you came in his life. Of course, you are still not equipped to handle the situation he finds himself in now, but no one is. I would definitely recommend for him to still seek professional help to get through this quite traumatic event, but that won’t be enough. That is something he simply cannot go through alone. He will need a strong support system, and that support system won’t necessarily be the best at handling it, might make mistakes, and might feel weighed by the responsibility, and that’s where I come in. I help you manage your own worries to what is happening to him, I give you tools to handle the pressure so that you can help him through this hard time in his life. If it’s what you want, that is.”
“Is what I want,” Ilya had nodded, throat tight and nose stuffy.
So, in some ways, Shane and Ilya were doing both better and worse.
They spoke more freely than they ever did, Ilya revealing parts of his upbringing than no one else knew about, some things even Svetlana had not been privy too by simply not living inside the Rozanov residence, while Shane shared how he saw things and how things worked in his head, things he didn’t think anyone should or needed to know.
They weren't easy conversations, and both talked with a detachment that didn’t feel ideal, but it wasn't so much about how they felt about sharing it, but how the other took the information in.
And it was working.
Shane was not only curious about Ilya’s childhood, but how it made him feel, asking hard-hitting questions that he wasn't even aware of. Without even knowing it, he was forcing Ilya to put words on emotions that had been bottled so deep down, they were load-bearing walls to his entire personality.
And Shane would come in, down to the basement of Ilya’s mind, fingernail chipping at the plaster, knocking it to test the hollowness, and once he was sure that this thing was about to fall down, bringing the entire house down with it, he would start pouring cement at the foundations and add some supporting beams, rebuilding Ilya from the inside out.
The job was a bit sloppy, messier than if actual builders did it, but it did what it was supposed to be there for: stabilizing the collapse of Ilya’s mind, reinforcing the bases.
God did Ilya love this man. In the throes of learning about each other, reopening wounds and throwing salt over them, Ilya didn’t as much forget than become complacent. Yes, he loved Shane, he knew. His body knew, his house knew, his garden, the patio and the Rideau river too. He would lay his life for him, throw away everything and start over again for this man.
But when everything was quiet, just the two of them, arguing over how to fold the laundry or how to store the butter – “if you put butter in fridge one more time, Hollander, I swear!” “It’s gonna go bad!” “Butter don’t go bad. And you don’t even eat it, leave my butter alone!” “Fine, see if I care if you get food poisoning, asshole.” “Oh but you caaare.” “Fuck you.” “No, fuck you.” “Ok then do it.” –
Ilya was so in love, it felt like dying and being born again, all while lifting the Stanley cup and having the best orgasm of his life, all at once.
That was the thought dancing in Ilya’s mind as he took in the man lying there, half of his face obscured by shadows, the other illuminated by the eery blue of the night life of Montreal, the side Ilya couldn’t see properly.
No instead, he had the hidden part of Shane’s face, and Ilya thought it might be poetic, that he was the only one to get to see this angle of Shane. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness but it wasn't enough to see all the receded corners, just enough to get an idea of what was going on behind the pretense.
Because Shane was particularly good at hiding how he felt in the way that he hid it in plain sight. Since the things with Montreal came up, leading to his coming out, Ilya was mad at himself for missing the signs because they were there all along.
When it was only the two of them in Ottawa, there was a lightness to his boyfriend.
That was as long as the outside world didn’t try to come inside their bubble. Then Shane would turn into a ghost, haunting Ilya’s house and dreams.
They had prepared long and well for the Montreal visit.
Not just practicing questions in the middle of the night, when he caught Shane walking up and down the living room, in the dark, rehearsing answers.
It was also in anxiety management, as much it was possible as long as Shane resisted medication.
Yuna had said that it would be good for Shane to see a doctor at least, for the testimony of a medical professional on the impact of the harassment on Shane.
Ilya wasn’t allowed to go, which had been torture, but apparently, it had been torture there too, for Yuna at least, when the doctor had decided to speak to Shane alone.
“I’m just worried he might have asked leading questions,” Yuna said, lips pinched together. David refrained from smiling, but the crows’ feet at the corner of his eyes appeared nonetheless.
Shane had gone to get change, while the three of them had settled in Ilya’s kitchen.
“Hm. Maybe the doctor was worried about that too,” David said, nonchalantly.
“What?”
“Shane is an adult and he can answer for himself,” David added as he poured her tea.
“I know but–”
Ilya tensed, his hackles rising up.
“But?” David looked at Yuna with his eyebrows high on his forehead. It seemed to get Yuna out of her thoughts then.
“No, you’re right. No but. He can– of course he can. It’s just that he didn’t tell us about what was going on. I just didn’t want him to omit anything that would skew the doctor’s perspective.”
“He is still an adult and can decide what he’s willing to share. None of us get to decide that for him.”
The definitive tone that David used left Ilya frozen, his mouth dropping slightly, while he observed quietly the exchange happening.
The Hollanders never yelled. They never screamed, or fought, or even argued. They could disagree, but it was always polite and respectful.
And that was what this was too, but Ilya watched Yuna open her mouth with a frown, the look of someone ready to argue, but she stopped herself.
“Yes, of course. It’s just… I wish he didn’t have to take all of the responsibility upon himself,” she replied, slower. “I wish I could take that weight off of him.”
“I know, I feel guilty too,” David said with a gentle smile as he put a hand over his wife’s, and Ilya felt like he got shot in the chest.
“Me too,” Ilya admitted while getting choked. The two Hollanders turned towards him.
“Oh, no, sweetie, no,” Yuna said, rubbing his arm comfortingly. “You are the best thing that could have ever happened to Shane.”
“I didn’t see it–”
“You had your own things occupying your mind, Ilya,” David said, a hand over Ilya’s shoulder, squeezing it. “Shane is very good at hiding, as we keep finding out, and he’s definitely not holding it out against you. Or any of us, for that matter, but this is our job as parents to see these kinds of things.”
“I see Shane more than anyone else,” Yuna sniffed, still rubbing his arm. “I should have noticed.”
“He loves you more than anything,” Ilya said, not knowing what else to say.
“It doesn’t mean I haven’t failed my son once again, Ilya,” Yuna said with a wobbly smile, until she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “But enough. I can help him now, and I will get him out of this situation.”
Ilya loved Yuna, and he thought she was probably one of the best parents he ever met in his life.
But he wasn't sure he agreed that making Shane go through a lawsuit was the best way to help right now. But she was his mother after all. And his manager. She probably knew better.
“He prescribed me muscle relaxant,” Shane scrunched his face when Ilya had, later that day, enquired about the appointment.
“Okay. Did you get them?” Ilya asked nonchalantly, coming to sit at the end of the bed as Shane put his Rolex away, like he would have needed it in case he had been caught by paparazzies or something.
“No,” Shane frowned. “I don’t need my muscles to be relaxed.”
Ilya knew he had to school his face and took a moment to find the right words, and not just blatantly disagree.
“Are we sure is only for muscles or does it do something else?”
Shane sighed, turning back around to face Ilya, a furrow between his brow forming as he crossed his arms over his chest.
Protecting. Defensive. Distancing.
“They use it for anxiety, too. But I can’t, because common side effects are like tremors and loss of coordination.”
“Okay,” Ilya nodded slowly. “I understand.”
Shane dropped his arms to his side but still looked hesitant.
“Do you have side effects?”
The air in Ilya’s lungs was swallowed out, not unlike a punch to the stomach. But like, in a good way.
“Well, you know I had to change twice,” Ilya said, and Shane was nodding, seemingly eager to learn from Ilya’s own experience. “The first one, I couldn’t sleep and I was sweating like heatwave in the middle of Canadian winter.” Shane smiled at that, reassuring Ilya it was safe to continue. “Then second one, I still couldn’t sleep, but I wasn't sweating anymore. Instead, my dick stopped working. I didn’t tell you because effect was instant, so I panicked and made myself vomit, even if I had taken it ten hours ago. I had it changed immediately and said I would throw it in toilet if I ever came near it again.”
“Did it even make you feel better, at least?” Shane asked, not smiling anymore.
“Made me feel worse when we facetimed and I realized after we hung up you were wearing your glasses and I didn’t even notice it,” Ilya tried to joke. But that was as far he could make it, because he continued, “I think it was the worst I ever felt in my life.”
Ilya said it with a lightness that didn’t reflect how he truly had felt at the time. Because it had been true that it was the worst feeling ever, and it was the first time ever a plan had started to etch itself in his mind on how he could end it. Because the medication didn’t just kill his libido, it muted everything else. Suddenly, he didn’t care about hockey, didn’t care about winning anything, and his love for Shane was… quiet. The call that day, it left Ilya as empty as he had started it, when Shane had always been the silver lining. And still was, after he got rid of the medication.
If his love for Shane was intertwined with the depression, then Ilya would stay depressed, he didn’t care. He couldn’t believe it was true, but he wasn't going to take the risk.
Galina had reassured him. No, it wasn't normal, medication shouldn’t make him feel this way. No, his love for Shane wasn't a produce of his depression. It was simply the wrong one for him, maybe the wrong dosage, so they would carry on looking for the right one. All wasn't lost.
“And the one now… is good. Is alright, I guess. My mouth is dry and I get sleepy by 7pm even when I nap, but that could be also from catching the boring from all the time I spend with you,” he shrugged. “But I feel like myself. It doesn’t always make me feel better, but it helps not getting worse, you know. It works for me for now.”
Shane was nodding, listening intently, his beautiful eyes shiny with unshed tears. Then he pushed away from the dresser and came to sit next to Ilya. There, he took Ilya’s hand in his, Ilya intertwining their fingers before bringing Shane’s hand to his lips to kiss it.
Shane sniffed, leaning against him.
“Is there anything else I can do to help?” Shane had asked then, not what Ilya had expected. “So you feel better, and not just, you know, not worse?”
“You do everything already, Hollander. I don’t know what else you want to be doing. They say to have healthy lifestyle with medication, no drinking, no smoking, eat your greens and carbs and proteins, but just having you in my life is doing the real heavy lifting of antidepressant. They only work as long as I have you.”
“You have me, Ilya,” Shane had said, a lone tear at the corner of his eye that Ilya kissed away. “You will always have me. I’m glad the medication is helping, even a little. I hope that one day it can help a lot and you feel better.”
“But?” Ilya enquired gently.
“I don’t know if I can do this right now,” Shane admitted. “The trials and errors of finding the right medication, I don’t think I can… I can’t handle not feeling right, you know? Just now, it’s… everything is already out of my control.”
Ilya swallowed as he nodded slowly, throat tight.
“I know, sweetheart. I know,” Ilya murmured the words against his temple.
“Hey,” Ilya called in a breath, the word barely above a whisper, bringing his hand to caress lightly over Shane’s cheek.
Ilya watched him blink once, twice, before realising Shane had not been doing that all the while he had been lying there.
Seemingly coming out of his torpor, Shane glanced at Ilya, before starting to move his body around, squirming a bit and bringing his arm back down, joining the other one over the duvet.
“Can’t sleep?” Ilya asked uselessly, already knowing the answer.
A lot of the things he said lately felt empty and useless, because he didn’t need to ask. He didn’t need to question, or try to understand, because Ilya already knew perfectly well what was going on through Shane’s mind, and it killed him. Absolutely agonizing.
Shane shook his head, swallowing loudly in the quiet of the bedroom. He had barely been able to utter more than a couple of words, those being I love you in three different languages. Which broke Ilya’s heart and put it back together at the same time.
He shuffled closer, pressing a kiss to Shane’s shoulder. Then, he lifted the t-shirt sleeve so he could reach the skin there, and to his horror, Shane heaved a gasp, closing his eyes.
“Sorry, sorry,” Ilya rushed to apologize but Shane was shaking his head, turning onto his side so they were now facing each other, and it was his turn to inch closer to Ilya, their bodies touching. He took it as an offer to wrap the arm Shane wasn't holding around his body, pulling them even closer, their foreheads pressed together. Shane swallowed again, his eyes remaining closed.
“Tell me again how you thought Czech team was better than Canadian team. In 1996? Or was it 1999,” Ilya said, his memory providing him with the right answer but he pushed it at the back of his mind. Shane shook his head. “Okay, then what about the 2009 World Junior Hockey Championships,” Shane snorted, and Ilya felt emboldened to carry on, “memorable game, one for the library.”
Shane chuckled softly, eyes still closed, but his nose rubbed against Ilya’s, and Ilya was no coward admitting to the butterflies in his stomach.
“For the books,” Shane mouthed, and Ilya would have missed it if their lips weren't almost pressed together.
“Hm?”
“Books, not library,” Shane whispered, or actually, even below that. If Ilya had a hand around his throat, his vocal cords wouldn’t have made a move.
“Meh, library has books, no? Makes more sense to go to library. Your mind is library, full of memories, yes?”
Ilya tangled their legs together and Shane let him, actually hooking one of his legs over Ilya’s hip, before rubbing his face against Ilya’s, up and down.
“We could watch YouTube highlights of me, if you prefer. Top 20 plays of Ilya Rozanov’s career. Ilya Rozanov greatest fights compilation.” Shane’s body was shaking with quiet laughter now as Ilya tightened his arms around him. “Yes? Sounds good?”
“Ilya Rozanov being a rat for eight minutes,” Shane then said, hoarsely, but there was a smile in his voice. Ilya had to rein himself from vibrating.
“Ilya Rozanov savage mode,” Ilya said, feeling himself grinning wide.
“Ilya Rozanov most annoying moments on ice,” Shane added, finally opening his eyes to look at Ilya. Their noses were still touching, but Ilya could still see the beautiful smile scrunching Shane’s freckles.
“Is same video, Hollander, you should know that. I thought you’re my biggest fan.”
“You are your biggest fan,” Shane said, and Ilya couldn’t help it, breaching the last small distance separating them to kiss him dirty, tongue and spit and biting lips. Shane pulled him even closer, their chests pressed against one another, fingers tangling in Ilya’s curls. Then he hummed, and Ilya replied in a similar manner, questioningly. “Maybe you’re right.”
“I am?” Ilya didn’t expect this one.
“Yeah, I’m a pretty big fan of you,” Shane said, but before he could react other than just physically and his dick getting even harder than it already was, Shane continued. “Do you still want to go to the Cottage early? Because you mentioned you wanted to go, I had it ready just in case. We could leave in the morning and be there for lunch. Or maybe, we could go somewhere else. Australia is quite big and probably doesn’t care about NHL players. We would have to travel separately, but–”
“Hey, hey, Shane, slow down.”
Ilya rolled over to turn the side lamp on before he sat up, guiding Shane on his back so he could get a better look at him. His face was blank.
The relief Ilya had felt earlier when he had managed to make Shane smile was short-lived, brought back to the reality that his boyfriend’s mind was never distracted.
“If you want to go to Cottage, we can. But you said you wanted to wait and see… and didn’t you have plans with Pike–”
“He hasn’t replied to me,” Shane shrugged flippantly in a way that was unbeknownst to him. “And we’re technically not allowed to talk to each other while the investigation was going on, and that didn’t get resolved with the Metros’ statement.”
Every fucking day, Ilya thought his heart couldn’t break furthermore for the situation Shane found himself in. It wasn't pity, not at all, but a strong sense of unfairness and injustice that ate at him.
And fucking Pike–
“I think it’s better, I wouldn’t even know what to say to him anyway. I don’t even know if I want to say anything. To him or anyone. Being around people that aren’t you, it’s quite… unpleasant, at the moment. And Montreal is not going to let me go easily, they might even grill my chances to get a team for next year.”
Ilya didn’t even disagree with him. But… it didn’t sound like Shane. Something was off in the way he said things.
“Is this… really what you want?”
Shane shrugged.
“You’re the one that mentioned going to the Cottage earlier this year.”
“Because I thought is something you might want but wouldn’t allow yourself to do.” Shane looked taken aback by Ilya’s words, blinking repeatedly in quick succession. “But what do you actually want, Lyubimiy?”
This time, Ilya watched frustration appear on Shane’s face, as if Ilya shouldn’t have asked a question he wouldn’t like the answer of.
“Play hockey. Not be gay,” Shane replied, the frown back between his brows, like he disapproved of his own words, while Ilya was shot straight in the chest. “Or like that it wouldn’t matter. Be out with you without putting you in danger. Not have to go to Australia. Maybe Europe. Play hockey,” he repeated. “With you or against you. It doesn’t matter, as long as I can go home to you every night. Make people forget I came out. Say no to my mom when she said we should fight Montreal. Not care about what might happen to other gay athletes, not feel guilty about not wanting to represent gay hockey players.” He was silent for a moment there, Ilya getting ready to say something, anything to comfort him, when Shane spoke again. “Not feel sick all the time, like my stomach is being shredded to bits inside of me, everything in my head hurting for real everywhere. Not feel out of breath, for once. Yes, breathing normally would be nice, might be first on the list actually. Sorry. Being with you safely is close second, though. Then the not hurting inside. But hockey too. I guess I’ve been playing hockey even when it hurts. But hockey doesn’t stop it anymore anyway, like it used to. So maybe stop the pain before hockey. So hockey in fourth. If you want it in order.”
Ilya had watched a multitude of emotions cross over Shane’s face, only to settle on nothing. Shane’s expression was back to blank, the same as when he listed the grocery list. His eyes, turned towards Ilya, unseeing.
Ilya had to admit, it was the first time that he was really scared.
“Okay,” he said, trying to control the shake in his voice. “Okay,” he repeated. “Well, some of this can be done.”
“Hm?”
Shane still didn’t see him.
“We could get married. Now, I mean, and not wait. Then, I could ask for Canadian citizenship and we could both come out. That’s an easy fix,” Ilya said, rubbing his nose, unable to look at Shane when he spoke.
“No.”
Ilya had not been expecting that.
“No?” he tried not to sound too offended.
“No. We’re not getting married like that. We have a plan. I have a plan.” Shane’s eyes had lost their edge and he was now frowning disapprovingly. “We’re not getting married in the middle of this mess. This– us, this is good. This is the only good thing I have, I am not tainting it with what’s going on. And a marriage is two people. We’re not getting married just because my life has gone to shit. That is if you even still want to get married to me.”
“Hollander, that is the only thing I have ever wanted. If you had said let’s get married in hospital with concussion, we would be celebrating our two-year anniversary right now.”
Shane’s laugh surprised the both of them, especially Shane, because before he was done with it, he brought a hand to cover his eyes, and a sob wrenched out of him.
Ilya leaned over, covering his boyfriend with his body, notching his face against his throat as Shane shook with tears. Ilya held and pressed onto him, waiting patiently. The absolute silence in the room, apart from the muffled ragged breaths that escaped Shane sometimes broke Ilya’s heart more than the situation already did, but he preferred Shane crying than the other alternatives, which was either the shutdown or panic attack. Ilya couldn’t settle on which one was worse.
Probably the shutdown, with the uncertainty Shane would ever come out of it. But he knew the panic attack scared Shane more, so… yes. Still undecided.
For a while, they stayed like that, pressed against one another as Ilya held onto Shane. The tears didn’t subside as much as Shane grew tired. Ilya was still propped on his arm and leaning over him. Even with his eyes closed, Shane was still heaving, not really asleep yet but not far from it. Ilya needed him to sleep more than he needed him to talk for now.
They couldn’t fix things right away, and the stupid statement probably had set them back and delayed Shane’s ability to move on, but his boyfriend was also exhausted beyond comprehension and starved to death.
But that was a problem for tomorrow, because Ilya knew if he offered food to Shane now, it would be the last straw.
So he let him cry himself to sleep, the back of his hand caressing his cheek that Shane nuzzled into unconsciously, his breathing slowing down progressively, with soft heaving gasps in between.
This man was going to be the death of him.
~~~
The second time Ilya woke up, the light coming from behind the blinds was a lot brighter, and his phone told him it was almost nine o’clock in the morning.
That wasn't the only surprise, as he noticed Shane was still fast asleep in his arms, his nose pressed against his throat and one of his hands resting in the middle of Ilya’s chest.
Contrary to popular’s belief, Ilya was the early riser while Shane could sleep late in the morning. Not that it ever happened, his boyfriend very serious about his routine, never allowing himself a moment of leisure, especially during the season: alarm set at 4:45am on practice days and 5:45am on game days. On off-days, he would stay in bed until 6am, never deviating from any of it.
But if the alarm wasn't set up, nothing would stop Shane from sleeping until late, no matter what time he had gone to bed the previous night.
Ilya’s body worked like clockwork and would naturally wake up between 5:30 and 6am every day that God made, even during the off-season. He didn’t complain about it, even before he could take advantage of it by watching the sun rise over the lake or count each freckle on Shane’s face.
When they weren't a thing yet, Ilya couldn’t stay in bed by himself for too long before his mind started whispering scary thoughts to him, which would make him get up immediately and go workout as soon as possible.
His mind still whispered scary things to him, but now he had someone who would get up at the same time as him, a bit grumpier, definitely not a morning person, and Ilya didn’t have time to linger on those thoughts when he could annoy his boyfriend and poke at his bad morning mood. Shane was very easily riled up and aggravated, which made the morning sex that usually followed even better.
Nine o’clock was an indulgence for the both of them, but Ilya wasn't that surprised after the day and night they had. He was more surprised no one tried to wake them up yet.
Last night, he really had expected Yuna to come get Shane for something, anything, dreading when it would happen, which was then confirmed when there had been a knock at the bedroom door.
Shane had moved at the same time as him, but instead of answering like Ilya had expected, he went to the bathroom.
Ilya had briefly hesitated following him, but if they needed something from Shane now, he’d rather redirect than let them bang at the door indefinitely.
To Ilya’s surprise, David had been the one standing on the other side.
“I was just wondering if Shane would maybe like something to eat. He barely touched anything at lunch, and I… I have one of his smoothies, if he’d like that,” David had presented the shaker with the off-white liquid in it.
And that was a fantastic idea, Ilya thought, but also, unconceivable right now. Shane had looked… bad when they had briefly talked before going to bed, and Ilya knew if he offered Shane food right now, it might cause more harm than good.
“I don’t know if he’ll want it now, but I’ll take it and offer when it’s the right time,” Ilya had said, and David nodded with a small sad smile on.
“Thank you, Ilya. Is he…?” David had glanced briefly inside the room.
“He went to bathroom when you knocked. I want to check on him, if is okay.”
“Yes, no, right, you are absolutely right. I’m glad– I’m glad he has you. If you boys need anything, let us know, okay?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“No, thank you,” David had said with the same smile, before he turned around and left.
Finding Shane in the shower afterward had been kind of scary, but when he had opened the glass door, Shane had only been stimming and not actively dying. His breathing had been heavy and measured, but he was calming himself on his own, and Ilya didn’t want to ruin the process.
He had closed the door back behind him, not without first testing the temperature to make sure that Shane didn’t scald himself, but let him come back on his own time.
Sitting down on the bathroom floor then, and watching Shane sleep now, Ilya didn’t think it was fine. Nothing was fine and what the Metros did made it ten times worse. Their cruelty was beyond words, and Ilya vowed for eternal pay back and revenge. Beating them at hockey and never allowing them to come near the playoffs in his lifetime wasn't enough.
But it would be fine. While he’d patiently watch Shane like a hawk as the love of his life rebuilt himself, Ilya would come up with cosmic punishment for the Montreal team. And maybe for the city too, just because, to deter anyone to even consider supporting them ever again.
Shane stirred awake in his arms, tilting his head to nuzzle against Ilya’s cheek, pressing a mindless kiss along his jaw.
Ilya’s chest hurt at the love he had for this man, before muscling up for the next thing he needed to do, which would probably send the entire status quo into the trash.
“Hi,” Shane sighed, his breath tickling at Ilya’s throat. He even offered a small smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes still bruised by all the previous sleepless nights.
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya replied, his lips against Shane’s forehead, who burrowed closer into his body, soft and pliable as Ilya tangled a hand into his hair, so they could look at each other. “I love you,” he repeated in English this time, “and I want you to remember that.”
Shane frowned.
“What?”
Ilya let his eyes close as his fingers scratch his boyfriend’s scalp.
“You need to eat something, sweetheart.”
And as expected, Shane tensed in his arms. Ilya remained still, loose-limbed, breathing deeply, still not looking, waiting for a fight they had more often than not. But Shane used food as a punishment more often than not too.
But to his surprise, Shane relaxed and let out a deep, long exhale.
“Yeah, okay.”
Ilya didn’t rush.
“Okay,” he replied with a small nod.
“Okay,” Shane sighed again, in defeat.
Ilya dislodged from under his boyfriend, pushing said boyfriend on his back to pepper kisses all over his face, down his throat, reaching the collarbone and shoulders.
Shane let out a breathy chuckle, but before he could try to convince him (very easily) to stay in bed, Ilya was climbing out, fingers loosely around Shane’s wrist to pull him after him.
With no resistance, Ilya considered putting on clothes, but he couldn’t be bothered and didn’t want to break the stride they were in, so he made his way to the door without looking back, just able to hear Shane coming out of bed after him.
“Ilya, you don’t even have pants on!” Shane called as the door was open, and Ilya simply waved him off, and once again, Shane was easily rage-baited after waking up. “What if Farah is still here,” Shane hissed as he was rushing after Ilya.
“We are both supermodels, Radost’ moya. Hugo Boss paid a lot to have me in jockstrap on Times Square.”
Shane grumbled behind him, and Ilya wanted to glance back, but he trusted. He had to.
The kitchen was clean and empty when they made their way in it. There was no trace of the crisis centre held right there the previous night.
“Your dad made salmon and rice bowls for dinner last night. He also made a smoothie but I don’t know if is still good. I can cook egg whites, or oatmeal with ice cubes. It worked well last time, no?” Ilya listed as casually as possible while leaning inside the fridge. At the last question, he couldn’t help but look back, just to make sure Shane was still there.
It felt wrong, like maybe he shouldn’t or something terrible would happen.
But Shane was standing there disapprovingly, not much more dressed than Ilya was, holding a pile of their clothes in his arms, hair spiking in all direction and looking like he was breakfast himself. Ilya wanted to devour him.
“I’ll tell you if you put some clothes on,” Shane frowned.
“Urgh, Hollander, don’t pretend you don’t want to have me around naked all the time,” Ilya grunted over dramatically, but he was already reaching for the clothes Shane handed to him.
“Yes, when there might not be someone else in the place with us. Especially if it might be my parents,” Shane mumbled as he hopped on one leg to put some joggers on himself. Ilya held him by the elbow to stabilize him after he had slid his adidas sweatpants on.
“It wouldn’t be most compromising thing they’ve seen of us,” he grinned. Shane scowled.
“See if I do the laundry naked ever again.”
“No, Hollander! I want to fuck you on washing machine again,” Ilya said as he pulled Shane closer, hands on his ass and squeezing.
At least that made Shane chuckle as he batted at Ilya’s hands. Ilya spun them around, trapping Shane between his body and the island, a hand moving to his lower back so it didn’t dig into Shane painfully. His boyfriend had a bruise there once because of it, and Ilya wasn't going to let it happen ever again.
Shane draped his arms over his shoulders, the two of them meeting halfway for a languid kiss.
Ilya knew he wasn't supposed to get distracted; he was a man on a mission here. But Shane was so soft, so tender in his arms, and when the kiss broke, his breathing was shaky, but not in an anxious way.
“I love you,” Shane said, meeting his eyes, their noses touching. “So much.”
“I know,” Ilya pressed a kiss at the corner of his mouth, tightening his hold around him. “I love you too, sweetheart. More than anything.”
“More than anything,” Shane confirmed, returning the kiss for a brief moment, before he leaned back and sighed. “Okay. Alright.”
“Okay?” Ilya repeated, a bit unsure.
“Yeah, okay. What are you having for breakfast, then?” Shane asked while unable to hold Ilya’s gaze. Ilya only wanted to make it easier on him, so he averted his eyes away from Shane.
“Hm, I want something to bite into,” he said casually, nibbling at Shane’s throat, right under his ear. That made Shane raised his shoulder and chuckled softly. “So maybe toast, maybe pancake. Depends on what you want, if you want me to cook you something.”
Shane still wasn't looking at him, but he seemed to consider Ilya’s words carefully.
“I kind of want the salmon,” he admitted, and Ilya hoped his heart kept quiet in his chest and Shane didn’t feel the jump, pressed against him. “But maybe it’s better to keep it for lunch or dinner, don’t you think?”
Ilya shrugged.
“Breakfast is most important meal, no? Fish is good to start the day.” Shane hummed, still thinking and Ilya was getting worried he was going to get lost in there. “Whatever you want, moy lyubov. If you want salmon now, have salmon now. If you want breakfast food later, we have breakfast food later, anything is fine.”
“Would you…” Shane started but then made a face like the thing his mind came up with was a bad idea.
“Yes, anything,” Ilya repeated, starting to sound desperate.
“Are there ingredients for a tuna melt?”
Somewhere along the way, Ilya must have died and ascended.
“I will check,” he rushed, letting go of Shane, praying to whomever God was listening, he wasn't picky, that there were indeed the ingredients for tuna melts in the fridge and cupboards. “Is that mayonnaise?” he said as he started to pile up everything he needed on the counter. It looked like mayonnaise from tube, but the writing on it wasn't English or any language Ilya knew, so not in Cyrillic either.
“Yeah, it’s Kewpie mayo,” Shane said with a soft smile as he watched him.
“Is good for tuna melt?”
“It’s– yeah, it’s good for tuna melt.”
Ilya tried to hide his relieved sigh.
“I’ve got everything. You still want?” he offered casually, and Shane’s smile widened.
“I still want.”
The tuna melt was probably his best one so far.
“This mayonnaise is good,” he said as he skimmed over what he assumed was the list of ingredients. When he looked over the bottle, Shane was still looking at him, something so tender and fond in his eyes, as he slowly chewed his food.
“It’s my dad’s favourite. My mom and I don’t really eat mayonnaise, but he gets it everytime he sees it. He probably got this one from the Asian market five blocks down. They have the best daikon radishes, the only ones my mom likes.”
“You like?” Ilya enquired.
“The tuna melt?”
“The radish, dye-con radish.”
Shane smiled.
“I’m fine with it. It’s nice pickled.”
“Oh?” Ilya perked up at that.
Shane chuckled, before taking another small bite of the tuna melt.
“We could try pickling stuff,” he offered. “I know you like pickles.”
“You like pickles too.”
“I do.”
“So we could pickle stuff. Together,” Ilya said, almost holding his breath. He probably wasn't discreet enough because Shane arched an eyebrow at him.
“Did you ever picture yourself pickling foods with me, when we were fucking every few months?”
Ilya recognized a bait if he saw one.
“Not while I was putting my cock in your ass–” Ilya said crassly, making Shane grunt and shove him lightly, “but I did imagine doing stuff like that with you. Domestic things.”
“Domestic,” Shane repeated, eyes glazed over with the brightest smile Ilya had the pleasure to witness lately. He needed to bite him.
“I knew I wanted to cook for you, even before I invited you to stay,” he continued. “I imagined making you my favourite food from when I was growing up, mostly because I wanted a reason to remember it and you were the only person I wanted to share it with.”
“Ilya, I’m sorry–”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I like what we do now. It wasn't fair, anyway, to expect you to like everything. And you like what matters, draniki, blinis, pirozhki,” Ilya was smirking. “I like making them for you and you floating around me to ask what I put in everything.”
“I’m just checking–”
“I know, moy lyubov. Is very hot, I like it,” Ilya said, taking one of Shane’s hands in his so he could bring it to his mouth and kiss it.
“I’m annoying,” Shane stated, looking at Ilya.
“You’re perfect.”
Shane took another bite.
“What if one day you found those annoying parts of me less endearing?” he asked casually, like they were talking about the weather.
“You call them annoying, but I don’t. If you ever stopped, what would be left for me to love? You take the best part away.”
“Me nagging you is the best part of me?”
“I don’t know what is nagging, but if it is what you do then I love it. Because when you do nagging, you notice things and you remember. First time I tried to do borscht like my mother’s, I just put a little pit of this, a little bit of that. I didn’t measure, I was throwing stuff in, and you were nagging me to be precise and watch I was doing. I didn’t listen because I loved how angry looking little kitten you looked. And I was in your face when it turned out so good and almost perfect. But when I tried to recreate it, I had no idea what I’d put in there, and it made me feel like shit, because I had been lazy and careless, and maybe I would never get as close to her ever again.
“But then you saw, you noticed, and even if you didn’t like borscht when you tried it, you remembered. You went to the store and got the ingredients we were missing. You remembered what I threw in there, the quantities, the spices. And it was the same. Not the same as my first try, but the same as my mother’s, like what it had been missing was you. And then you wrote the recipe down with very important instructions so I would never forget ever again. Or even if I did, you would remember for me.”
They were still holding hands, and Shane’s lash line was wet with unshed tears, but he also had a soft, shaky smile while looking at Ilya.
Ilya himself felt overcome with something so big, beyond words.
He had been in love with Shane Hollander since the first time he had shaken his hand, maybe. But everyday that passed, this love kept growing, and everyday Ilya was pretty sure it was it, it couldn’t get any bigger than that.
Everytime, it did.
“I still wish I was easier to be around,” Shane said in a whisper, like he didn’t trust himself any louder.
“I want things easier for you because it is really easy for me to be around you. I don’t want to be anywhere else and I don’t want you any different.”