Chapter Text
Shane wakes up before the alarm.
He always does.
The room is dark, quiet except for the low hum of the city outside and the even rhythm of Ilya’s breathing beside him. Shane lies still, staring at the ceiling, cataloging sensations the way he always does when consciousness settles in: sheets twisted too tightly around his legs, the faint itch at the back of his neck where the tag on the pillowcase rubs, the unfamiliar smell of a different laundry detergent from the hotel.
Away games are the worst for sleep. New beds, new noises, routines nudged just far enough out of alignment to make his brain start sprinting before his body’s ready to follow.
He exhales slowly through his nose, counting. Four in. Six out. Again.
Beside him, Ilya shifts, one arm slinging across Shane’s waist in a loose, possessive. His hand settles warm and heavy against Shane’s stomach, fingers flexing once like they’re checking he’s still there. Still real.
Shane freezes automatically, the old instinct flaring — don’t move, don’t disrupt, don’t make it weird — before he catches himself. Ilya’s not asleep enough for that kind of carefulness to matter. If Shane moves, Ilya will just adjust around him, like he always does.
It still surprises Shane, sometimes, how easily Ilya adapts. How easily he adapts for him.
“Mm,” Ilya murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “Why awake?”
Shane swallows. He hadn’t realized he’d been breathing louder.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he says quietly. Honest, minimal. Safe.
Ilya hums again, not quite a word. His thumb rubs a slow, absent circle into Shane’s side, around his waist. The repetitive motion sends a small ripple of relief through Shane’s chest, like something unclenching.
“You have thinking face,” Ilya says. “Even in dark.”
Shane huffs out a soft breath. “You can’t see my face.”
“I can feel it,” Ilya says, and presses his nose briefly against Shane’s shoulder, inhaling. “Brain is loud?”
Shane hesitates.
This is the part that still trips him up — the answering. The explaining. He’s spent most of his life learning how to compress his inner experience into something palatable, something that won’t invite questions he doesn’t know how to answer.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “Just… a lot of noise.”
Ilya’s hand stills for half a second, then resumes its slow circle, more deliberate now. “Ok,” he says, like Shane has just given him a perfectly complete answer.
No follow-up. No fixing.
Shane lets his eyes close.
By the time the team bus pulls up to the rink later that morning, Shane’s anxiety has settled into its usual shape — a tight, humming awareness under his skin. Not panic. Not exactly. More like standing too close to a speaker with feedback whining just below the range everyone else seems to notice.
He moves through the familiar steps on autopilot. The locker room is loud, chaotic, voices overlapping in unpredictable ways that make his shoulders creep upward if he’s not careful.
Ilya sits two lockers down from him, legs sprawled, talking animatedly to another team mate about something that sounds very exciting. He’s grinning, hands flying, charisma filling the space like oxygen.
And still, somehow, he notices.
Shane feels it before he hears it — a shift in the air, the sudden reduction of pressure as Ilya angles his body just enough to block part of the visual chaos from Shane’s peripheral vision. When Shane looks up, Ilya’s gaze flicks to him, quick and subtle.
You okay?
Shane gives the smallest nod. Ilya’s mouth quirks in response, satisfaction softening his expression, and then he turns back to the conversation without making a big deal out of it.
It’s stupid how much that helps.
Shane has always been high-functioning. Coaches love that phrase. Media loves it. It’s a compliment that means you’re not inconvenient. It means he learned early how to organize his world so it wouldn’t spill out and bother anyone else.
Lists. Routines. Hyperfocus sharpened into a weapon.
But there are days — especially days like this, when travel disrupts his systems — when it all takes more effort than he has spare.
During warm-ups, his stick feels wrong in his hands. Not heavier, not lighter — just off. The ice is louder than usual, blades scraping in irregular rhythms that refuse to settle into anything predictable.
His breathing goes shallow.
Shane knows the signs. He always does. The creeping sense of overload, the way his thoughts start stacking instead of flowing. He adjusts his gloves. Tugs them tighter. Looser. Tight again.
“Hey.”
Ilya skates up beside him, casual, like this is nothing. “You are thinking too hard,” he says lightly. “Your face does thing.”
Shane clenches his jaw. “I’m fine.”
Ilya raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Yes. Obviously. That is why you look like you want to fight the ice.”
Despite himself, Shane snorts. The tension eases a notch.
“Come,” Ilya says, already pushing off. “One lap. With me.”
Shane hesitates. Routine disruption sparks anxiety, but so does standing still. He exhales sharply and follows.
They skate in silence, matching pace. Ilya keeps his movements smooth and predictable, no sudden stops, no unnecessary flair. Shane focuses on the rhythm of it — push, glide, breathe. The noise of the rink fades into something manageable, a backdrop instead of an assault.
By the time they circle back, Shane’s chest doesn’t feel so tight.
“Better?” Ilya asks.
“Yeah,” Shane admits.
Ilya smiles, pleased, like he’s solved a puzzle. He taps Shane’s helmet gently with his stick. “Good. You are too important to be eaten by ice.”
That night, back in the hotel room, Shane sits cross-legged on the bed with his laptop open, spreadsheets pulled up. He’s tracking practice notes, nutrition intake, sleep hours — the familiar comfort of data.
Ilya sprawls on the other bed, scrolling through his phone, occasionally snorting with laughter at something Shane can’t see.
“You are working again,” Ilya says after a while.
Shane doesn’t look up. “Just organizing.”
“You have been organizing for forty-seven minutes.”
Shane blinks. Checks the time. Frowns. “Huh.”
Sneaks up on him like that — a tunnel narrowing until the outside world blurs. It’s one of his strengths, but it comes with a cost. He rubs his eyes, which are starting to ache.
Ilya sits up, attention sharpening. “You forget to eat.”
“I ate earlier.”
“You ate half a protein bar and three almonds,” Ilya says. “I watched you.”
Shane grimaces. “Stalker.”
“Mm,” Ilya says. He crosses the room, kneels in front of Shane, and gently but firmly closes the laptop. “You are allowed to stop.”
Shane’s chest tightens — not with anxiety this time, but with something more complicated. “I need to finish—”
“You need to breathe,” Ilya says, soft but unyielding. “And then you can decide.”
He waits. Doesn’t touch the laptop again. Just looks at Shane, steady and present.
Shane exhales. Then again. The compulsion to reopen the screen fades enough for him to think clearly.
“Okay,” he says quietly.
Ilya smiles, satisfied. “Good choice.”
He hands Shane a granola bar from the bedside table — already unwrapped. Shane takes it without comment, the simple act of eating grounding him further.
“You know,” Shane says after a moment, “you don’t have to… manage me.”
Ilya tilts his head. “I am not managing. I am supporting.” He makes Shane rest his head on his thighs.
There’s a difference. A big one. Shane realizes while settling in with his bar.
He nods slowly. “Thanks.”
Ilya leans in and presses a brief kiss in Shane's unoccupied hand and caresses his hair as if there were no other place he would rather be. “Always.”
Shane lets himself relax into it, the noise in his head finally dimming to something he can live with.
For tonight, at least, that’s enough.