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– Mais calisse Ilya, tu ne- fuck ! They think to know how I- fuck !
Shane isn’t a violent man. He does not drop the gloves often. He marinates, like his mother used to say. Violence is in his head, he pictures himself slapping, punching, biting. He pictures himself doing all that on the people who make him mad. It’s not really cathartic but it works.
Sometimes.
Not this time.
Same thing : Shane does not fumble with languages. He knows his English, his French and now his Russian. Three different languages. Then, why does his anger cut his English off ? why does he have to cry en français ?
– Je suis fatigué, he whispers against Ilya’s shoulder. Je suis fatigué de cette équipe de merde, je suis fatigué de tout cacher, je suis fatigué, fatigué, fuckin' tired Ilya.
And all this worries Ilya. French’s hot in his lover's mouth but he prefers it without the big eyes full of tears. Ilya feels helpless, maybe because him too is that fucking tired. He says nothing, he just kisses his lover's dark hair. His hands stroke Shane’s back.
– Ils me reprochent tout, Shane keeps up, ils disent que je joue mal, que je pense mal, que je suis mal ! Ils le disent sur la glace, maintenant, ils n’attendent plus que les portes du vestiaire se ferment.
The last words just die in his throat when a painful sob cuts his voice. Ilya holds him closer. He does not understand any of those sentences but the angryness, the sadness and everything which hurt his boyfriend wreck him. He thought moving to Canada resolved his own struggle with his head, resolving Shane’s loneliness. They still are a team apart. Ilya cannot protect Hollander in the Voyageurs’ restroom.
– You’re supposed to call me when… when you’re overwhelmed.
The word is weak. Shane does not answer to Ilya’s whisper but he bangs his head on Rozanov’s shoulder, once then twice then is stopped by the Russian’s hands. Ilya cups his cheeks, trys to whip his tears with his thumbs. His own eyes are wet.
– I drove, Shane shrugs.
He drove two hours because he needed to feel Ilya’s body close to his. Smells his parfum. Holds him, being held by him.
Suddenly, the thought of quitting hockey hits him.
Hits him pretty hard, actually.
Shane never has thoughts like this. Hockey is his life. If he quits, what is he supposed to do ? He zooms out, out of his body and his mind. He’s not in Ottawa anymore.
He’s nothing without hockey. He can’t imagine himself teaching peewees nor mites ! He’s a failure, a freak like his teammates said. A fucking freak. A sad fucking freak. Pitiful.
Ilya kisses him, twice before he can reach his body again. Shane’s crying, like ugly cries, full face of snots and tears. He’s gross. He feels gross. But Ilya cradles his face, his thumbs circle his cheeks. Big brown eyes full of worries. Ilya was speaking, certainly about the car ride and his mindstate. Shane’s hears ring.
– Speak to me, please, English, French, Russian, I do not care, please, Shane !
He feels bad, Shane. He sniffs then hides his face in the crook of Ilya’s neck.
– Je sais pas… I’m- I’m tired, Ilya. So, so, so tired !
One of those nights, when Ilya’s depression is too much, he explains that he feels like a torn ragdoll. Shane’s supposed to only be anxious and autistic, not anxious, autistic and depressed !
– Maybe, Ilya tries to say, petting his hair, maybe you have to process that this team does not deserve you.
Shane’s head bolts out Ilya’s neck. The latter skims his husband's lips before he speaks.
– Hear me, Shane, please… Since you’re out, they are just garbage with you. You don’t deserve that. No one deserves that. My husband deserves better. I do not say that you have to quit hockey, but maybe a sick break or something.
– Leaving hockey seems easier, mutters Shane.
– Hey, hey, hush. No dark thoughts, hm? I’ll call Yuna, I’ll call Farah, I’ll even call Pike if I have to ! But my pretty husband won’t go back there. He’s not alone, yes ? Can you say that to him, yes ?
– Okay, he mutters again.
Shane lets Ilya put him on the couch then puts his weighted blanket on his laps. Ilya sits next to him, his hand in his hair, whispering soft Russian words to him. French is still quite stuck in his brain so he says nothing.
He’s just so tired.