Chapter Text
By the time Ilya comes out of the shower, he knows he's already in for it.
The television is on, a gentle British voice is now explaining the emotional journey of a artisan sourdough bread with unnecessary conviction. The blue glow from the screen spills across the living room, catching on the coffee table, the discarded hoodie on the floor, the half-empty mug of tea that has definitely gone cold.
And Shane is absolutely gone.
He’s not curled neatly on the couch like usual. He’s completely sprawled. One leg is flung over the armrest at a questionable angle, the other dangling off the edge, sock slipping halfway off his heel. His head is tipped back against the cushion, mouth open, a thin line of drool glinting traitorously at the corner of his lips.
And he snores. BADLY. The kind of snore that suggests he fell asleep mid-thought and his body never fully powered down. It rattles slightly in his chest, uneven, followed by a sharp inhale like he’s catching up on air.
Anya is awake sitting upright at Shane’s feet, ears back, eyes locked on Ilya with deep, long-suffering judgment. Her tail thumps once against the couch cushion, annoyed.
Ilya freezes in the doorway. There's another snore, even louder this time, and Anya exhales sharply through her nose and flicks her gaze back to Shane like, I live with this.
Ilya clamps a hand over his mouth. His shoulders shake as he tries not to laugh out loud. His chest aches with it, with the ridiculousness and the affection and the way this man, his husband, can be both the most disciplined athlete he’s ever known and… this. A sprawled, drooling mess who snores like he’s sawing logs in the middle of a baking show.
The TV drones on, “…and you’ll know the dough is ready when it springs back under your fingers,” the judge says soothingly.
Shane frowns in his sleep, brows knitting together like he’s offended on the dough’s behalf.
“No,” he mutters, voice thick and slurred. “You gotta… let it rest. Can’t rush it. That’s how you...” He exhales hard, the sentence collapsing. “...ruin everything.”
His head lolls to the side, and snoring continues.
Ilya bites his knuckle and shakes, breathing heavily to calm himself and not snort with laughter..
Anya lifts one paw and presses it gently into Shane’s thigh, like she’s trying to shut him up manually. She looks back at Ilya again, eyes wide and plaintive, as if to say, Please. You fix this. I’m tired.
This has been happening more often.
Not just the falling asleep on the couch. It's the way he’s been sleeping; like his body collapses before his mind can follow. Shane’s always been a neat sleeper, controlled even at rest. Lately, he looks like he’s been dropped where he stands.
Ilya crosses the room quietly and turns the volume down. Shane doesn’t wake as Ilya brushes a stray hair away from his forehead. Shane just snores again, louder for a second before settling into something marginally quieter.
Ilya crouches and slides an arm under Shane’s shoulders, another behind his knees. The second he lifts him, Shane startles slightly, hands grabbing blindly at Ilya’s shirt.
“Sorry,” Shane mumbles, half-asleep, forehead immediately tucking against Ilya’s chest. “Didn’t mean to… miss it.”
“Miss what?” Ilya murmurs, smirking slightly.
Shane exhales, his eyes remaining closed. “The judges. They were gonna say who...”
His head falls onto Ilya's shoulder, completely gone again.
Anya hops down from the couch with a huff, squeaking as she stretches a big stretch, and follows them down the hallway, nails clicking indignantly. When Ilya tucks Shane into bed, she jumps up beside him, circles twice, and flops down hard, placing her head directly against Shane’s shin with a loud exhale.
Shane snores once more, softer now, and Ilya smooths his hair back, thumb brushing the crease between his brows until it eases.
This is the version of Shane no one else sees. Not the league. Not the fans. Not even most of the team. Just this tired, stressed, overly earnest man who copes by watching people bake until his body gives out.
Ilya turns off the light and stands there in the quiet, listening to the uneven rhythm of Shane’s breathing and Anya’s faint huffing sighs.
Not at all tired, he walks out to the kitchen, letting Anya stand guard as Shane sleeps the stress away.
Ilya stands in the kitchen longer than necessary.
The house has settled into its late-night quiet, the kind that makes every small sound feel louder. The refrigerator hums as the baking show murmurs faintly from the living room. Somewhere down the hall, Shane snores again, loud and uneven, followed immediately by Anya’s long-suffering sigh.
Ilya looks down at his phone.
He does not want to text him.
This is not about pride. No. Not at all...really. It’s about the fact that messaging him is never just that. It’s opening a door. It’s inviting commentary. Opinions. Accusations. It’s inviting someone who loves Shane just as fiercely and will absolutely decide whose fault this is within thirty seconds. Not to mention that he hates the man.
Ilya would do almost anything for Shane. He has woken up at ungodly hours to make very specific breakfasts. He has reorganized entire closets to accommodate sensory preferences. He has held Shane through panic, through grief, through nights that felt endless. He has, on one memorable occasion, licked the bottom of Shane’s foot because Shane dared him and laughed so hard he nearly cried afterward.
Do not ask.
But texting him is different.
Ilya glances toward the hallway again, toward the bedroom where Shane lies sprawled and boneless, exhausted in a way that doesn’t come from a hard workout or a bad game. The image of him earlier on the couch flashes unbidden. His perfectionist, kind, loving, hardworking husband; a mess. A stressed, overtired, quietly unraveling mess.
Ilya exhales slowly through his nose.
Something needs to be done.
He sits at the table, phone warm in his hand, and types before he can talk himself out of it.
Ilya: Shane is stressed.
The reply is instant.
Slow Ass Hayden: Rozanov. It’s 11:30 at night.
Slow Ass Hayden: If this is a joke, I swear to fucking god.
Ilya blinks at the screen.
Ilya: Is not a joke.
Three dots appear. Sit there. Disappear. Come back with purpose.
Slow Ass Hayden: Jackie and I were literally about to get it on.
Slow Ass Hayden: So whatever this is, it better be important.
Ilya doesn’t even hesitate.
Ilya: I know you weren’t.
Ilya: You’ve been high and dry since road trip season started. Don’t lie to me.
There’s a solid ten seconds of silence, then:
Slow Ass Hayden: First of all, fuck you.
Ilya can't help himself.
Ilya: No thanks, I'll stick with Shane.
Slow Ass Hayden: Ew. Second of all, why do you think I'm not getting some? I have 4 kids!
Ilya allows himself a small, grim smile.
Ilya: Because you text like a man with time.
Ilya: And by the way, Shane is not okay.
The tone shifts immediately.
Slow Ass Hayden: …Okay. What’s going on with him?
Ilya looks down the hallway again, toward the bedroom. Toward the soft, uneven snoring. Toward the problem he can’t muscle through alone. He takes a deep breath and exhales, sending the next message.
Ilya: He’s stressed.
Slow Ass Hayden: You said that already dipshit, what did you do?
Ilya: He’s been watching stupid cooking shows until he passes out. Every night.
The typing bubble pops up instantly this time.
Slow Ass Hayden: How many?
Ilya exhales.
Ilya: I don't know. He watched some metal chef challenge show...
Slow Ass Hayden: Iron chef?
Ilya: Da that one. And some baking show with weird accent?
Slow Ass Hayden: Great British Bake Off?
Ilya could feel the judgement on the other end, but continued nonetheless.
Ilya: He’s on MasterChef Junior now.
Another pause.
Slow Ass Hayden: Oh god.
Slow Ass Hayden: Okay, yeah. That’s bad.
Ilya waits. Seeing the three dots appear and disappear for a solid two minutes. When he is about to shut his phone off, Hayden responds.
Slow Ass Hayden: We need to fix this. Meet me for a drink tomorrow.
Ilya doesn’t argue...for once.
Ilya: Okay.
A final message comes in, softer but still unmistakably Hayden.
Slow Ass Hayden: You did the right thing, by the way.
Slow Ass Hayden: Even if I’m still blaming you a little.
Ilya snorts quietly and locks his phone.
Tomorrow, then.