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Boston celebrated the Raiders win with the typical obnoxious American jubilation that somehow warranted flipping cars and climbing lamposts. The riotous commotion echoed even eleven stories up.
As Ilya snored, Shane lay awake, trapped in a shame spiral, replaying every missed shot and sloppy bit of gameplay. Winning was always important, but more so against the Raiders. The psychotically competitive side of him hated losing, and would definitely take it out on the team at their next practice. But the smaller, hedonistic side of him didn’t mind as much because it always made Ilya more generous, doling out orgasms like hat tricks.
The game had moved at a breakneck speed and he’d taken a lot of contact, his knees and back aching. And even though he knew he should soak in an ice bath and curl up with his heating pad and definitely not stay the night, Shane was oddly comfortable half-trapped under his Russian weighted blanket. Unable to sleep, he thought he’d at least calm his thoughts with mindless scrolling. He stretched out a long arm, his fingers crawling over the nightstand. He managed to snag his phone by the edges of his nails, and reeled it in.
Before he could start doomscrolling, Ilya tensed between him, breath coming sharp and fast in his sleep.
His lips parted to omit a strangled noise. It wasn’t loud, but pregnant with anguish so rich, Shane’s stomach twisted.
Shane petted his curls, absently shushing him.
Ilya sank deeper into his nightmare. “Проснись, Проснись, пожалуйста…” he cried in broken Russian.
Worried, he dropped his phone, free hand rubbing Ilya’s cheek. “You’re okay,” Shane promised again. He’d hoped he could head it off.
Post-game adrenaline could manipulate dreams and fuck with your sleep, and Shane hoped he could coax him through horrific cavern of his subconscious he was stuck in.
“Я боюсь,” He gasped, voice quivering and child-like. His body snapped tight, face twisted in pain.
Before Shane could do anything else, Ilya’s physically fought against his nightmare. Shane could barely react as the league's (second??) best player reared up and attacked. It was only because Shane had pretty impressive reflexes was he able to avoid a dinner-plate sized hand swiping for his face and throat. He threw a forearm up, and Ilya cinched it in a vice-grip, squeezing so hard the bones ground together. “Fuck,” Shane panted.
Ilya loomed over him with a slackened face with patches of brilliant red splashed high on his cheeks. Silver glistened on his forehead and upper lip. He was still fucking asleep. Shane grunted as Ilya’s slapped on his chest as he absolutely sobbed, “Ты слишком холодна, мама!”
Shane batted his hand away, pushing against his chest to ward off another attack.
Terrified, he refrained from taking the offensive, not wanting to hurt or shock him. So he spoke instead, in a clear, firm voice, punctuated with breaks of fear. “You are safe, Ilya, it’s okay. I promise you’re okay.”
Engaging his core, Shane battled his way upright. It might haunt him later, the too sharp sounds of strained breaths, the dull thudding of Shane fending off Ilya, his own grunt when he did managed to get a hand around Shane’s throat, only for a few horrifying seconds.
Finally, he managed to break out of Ilya’s grip, and ensnared him in a bear hug, arms locked around his biceps, chin tucked over his now damp, straggly curls. He wished he could have comforted him in his mother tongue, but the only words he knew were the bad ones and thank you, so he used a lazy combination of French, English and soft, nonsensical sounds, hoping it was enough.
Iyla’s hands scrabbled and flopped useless against his sides. It felt like hours, but was probably a collection of minutes, before the fight dwindled and faded all together. His body slacked, damp cheek slumping against Shane’s shoulder. Shane cursed in relief and just held on. “You’re okay now. I’m so sorry,” he said.
Then he laid them down, gently cushioning Ilya’s head as he hit the pillow. His face eventually loosened in a more settled sleep.
Shane wrapped him up with as much of his body as he could – chest to chest, arms around middle, legs tangled, guarding him against whatever demons he kept hidden behind swagger, sex and a sharp tongue. Ilya's slackened face was streaked and smeared with the silver of tears, and as he held him as tightly as he could, Shane realized his was too.
**
The delectable aroma of sausage and coffee was enough to drag Ilya from a heavy, haunted sleep. He scrubbed the sand out of his eyes, finding his face gritty with dried sweat, and fully opened them to find the hotel room bathed in the hum of twilight and Shane pushing a room service cart next to the table tucked in the corner. Hollander stared at Ilya when he noticed he was awake, canting his head like a confused, befreckled puppy.
Feeling oddly confused and scrutinized, Ilya pulled the sheet up over his bare chest with one hand, taming his wild curls with the other. “Hi.”
“Hey.” Shane said as if he was waiting for something. “I figured you’d wake up when I left to meet the team bus, so I ordered room service. It’s not a Russian breakfast but it’s the closest I could get.” He gestured stiltedly to the table of sausages, scrambled eggs, oatmeal, and because it was Shane, some dreadful bran muffin studded with grains and nuts.
Ilya froze, grappling for a response. They didn’t do this – order breakfasts for each other or stay the night. Well, Ilya had tossed a protein bar at Shane once when his stomach wouldn’t stop growling. And Shane had scrounged up a banana and Gatorade when Ilya’s leg had seized up in a cramp, but that was only because they wanted to continue to have sex.
Shane ventured towards the bed and gently bent down to softly kiss Ilya on the mouth and then the forehead before heading to the bathroom. A feathery warmth glided through his chest, and that felt as wonderful as it did dangerous.
Ilya looked at the breakfast tray, the carafe of coffee, brightly colored bowl of fruit, the singular red rose in a bud vase at the center. And the giddy butterflies of affection transformed into zmei. This was supposed to be a simple hook-up whenever they were in town – a dozen stolen hours of spicy fun. For Ilya and Shane, who were obsessed with their careers, it could never be anything more.
Ilya pulled on his boxer briefs that had been tossed onto the padded bench at the foot of the bed, and stormed into the bathroom, ready to remind Shane why he was the NHL’s reigning asshole.
But Shane was standing shirtless at the sink. His marblesque back was a pristine plane of sinew and shoulder blades, but chest and neck were lined with crimson welts and the pointillism of broken blood vessels. He was braced over the sink, running the right forearm that bore a cartoonishly defined reddish-blue handprint under cool water.
His eyes flickering to Ilya’s in the mirror. “Do you fucking knock?” Shane hissed, snatching a towel to cover his arm.
Flashes of memory, of fighting, flickered through his mind. A devastating slideshow of past and present colliding. An endless trip down a half-lit hallway with walls bearing gilded trees and mythical underbrush on a plane of midnight blue. A hand aiming for an olive-skinned throat. The flare of rich, brown eyes.
His mouth went dry. He managed, “Who…what happened?” But he knew. He fucking knew.
“Nothing, it’s fine.” Shane was moving quickly now. He frantically blotted his arm and retrieved his shirt, diving in head first and fighting his way out of the cotton.
Was he scared of him now?
“Shane…” His heart was pounding, pumping iron and shame throughout his body.
“We’re hockey players. We get injured all the time. It-it happened at the game,” he muttered, stamping into his shoes and standing on one foot to tie them. Hollander and his damned yoga.
“You’re still terrible liar,” Ilya crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his stance so he was blocking the bathroom door. “I hurt you, didn’t I? When I was sleeping?”
Shane rubbed his forehead, frustrated. He surrendered with a sigh, eyes climbing as high as Ilya’s stubbled chin. “You were having a nightmare,” he confessed.
Ilya nodded, suddenly nauseous. He closed the space between them and picked up his arm by the wrist. The bruise was a spectacular, perfect, puffy imprint of his hand painted in Shane’s blood.
“It’s really okay.”
His throat ached and his lip trembled. “I hurt you,” he sniffled. “Shane, I’d never…”
“You were scared, Ilya. I’m not…we don’t talk about stuff, our lives, but I’ve always had the feeling yours is really fucking hard. And if you had a bad night…well, I’m glad I was there.”
“Are you upset with me?”
“No. Never, not over this,” Shane said instantly. “I’m sad that I couldn’t help you more.”
Ilya pressed gentle kisses on his arm. One on each contused finger. Tears welled in his eyes and two kinds of sadness swirled within, a whirlpool of shame and grief. “I…this hasn’t happened in a long time, my fighting dreams. I remember that night and I just…” he heaved, a guttural scream fighting its way out.
He clenched his teeth, swallowing it down. All that escaped was a broken whimper, which somehow felt even more pathetic. Weak.
“Hey,” Shane breathed. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”
Ilya physically couldn’t make himself say the words of confess that the nightmare had been of that afternoon he’d raced home to tell his mother he’d made a special hockey team representing the whole city only to find her cold and dusky-lipped and dead in her bed.
He stared at the crystal knobs of the faucet instead, biting his lip to keep from crying, and forced himself to shut down, to not think. His chest ached and spasmed with stress. “I’m sorry.” He said blankly.
Shane gathered him up and Ilya, numbness covering the raw torment, went, head flopping against his shoulder, arms limp at his sides. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Shane held him as tightly as he could, sweeping a hand up and down his bare back until Ilya’s mind came back online. He encircled his arms around Shane’s waist, and merely held on.
“Food’s getting cold,” Shane offered as an icebreaker.
“I don’t care about the fucking food,” Ilya said, squeezing him tighter. “What time do you have to meet the bus?”
“In about two hours.”
“Lay with me?”
Shane nodded against him, and led him out of the bathroom. He set his phone alarm and climbed into the bed, opening his arms for Ilya. They tangled together, Shane scratching his curls and breathing against him; Ilya blinking away tears, and playing with Shane’s fingers. Ilya tried to settle and not let the ghosts of his childhood become the monsters of his present. “Close your eyes, Rozanov.”
“Fuck you, Hollander.”
Shane chuckled, “I mean, you can, if that’ll help.”
“Is magical cure,” Ilya’s lips twisted into a lascivious grin before he rolled onto Shane, crushing his mouth against his.
He pulled away, Shane’s lower lip caught between his teeth pulling enough to cause an enticing, consenting pain and then he sank down to work on his neck. “You’re going to have fun explaining these to teammates,” Ilya vowed between kisses.
Fin
In case you wanted to know what Ilya was saying during his nightmare:
Проснись, Проснись, пожалуйста - “Wake up, wake up, please”
Я боюсь - “I’m afraid”
Ты слишком холодна, мама - “You are too cold, Mama.”