Work Text:
Ilya had been staring unseeingly at his phone for 10 minutes. The screen full of English words stared back at him: pages of information on how to get an American citizenship, all of which Ilya had read multiple times before.
He didn’t know how to handle it, the ache that settled in his chest when he thought of Russia. Of going back, or not going back. He thought of the cool air across his face as he ran through his favorite park in Moscow, of light filtering through the dark drapery in his father’s house. All of it was still there, or most of it, anyway. Ilya would be, too, if he wasn’t here instead.
Will you come to my cottage this summer? Ilya grazed his thumbnail across his lower lip. Shane had been so happy to see him that day in the hospital. Ilya’s heart, already strained from the night with no word on Shane’s health, had all but faltered in his chest at the request. Don’t go to Russia. It had sounded like a fantasy. Shane’s bruised face looked into his and asked him so simply, so hopefully: Come to my house.
The answering hope that rose in Ilya had terrified him. He had tried to quell it. Had tried first to be realistic, then noncommittal. Then Hunter’s display at the Cup rearranged the world in front of Ilya, and somehow, impossibly, he was here.
Ilya blinked hard. Locking his phone, he lifted his gaze and scanned the room. He took in the low light, the wood paneling, the outline of trees against the darkened sky through the window, and Shane Hollander.
Shane was looking at his own phone, his head leaned against his hand. Ilya didn’t think he would ever get used to it, this quiet, easeful version of the man in front of him. Shane Hollander with a blanket draped across his lap, on a summer holiday in his own home.
Ilya thought of the boring videos of Shane doing yoga in this place. He had spent more time than he wanted to admit thinking of Shane in his cottage. Of what he did after the camera crews left. He would envision Shane in those quiet moments; making a meal or reading a book in bed, but his imagination could never capture the expression on Shane’s face. Ilya took it in now, while he could. He studied the straight line of Shane’s nose, the relaxed set of his mouth. I would like to relax with you, for once.
Ilya didn’t think he could survive having this only once. He needed to say something. Let’s just be honest with each other. He’d said he would try. Words rose in his throat and died on his tongue. He unlocked his phone, tried to read the page of English writing again. He read “naturalization”, “continuous residency”, and “genuine marriage” and then he was speaking before he even knew he was going to.
“I could marry Svetlana,” he said, not looking up from his phone. Shane’s head lifted abruptly. Ilya didn’t meet his gaze before continuing. “She’s American, it would be easy citizenship.”
He dragged his eyes from his phone to Shane’s face. Shane had gone very still– the ease of the moment before iced over before Ilya’s eyes, and he regretted speaking. Shane’s eyes were hard, almost piercing, and Ilya dropped his gaze again.
“She would do it. Her father is goalie Sergei Vitrov.” He continued, casually.
“Yeah, you’ve told me.” Shane said tightly, almost before Ilya was done speaking. There was a pause.
“She would help me,” Ilya said lightly. He looked at Shane again, trying to gauge his reaction, trying not to be caught gauging his reaction, but Shane’s gaze had dropped to his lap, his head bowed. Ilya watched his shoulders rise and fall with what looked to be a very deep breath. The quiet stretched. Shane did not look back up.
Ilya was very aware of the only place where the two of them were touching, Shane’s socked feet against his own bare ones. Ilya pressed his forward, jostling Shane gently. Shane still didn’t look up. His shoulders rose and fell again.
“We are friends,” he tried. Shane only nodded, once. Just a dip of his head. Ilya wanted him to look up, wanted him to say something, to call him an asshole, anything. “And it would just be for the passport.”
Shane moved his hand from where it was propping up his head and placed it over his eyes, like he was shielding them from the sun. Really he shielded them from Ilya, who watched with dawning horror as the rise of Shane’s shoulders hitched and his breath caught in his throat.
Shane was crying.
Ilya sat up immediately, nudging Shane's feet again.
“Hey, hey,” He said, and Shane’s shoulders began to shake in earnest.
Ilya had cried in front of Shane before. He thought of that hotel room in Tampa, of how small he had felt trying and failing to communicate with Shane. How afraid he had been. He thought of Shane crawling into his lap and holding him. Shane, who had always been braver than he was.
He could remember several times he had seen Shane’s eyes well up; when they were young it had seemed to Ilya that Shane’s eyes were always wet with tears. But he had never seen them fall.
He watched them now, as they dropped from behind his hand onto Shane’s lap. Ilya moved forward to lean on Shane’s outstretched legs, a hand on each thigh.
“Shane,” he started, squeezing his legs, lowering his head to try to peer beneath the hand that hid Shane’s face. Shane was very still, beyond the tremor in his shoulders and chest. Ilya needed to make it stop. Words began to fall from his mouth.
“What is it? Please don’t.. I- I take it back, it was a bad joke. I’ll just sit through boring meetings at immigration office and get my citizenship how you would. I’ll read the New Yorker and study American history. Maybe I can borrow some of your books, or you could take me to the library. I'm sure they love you there.” Shane had begun shaking his head, minutely, and Ilya let his nonsense trail off, not wanting to make it worse.
Shane was the one who always knew what words to say, how to say what Ilya couldn’t. You feel it too, don’t you? Ilya could barely keep up most of the time– the best he could do was concession. It took everything in him just to yield to Shane’s insistent sincerity. That’s not what this is. You and me.
Honesty had always poured from Shane, whether Ilya was ready for it or not.
Ilya moved again, closer, settling onto his knees on the floor beside Shane’s spot on the couch. Shane was making a tiny sniffling noise as his breath moved in and out, always so controlled. Ilya reached up and took Shane’s hand that had still been clutching his phone, and threaded their fingers together. From this vantage point he could just see Shane’s face beneath his other hand. His cheeks were wet.
“Please, Shane, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. Bad idea. I’m so sorry. Please don’t cry.” Ilya said, shaking Shane’s hand a little. Shane dragged the hand covering his eyes down his face, smearing tears downward until it covered his mouth.
“I’m not crying.” He said, voice muffled behind his hand, his eyes still not meeting Ilya’s. Ilya’s breath rushed out through his nose in something like a laugh. He reached up and gently took the hand covering Shane’s mouth, and held them together in Shane’s lap.
“Ok,” He said, “but your face is wet.” He wanted Shane to argue with him, wanted to make him laugh. “Maybe there is leak in your ceiling?” He tried, glancing up. Shane’s head turned, finally, toward Ilya.
Ilya looked back at him and his eyes darted around Shane’s face, the tiny crease between his brows, the pout of his lips, his eyes, reddened and familiar, looking into Ilya’s. Shane’s lips twitched upward, just barely, at Ilya’s uncertain joke, and fell back into a frown.
“I won’t do it.” Ilya said, seriously. Shane’s eyes, now that they were on him, seemed to bore into Ilya’s with an intensity that felt physical. Ilya didn’t look away. He reached up and cupped Shane’s jaw with his hand, swiping at the moisture on his face with his thumb. Shane’s face slackened and he leaned into the touch, as he always did.
“You won’t?” Shane asked, lips barely parting to speak. He dropped his eyes, looking at Ilya’s nose, or his lips, the way he often did when he was speaking. Ilya dipped his head to catch his gaze, and held it.
“I won’t. That’s not what I want. I just want..” He stopped. Ilya’s mind supplied a string of words he didn’t know how to say out loud. I just want to be with you. I would do anything if it meant I could be nearer to you. I love you. “I want to stay. Here. With you. I want to find a way to stay. To be close. That’s all.” He finished, dropping his hand from Shane’s face.
The words hung in the air between them. Shane said nothing, but the crease between his brows had returned, and his eyes darted between Ilya’s rapidly. Ilya’s pulse hammered in his chest, and for a moment he felt sure he was wholly transparent, that Shane could see through his feeble mask right into the heart of him.
The silence seemed to stretch to its breaking point. Ilya was trying to come up with more words, unable to think how to say more without giving himself away entirely, unable to come up with a good reason not to do so, when Shane, mercifully, leaned down and kissed him.
Ilya met the kiss eagerly, lifting himself up on his knees and threading a hand into the hair at the nape of Shane’s neck. He tasted like salt, and Ilya felt a wild urge to lick up Shane’s cheeks, to remove any trace of sorrow from that beautiful face. Shane’s hands tangled in the front of Ilya’s shirt, and he pulled back.
Ilya opened his eyes and was rewarded with a real smile from Shane, the corners of his mouth turned helplessly upward in that way Ilya always felt equally helpless but to echo with his own.
“You won't marry her,” Shane said, and this time it wasn’t a question. Ilya thrilled privately at this, at Shane making this demand of him, despite his having already promised it. He shook his head.
“I won't.” He wanted to say more. He wanted to tell Shane he would marry him, possible or not, consequences be damned. Shane was smiling at him, tears now just a memory in his eyes, glossy and bright with something like relief, or wonder, or joy, and Ilya knew he would do whatever he could to keep those eyes looking at him, just like that, forever.
“Good.” Shane said, and kissed him again.