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From the moment he woke up, Shane knew that it was going to be a bad day. His skin felt too tight, trapping him in his body, and the sound of electricity thrumming through the hotel grated on his ears. The texture of the sheets felt like sandpaper, and it took much longer than he would’ve liked to coerce his limbs into dragging him out of the bed and into the bathroom.
After turning on the water and meticulously folding his sleep clothes, Shane just stood there, watching the water swirl down the drain. He knew that he had to get in, that he was only wasting both his time and his money, but the thought still exhausted him.
Eventually he got in, standing listlessly under the warm spray with his eyes half-closed, reciting the steps in his head before following through.
Shampoo. Rinse. Conditioner. Wash his body. Rinse. Wash his face. Rinse. Exfoliate. Rinse. Make sure that he’s clean. Make sure that he looks good.
Or, at least make sure that he looks somewhat alive.
Stepping out of the shower, Shane saw his phone light up, and he knew without even looking at it what it was going to say. Still, Shane could feel his stomach plummeting as he read Sportsnet interview with Ilya.
It’s not that he didn’t want to see Ilya. In fact, the knowledge that they’d have the rest of the night afterwards to themselves was the only thing keeping Shane from curling up in a defeated ball right there on the bathroom floor.
He did allow himself a few brief moments of laying down on the tile, though. The cold, hard surface helped bring Shane back into his body, grounding him just enough that he could take in a full breath and continue on with his morning routine.
There were still a few hours until the interview, so Shane kept himself occupied. He made his breakfast, spent ten minutes ensuring that everything in his smoothie was perfectly portioned and blended, did some reading on hockey strategy, skimming any relevat news while he was at it, and thought about what his answers would be to the questions they always asked him.
It soothed him. Rehearsing his greeting, formulating the perfect response to whatever he might be asked, factoring in potential alternatives and whatever Ilya might say when he bothered to speak up. He knew how to do this, when to be modest and when to hype up his team.
Still, it never hurt to be prepared.
After a couple of hours, the stillness and the waiting crawling over his skin, Shane decided that he needed to move, so he worked out and took a second shower, breathing a sigh of relief as the almost too hot water soothed his tense muscles.
His regimen came a little easier this time. Shampoo. Rinse. Conditioner. Wash his body. Rinse. Wash his face. Rinse. Exfoliate. Rinse. It cleared his mind; helped him breathe.
Breathing was good, Shane’s routine was second-nature at this point, so he was able to push it to the back of his mind as he focused on taking in even, steady breaths. He wasn’t hyperventilating, he wasn’t holding the air in his lungs, he was simply breathing.
Get dressed. Pick out the right clothes. Ignore the way they feel like they’re rubbing your skin raw.
In, hold, and out. Once, twice, three times. Over and over again.
Check your phone. You booked the Uber yesterday. Make sure it’s still going to arrive on time. Make sure the traffic isn’t going to make you late even though you planned to get there early.
In, hold, and out.
Drink water. Go to the bathroom. Make sure your clothes aren’t wrinkled. Check your hair in the mirror and add a little extra product just in case.
In, hold, and out.
It was an easy pattern to hold on to, counting the seconds in his head helped quiet the other, panicked thoughts that were trying to push to the forefront of mind.
His phone lit up again. 4:30pm. It was time to go.
The car ride passed by in a blur, his Uber dropping him off by the side door as Shane fought desperately to clear any and all distress from his expression. Years of practice help him in that regard, and he must look somewhat presentable throughout his makeup and short briefing, because nobody asks him if he’s alright.
Shane’s not sure if he’d be able to answer them. They keep touching him, tilting his face this way and that as the lights shine brightly upon his face. All of it burns.
He also doesn’t see Ilya.
What if he decided not to show up? A voice that mirrors his own echoes through his mind.
What if he left you to do this alone? What if he didn’t want to see you? What if he never wants to see you again?
What if he doesn’t love you anymore?
“Hollander.” Shane’s torn away from his thoughts by an achingly familiar Russian accent. “You are ready?”
Shane jerks his head in an approximation of a nod and Ilya narrows his eyes.
“You are freaking out. Having panic attack.”
“I’m okay.” Shane winces at how raw his voice sounded, so he clears his throat and tries again. “I’m fine, Rozanov.”
It’s not the most convincing, but it’s better than before. The barely-hidden concern in Ilya’s eyes is too much to bare, and Shane can’t make himself hold his gaze for more than a fraction of a second. Instead, he focuses on Ilya’s necklace, on the PA taking a sip of coffee, on the cameras getting into position, on the bit of wire poking out from his shirt that he anxiously tucks back into place.
“Shane—”
“Alright, boys, you’re up!” A kind-looking woman interrupts whatever Ilya was about to say, and Shane watches as he snaps to polite attention. “Remember, we’re doing this live, but don’t worry if you fumble a couple of words here and there. The people will appreciate the reminder that you two are human, just like them. Break a leg!”
Shane is pretty sure that he thanks her, but he’s quickly distracted by his cue and he makes his way to his seat with a smile. It’s one that he’s practiced a thousand times in the mirror, but he’s convinced that everyone can tell that it still doesn’t look natural on his face.
Ilya swiftly follows, silent and stoic in a way that Shane sometimes wishes he was allowed to be.
“Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, everyone!” One of the interviewers beams at them, but noticeably directs his words mostly to Shane. “I have to say, it is such an honour having you guys here on Tim and Sid. I mean, you’ve taking the hockey world by storm for a decade, now. You guys are legends!”
Shane leans forward in his seat a little, “Well, that’s very kind of you to say. And I have to thank you for having us on the show. I mean, I can’t exactly speak for Rozanov here, but I’ve been a fan ever since you guys started back in 2011.”
He did his research. Shane can tell that is pays off when they both grin at him.
The small talk goes on for a little while longer, with Shane doing most of the actual speaking while Ilya nods along and tosses in the occasional dry quip.
It doesn’t take long for Shane’s grip on his composure to start slipping. The lights feel like they’re stabbing into his eyes, he can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears, his skin is crawling and it’s too tight and he needs out. Someone please get him out.
“Shane?” Tim—or was it Sid?—is staring at him inquisitively. Oh God, he’d probably asked Shane a question and Shane had completely missed it. He was just sitting there, staring off into space and looking like an idiot. His mouth is open and no words are coming out and—
“If I may?” Shane barely refrains from flinching as Ilya pipes up next to him. He’s looking at Shane, offering him a lifeline in the raging storm that is his mind right now, and Shane nods gratefully. “Can’t let Hollander talk the whole time, he might try to make me look bad. Or bore everyone to tears.”
It gets Shane to huff a brief laugh, rolling his eyes, and Ilya looks pleased with himself as he turns back to the interview. He readjusts his legs, briefly nudging his shoe against Shane’s knee in a reminder that he’s still here.
Ilya and Shane switch roles for a bit, which is admittedly a weird feeling. Ilya answers all the questions diplomatically, throwing a couple of digs at other teams that amuses everyone in the room, including Shane.
After a little while of nodding and in, hold, and out, Shane feels like he’s got everything under control. His tongue no longer feels like it’s taking up the entirety of his mouth and he jumps back into answering questions like nothing ever happened.
Luckily, the rest of the interview goes well, and Shane’s in Ilya’s car before long, tinted windows carefully shielding them from the rest of the world. Ilya doesn’t try to get him to talk, which he appreciates, simply drives them home in a comfortable, if slightly worried, silence.
It’s only when Ilya opens the door for Shane that he even realizes that they’ve arrived. He hadn’t even noticed that Ilya had gotten out of the car.
Mechanically, Shane stands up, hands skimming over his pocket to make sure he still has his phone and wallet on him, and then he follows Ilya into the house.
It’s dark, which almost makes Shane sob with relief, and Ilya doesn’t try to turn on any lights, which is confusing but Shane appreciates anyway. Silently, Ilya holds out a hand towards him, offering him a choice.
Shane grabs his hand and clings to it like a dying man, knuckles turning white with the force of his grip. Ilya doesn’t complain, he doesn’t say anything, he just waits for Shane to take off his shoes and line them up neatly against the wall before leading him to the couch.
He’s still holding onto his hand as he gets himself situated on the couch. Once he’s lying down, he looks up at Shane who stares back at him blankly.
“Come, kotyonok.” It’s the first thing Ilya’s said to him since the interview, and instead of tearing into his eardrums, the low, rumbling noise wraps around him like a warm blanket, and Shane sinks gratefully onto the couch.
It doesn’t take long for Ilya to arrange him into his preferred position: comfortably snug between Ilya’s legs, his head resting on his chest, moving with the gentle rise and fall of his breath. Ilya’s heartbeat is a steady rhythm beneath his ear, and Shane loses himself in its repetition.
There are fingers combing through his hair, and Shane’s eyes flutter shut. Occasionally, Ilya will scratch blunt nails against his scalp, and Shane rubs his face against his chest contentedly. The fabric of his shirt is smooth against his cheek. Ilya’s other hand is pressed flat against his back now, warm and firm and holding Shane together.
One of his hoodie strings—when had he put that on? He vaguely remembers Ilya shoving something in his arms when they’d gotten into the car—finds its way into his mouth, and he finds more solace in gnawing at its frayed edges than he probably should.
He’s not sure how long they stay like that, the darkness and the quiet and the steady affection. A headache that Shane hadn’t even registered fades into nothing, and the clearness of his mind is such a relief that tears well in his eyes. Whether it was minutes or hours, all Shane knows is that Ilya stayed there with him, a steady presence grounding him to reality.
No matter how far away in his mind Shane drifted, Ilya would be his anchor, and Shane would always find his way back to him.
Looking up, he finds Ilya already gazing down at him, eyes soft with adoration. Just seeing it, the way the man he loves looks at him like Shane’s the only thing in the world, clears away the last traces of the lingering crushing weight from his chest.
“Hey,” he whispers. The silence had been a snug cocoon, and Shane was hesitant to disrupt it. But the sound of his own voice doesn’t pierce his ears and Ilya’s face breaks out into the most beautiful, relieved smile Shane’s ever seen, so it was definitely worth it.
Ilya reaches out and brushes a strand of hair off his forehead and murmurs back, “Hi.”
It’s the easiest thing in the world to stretch his neck, letting Ilya close the rest of the distance and brush a delicate kiss against his lips. They’re warm, and chapped, and they send a faint buzzing down through Shane’s chest.
He rests his head back on Ilya’s chest, idly going back to rubbing his cheek against the soft fabric.
“Thank you,” he says, “for saving me back in the interview.”
There’s another kiss pressed into his hair before Ilya responds. “Of course. I am superhero. Like Batman.”
Shane laughs, and it feels nice to laugh. “Yeah. My knight in shining armour.”
“It is only fair.” At Shane’s questioning look, Ilya elaborates, “At press conference, years ago. It was when my English was even worse that it is now, and I could not speak. You swooped in. Distracted them with your perfect answers and perfect smile. Saved me. I only returned the favour.”
It takes a moment, but Shane remembers the moment Ilya’s talking about. So soon after they'd met, it felt like there right thing to do.
He hadn't realized that it had meant so much to Ilya.
“I did research.” Apparently Ilya decided that the silence had gone on for too long. The prolonged quiet can make him uncomfortable, Shane has come to realize. “You go quiet sometimes. You go… away. Somewhere that sometimes I cannot follow. I wanted to be able to help from out here, so that you knew that you were safe when you came back.”
Shane felt like the breath had been knocked out of him. All his life he’d been something different. Something other. He’d never had very many friends, and any friends he’d had never really understood him. Hell, Shane barely understood himself. All he knew was that sometimes, when the world got to be too much, his mind would recede into this cool, dark place. A coping mechanism for when he was overwhelmed that had gotten him nothing but weird stares and pointed jabs his entire life.
But now, sitting with him and fiddling anxiously with Shane’s sleeve is Ilya Rozanov. Ilya Rozanov, the so-called Russian brute who is a menace on the ice, who is the only player who really challenges Shane, that drives him to be better.
Ilya Rozanov, who notices when Shane shuts down and, instead of ignoring it and hoping that it will just resolve itself, does research on how to be there for him. He makes sure that there is always ginger ale in his fridge and wears the clothes with the fabrics that Shane likes and smiles fondly every time Shane stops to fold his clothes before they have sex.
He sees everything that makes Shane different, everything that Shane has spent his life trying to fix or hide, and he simply sees them as another thing to love.
A wave of emotion crashes over Shane, a mix of lovereliefjoygrief that floods through his system. There’s not enough room in him for all of it, and he can feel the excess rolling down his cheeks and soaking into Ilya’s shirt.
“I love you,” says Shane. He says it because it’s true, and he also says it because Ilya looks about five seconds away from having a panic attack because he made Shane cry. “I love you so much. I’m crying because I’m happy. Mostly.”
“Mostly?” Ilya asks, but he’s more relaxed, kissing Shane’s tears like he can wipe them away with his lips.
Shane moves up a bit and noses against Ilya’s neck, breathing in the scent he’s come to associate with comfort and safety and being loved more than anything. “Yeah. Ilya, I don’t think you know how good you are. You don’t look at me like I’m some antisocial freak, you understand me, and it- it makes me happier than I knew I could be. It’s just—” Shane cuts off, pressing a brief kiss to Ilya’s collarbone. “It makes me sad to think about what my life could’ve been like if I knew more people like you.”
Before he can blink, Ilya’s pulled him up the rest of the way, noses brushing as he stares into Shane’s eyes. He cradles Shane’s jaw like he’s something precious and gently pulls him in for a slow, tender kiss before resting their foreheads together.
It’s nice, sharing the space, breathing the same air, knowing that he gets to have this for as long as Ilya will have him.
“I was made to understand you,” Ilya says. “It is never a burden to know you. It is never a burden to speak for you. Every time I learn something new about you, I feel nothing but happy that I am allowed to know this. I will spend the rest of my life understanding you, if you will let me.”
He says it like it’s a given. Like there’s nothing Ilya would rather do than understand everything that makes up Shane Hollander.
It would be harder to believe if Shane didn’t feel the exact same way. If he didn’t want to know and understand everything Ilya Rozanov was, is, and will be.
“I love you,” he says again, because he’s exhausted, like the emotions have wrung him dry. Other words escape him, his eyes feel heavy, but he loves Ilya Rozanov and nothing can stop him from saying it.
“I love you, too.” Ilya repositions them on the couch, pressing a kiss to the crown on Shane’s head when they’re settled once more. “Ya tebya lyublyu. Now sleep. I will be here when you wake up.”
Will you be here forever?
Shane doesn’t ask that question, because he knows that tomorrow he’ll need to leave. They’ll go back to texting, to seeing each other on game days and when they have a weekend to spare.
But one day, he knows that they’ll be together. They won’t need to hide from the world, and they’ll live together and hold hands in public and grin at each other during interviews like they’re the only two people in the world.
One day, they’ll be able to do everything they’ve always wanted. Everything they couldn’t do today.
One day, they’ll have forever.