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They’ve been each other's lives long enough for Ilya to pick up on patterns. Shane is built on patterns, after all.
Clothes folded before sex. Placed neatly on a chair or a dresser, never on the floor. Streamy shower after. Towel tied around his waist, hair combed, lotion on. Ilya’s seen him do it a hundred times, he could do it in his sleep at this point. Run in the morning, gym in the afternoon. Nothing on his stomach before his run, and a protein shake immediately after. Chicken and rice on good days, grilled fish and green beans on bad ones. He likes the room set to 67º and he doesn’t like sleeping in complete silence. He won’t return Ilya’s morning kisses until he brushes his teeth, and he can’t stand the feeling of his socks being on inside out.
Ilya could write a book full of Shane Hollander's habits, and even that wouldn’t be enough. He loves the way Shane goes about life, loves picking up on new mannerisms each minute they spend together. Somehow, Shane’s habits are built on patterns, ones that fluctuate with his mood and his circumstances. Ones Ilya can’t help but notice.
His eating habits are at the top of Ilya’s interests. It started because he was curious about this macrobiotic performance diet he’d heard so little about. Being in the hockey world, he’d heard it all. Vegan. Carnivore. Paleo. No diet at all. But this— this was new. The smallest menu Ilyas ever seen, nothing fun included in the spread.
He can’t help the teasing that comes naturally to him. Poking fun at Shane’s bland food, whining when he won’t try anything Ilya actually likes. Shane doesn’t seem to mind, not really. He gets it. He knows it’s abnormal, but it doesn’t stop him.
The performance diet is one thing. The amount is another.
On good weeks, Shane eats about the same amount as a normal human. A small human, but one that’s getting the baseline of calorie intake for the day. On these weeks, Ilya can cook his chicken with seasoning and add butter to the green beans and add chicken broth to the rice. Shane will shrug and agree, and Ilya’s heart will bloom. On these weeks, Shane is bubbly and warm and Ilya can get him to eat something sweet after dinner. At first it was nothing more than a single date with a small, swipe of peanut butter. Now, he can get Shane to eat one or two of the no-bake cookies his mom used to make.
On normal weeks, Shane sticks to his meal plan. Grilled fish and chicken cooked in avocado oil only. Quinoa instead of rice and no butter anywhere near his veggies. He has his protein shake after his runs, but he skips the protein bar between practices. He’ll only drink hot lemon water and he won’t have a real meal until lunch time. He’s stiff and quiet, and Ilya can see the wheels turning in his brain.
On bad weeks, Shane has a scale. He’s rigid and tense, and he gets jumpy when Ilya runs a soft hand along his arm. He kisses harder and faster, and his body is sharper than the one Ilya knows. He eats half the amount of chicken and double the amount of vegetables. He skips the protein shake and he adds an extra mile to his runs. He acts on knowledge instead of feeling, acts on things he’s studied down to the most minute detail. He misses the tone of Ilya’s voice when he’s asking questions out of concern, immediately assumes that Ilya is trying to fix him. Ilya would never try to fix Shane. He just wants to love him, want him to know that he’s loved.
On really bad weeks, Shane will eat a cookie after dinner and avoid eating for days. He makes himself as busy as he can. He avoids texts and calls and he feels a hundred miles away even when he’s in the same room as Ilya. His hands shake slightly, and his breathing is shallow. He takes hotter showers and he folds his clothes more than once. He keeps it all locked inside until it boils over. Until he breaks.
Ilya has only seen it a couple times. He doesn’t always see it coming. The first time it snuck up on him. The days following a lost game turning into nearly two weeks of Shane making up excuses during meal times. Sex only. No talking, no room for questions. It wasn’t until he noticed that Shane was unsteady on his feet that he started to wonder. By the point, he was back to scoring goals and his team hit the greatest winning streak they’d ever seen.
The next time was more obvious. A bad game that led to a downward spiral. They won. Shane scored two goals but missed a third. He ran four miles after the game, no headphones in as he feet pounded against the treadmill. Lily got a text from Shane’s phone from who he could only assume was Hayden Pike, telling him it might be best to give Shane a call. That he was running himself into the ground.
Luckily, Ilya was only an hour outside of the city. One of the few times their schedules just missed each other. He didn’t even text back, just got in his car and drove above the speed limit until he was in the rink parking lot.
He found Shane in the showers, scolding water hitting his back as he pressed his forehead against the tiled wall. Breaths caught in his chest, eyes glazed over when Ilya pulled him from the water.
“Hollander,” he’d said, soft at first. He said it again, louder. Hoping to get Shane’s attention. It didn’t work. Not until he said it as clear as he could, stepping into the spray to pull Shane out.
“Ilya?”
“What the fuck are you doing?” Ilya asked, pleading eyes hard to hide. “Your skin is bright red, Shane.”
“I’m showering, Ilya, Jesus.”
“No— no,” Ilya shut off the water. Shane breathing hard, body still. “No Jesus me. You run on top of practice, on top of game. Game you won. You burn your skin. And let me guess— you have not eaten since morning.”
Shane can’t bring himself to look Ilya in the eyes. He didn’t eat in morning. Ilya sighed, ran a hand down his face. He looked tired, completely exhausted. He didn’t say a word as Shane dried off, got dressed next to his locker.
“I missed the goal, Ilya.”
“Many players miss many goals.”
“Not me.”
“This is not the first, and it will not be the last. You cannot do this everytime you miss goal.”
Shane nodded. Grabbed his coat. Ilya followed him outside. Shane didn’t eat normally for a week.
He thinks he’s catching on by the time it happens next. He sees it in the way Shane moves. They’re on winter break. There are no losses, no miss goals because there are no games. They spend the time together at the cottage, and it’s nice. It’s gentle and calm, and the first few weeks are perfect.
It’s perfect until Ilya notices something new. Something expected, but something he’s never witnessed. Shane gets— restless without hockey. He doesn’t know what to do with his body or his hands or his energy. It’s fine at first. All his energy goes into Ilya, and the idea of having each other fully for the first time.
Shane still goes on runs. He spends time in the rink just outside of town, even convinces Ilya to join him a few times. He has a routine and a schedule, and it works. Until the weather changes and snow drops down in feet rather than inches. So much snow, that the roads are closed. Practically unheard of, where Shane is from. Ilya knows, because Shane keeps repeating himself.
“This never happens.”
“I know, baby,” Ilya says, soft. They’re laying in bed. Shane is checking the weather on his phone, and Ilya is wrapped around Shane’s lower half, pressing kisses into his stomach.
“They closed the rink.”
“One day of hockey missed will not kill you, Hollander.”
“The roads are completely iced.”
“Same with running, my darling,” he pushes himself up slowly, kisses Shane’s chest and then his chin before pushing his phone away. “Be with me. Here. Right now. Enjoy your snow day.”
“Snow day?”
“God's gift,” Ilya says with a smirk. Shane grimaces. “A day off, Hollander. With your lover.”
Shane rolls his eyes at that, but he puts his phone down. Ilya kisses his lips, his nose, the tip of his ear. His skin is warm, and Ilya is gentle.
An hour later they’re in the kitchen. Ilya wants to make pancakes. He has the batter made, dropping in blueberries when it hits him.
“Are you gunna try my world famous pancakes today?”
He tests the waters, sometimes. When he knows it should be a good day, but he can feel the undercurrents of a bad one rippling underneath. Shane sits at the bar, flipping through a sports illustrated magazine. “World famous, huh?”
“Dah,” Ilya shrugs. “I am very good cook, what can I say.”
“Maybe next time.”
“What will you eat then?”
Shane shrugs, and he can tell Ilya is unsatisfied with the answer when his jaw sets. Shane grabs a banana from the bowl, holds it up with a grin. “Yum.”
“Let me make you something better,” Ilya whines. “I will keep it borning, yes?”
It’s how he gets Shane to eat banana pancakes. Oats and banana and egg and cinnamon. He pulled out coconut sugar, hoping it would be enough of a compromise, but Shane scrunched his nose when he saw the bag.
“It’s just too early,” he justifies, even if it’s not a good argument.
They watch TV while they eat. Ilya’s pancakes are covered in syrup, and Shane’s are plain. Ilya finishes his plate, and Shane leaves three bites. He shakes his head when Ilya asks if he’s going to finish, and Ilya eats them off his plate.
“Even with bland, boring food I am good,” Ilya says, glancing to Shane. He dips the final piece in syrup and moans. “Tell me I am good cook.”
“Oh, we’re fishing for compliments now?” Shane grins, and Ilya pinches his cheek before kissing him.
“Your boyfriend is good cook, but you won’t acknowledge. Whatever. I am not butt-hurt over your boring food.”
“Ilya Rozanov,” Shane says, eyes set on Ilya’s. “You are a very good cook.”
“Dah, finally,” Ilya smiles. “Wait until you let me cook you real good. Then you will think I’m very good.”
They watch a movie that Shane picks. One that’s new to Ilya, but he’s seen a hundred times. He could quote it at this point, and almost does. Mouths along with the characters, hums at his favorite parts. Ilya is smitten, runs a thumb fondly across Shane’s cheeks when the movie is over. Kisses his nose and his lips.
Shane goes on a run, despite the frozen roads. He leaves a note for Ilya while he’s in the shower. Out for a run scribbled in Shane’s neat handwriting, note left on the kitchen counter. Ilya rubs his forehead, curses under his breath. He pushes away the thoughts of Shane slipping or getting caught in the cold.
He makes dinner instead, has it waiting when Shane gets home. A compromise meal. Bland, but satiating. Chicken breast with sweet potato and green beans. He cooks the green beans with butter and the potatoe with avocado oil, and he adds seasoning to the chicken. Compromise.
It’s plated and ready when Shane finally comes pushing through the front door. Ilya lights up when he sees him, like all the rest of the world just melts away. Shane doesn’t see him, not until he pulls the earbuds from his ears and breaks into a grin.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” Ilya mirrors, taking Shane into his arms. He’s sweaty and cold at the same time, skin like ice. “You need shower.”
“I need a shower,” Shane agrees, and Ilya knows he’s cringing at the idea of getting Ilya’s clothes wet. Ilya kisses his neck anyways, and Shane groans.
“Shower, then dinner,” Ilya says. “I made dinner. Chicken. Your favorite.”
“It smells great,” Shane nods, but Ilya can already hear the hesitation in his voice. “I’m just not very hungry.”
“You ate banana for breakfast.”
“Banana pancakes,” Shane corrects. “You made so many. I’m still full.”
“One banana, half cup of oat, one egg. Dash cinnamon,” Ilya says, then pokes playfully at Shane’s stomach. “That is all that is in your belly.”
He’s hoping to keep it light. Playful. Ease Shane into the idea of dinner the way he has so many times before. It almost always works. Almost.
“Please, sweetheart,” Ilya asks, and he tries to sound like he’s not begging. Because he is. “Just a bit. You ran how many miles in freezing cold? Your body needs fuel."
“My body needs a shower.”
“Shane.”
“Ilya, I told you.”
“One meal isn’t end of world.”
“Exactly– one missed meal isn’t going to be the end of the world,” Shane tries for playful, hoping he’ll turn the tables in his favor. Hoping his charm is enough to get him out of it. Ilya’s cheeks redden.
“One missed meal– Shane, you miss много meals! You miss so many meals I lose count, and you are so small already.”
He usually has a rule for himself. Keep Shane’s body out of the conversation. He makes his observations, makes his comments when he feels like Shane needs to hear it. Rarely will he make comments about Shane’s size or shape, unless he is praising every inch of him.
Shane is fragile. Ilya doesn’t know how deep Shane’s reluctance to food runs, and he doesn’t know what comments will make it worse. Which ones he’ll internalize and which ones he’ll push back on. Ilya never wants to hurt Shane, never wants to be the reason he sees himself as inadequate. He just can’t help it, sometimes. Not when Shane is wasting away in front of him.
“Ilya, I’m fine,” Shane says, and it’s not as convincing as he thinks it is. “I’m healthy, alright? I’m just not hungry, and I didn’t train today–”
“You are hockey player, Hollander! You burn calories while you sleep! You burn so much energy, even when you do not move. You cannot just— you cannot keep skipping meals because you feel like it. Is not option, Shane.”
“I don’t skip meals just because I feel like it.”
“Dah, yes,” Ilya rolls his eyes, throwing his hands up in the air. He feels insane. Shane not understanding his worth makes him insane. “Obviously. You skip meals because you don’t believe you deserve it. So much better, Hollander.”
He knows it's the wrong thing to say the second the words leave his mouth. Shane, stunned in silence as all the air leaves his lungs.
“I don’t– that’s not what–” he struggles to find the words he needs, and he can’t get air into his lungs. “That’s not what this is.”
“So what is it, then? Please, Shane, tell me,” Ilya begs. “I want to understand. I want to help.”
“I can’t— Ilya, I can’t eat it.”
It’s when he breaks. Tears flooding his eyes, lip wobbling as his body shakes. Ilya softens immediately, every bone is his body turning to jelly as he jumps to action. Shane slides down, back against the kitchen cabinets until his butt hits the hardwood. Ilya sits beside him, small shhs as he bends down.
“Alright, alright,” he says, gentle. “Alright. I am sorry. I push too hard.”
“I don’t— I can’t—“
“Breathe, Shane,” he says, runs a thumb gently over Shane’s cheeks. “You can breathe, yes? Is easy. Easiest thing you can do.”
They practice breathing. Shane presses the crown of his head against the cabinet, forces air into his lungs. He squeezes his eyes shut, hoping it’ll offer him some dignity in the midst of it all. Ilya keeps his distance, a few inches between them. He wants to make sure Shane is comfortable before he moves any closer. Doesn’t want to spook him too soon.
They sit in silence for a few minutes, Shane remembering how to get air into his lungs, and Ilya breathing in a pattern like it’ll make all the difference. Eventually, Shane gets the hang of it. He feels silly, having to remind himself how to do a natural, bodily function. It’s difficult, and it hurts. His lungs feel like they’re on fire.
“You are so talented. Best breather I’ve ever seen.”
“Fuck you.”
“Ah, you have to breathe first, darling. Then we can fuck.”
Shane chokes out a laugh, and Ilya can’t help but smile. That small glimmer of Shane peaking beneath the surface. Shane finally cracks an eye open, Ilya’s smile being the first thing he sees. Ilya hums, grateful.
“There he is,” he says. “My beautiful Shane.”
Shane doesn’t say anything. He can’t, not when the guilt is eating away inside. Ilya runs the back of his fingers against Shane’s cheek, wipes the tears away gently. “I was too harsh.”
“You care.”
“I care, and I worry, yes,” Ilya agrees. “But I was too much, too fast. I know that.”
“I don’t want to be this way,” Shane says, voice so quiet Ilya barely registers it. “I don’t like being like this.”
“You are perfect,” Ilya frowns. “The most perfect human I have ever seen. I wish you could see you like everyone else does.”
Ilya doesn’t know what else to say, at least now. Shane doesn’t, either. He’s not ready to get into it. He’s not ready to tell Ilya the reason why his stomach locks, or the control he’s searching for. Ilya doesn’t know how to tell Shane just how incredible he really is, because there are too many wonderful words in the uniserve to use then all.
Instead, Ilya kisses Shane’s cheek, and they compromise. Half of dinner and a scalding hot shower. Shane wraps a towel around his waist, runs a comb through his hair. He puts lotion on his face first, then his body. Ilya does the same. They curl up in the living room, soaking in each others company. Shane’s lungs still burn, and Ilya’s heart is still heavy, but they both eat the no bake cookies Ilya’s mom used to make. Compromise.