Archive of Our Own ^beta

After a decade of knowing someone, you’d think that you would know all there is to know about them. At least, that is what Ilya had thought when he was seventeen years old, wondering to himself how on earth two people could possibly have the devotion and desire to marry each other.

There are so many things that he is still learning about Shane. So many things that he wants to learn about Shane, if he is honest with himself. Not just about sex, about what turns him on or riles him up. Since he had told Shane he would be coming to his cottage over the summer, it feels like a floodgate has opened inside him. Thoughts that were once suppressed so efficiently he had forgotten they existed are now struggling their way to the surface, accompanied by a confused barrage of feelings. Too much to deal with, sometimes. It was easier when Ilya refused to examine them. Safer. Unfortunately, Ilya does not want things to be easier, not at the cost of not having Shane in his life, as more than just someone he fucks every few months.

Over the years there are things about Shane that Ilya had subconsciously noted, but never verbalised in any meaningful way. There was no point, he had thought at the time. When Shane is frustrated during a game, he will always roll his right shoulder before climbing the barriers and hopping onto the ice. When he is trying to suppress his reaction to something, he will press his lips together. When he is flustered about something, he will duck his chin down slightly, not quite tucking it against his chest but almost.

And then, sometimes Shane gets…fuzzy. That is what Ilya has taken to calling it in his head. It is different to how he gets after sex sometimes — loose, mindless, and a little bit clingy. No, when Shane is fuzzy, he is still entirely aware, he is just…soft. There is no other word for it. Ilya has only seen it happen a handful of times, when Shane had been overwhelmed. He folds in on himself, he goes quiet, and he will usually leave soon after. One time, he had stayed a little bit longer and just held onto Ilya, his face tucked against Ilya’s chest. They didn’t talk. It is the only time Ilya did not crack a single joke.

Fuzzy. That is what Ilya calls it in his head.

He sees Shane one last time before the NHL awards, after the Admirals take the Stanley Cup and Scott Hunter turns Ilya’s entire world upside down. Stupid, hot, brave Scott Hunter.

They had planned for it — Ilya coming over to Montreal, to Shane’s apartment. Anytime in the afternoon, Shane had said, his tone casual like there was not anything hanging in the air between them.

So when Ilya texts Shane from the front door to let him know that he is here, he is puzzled when he does not receive a response or hear any movement from inside. Ilya knocks, too, for good measure, and still nothing. He casts a wary glance down the hallway, adjusting his duffel bag over his shoulder.

It is 3:14PM. That is the afternoon, Ilya thinks. Shane had not texted him saying that he could no longer meet up, which Shane would most certainly do. But also, Shane has his calendar meticulously organised months in advance, so things generally do not just ‘come up’ for him.

Ilya waits another two minutes before finally caving and just opening the front door. Maybe Shane is showering, or cooking, and he just does not have his phone. It will not be the end of the world if Ilya lets himself in.

That is what he tells himself, anyway.

Warm afternoon sun pours out into the hallway when Ilya opens the door. He steps inside, pulling the door shut behind him.

“Shane,” he calls out. “I am here.”

No response, just the ambient hum of Shane’s fridge. The TV is not on or anything. Is Shane even home?

“Shane, this better be a surprise. A sexy surprise. A very sexy surprise,” Ilya says, as he wanders past the entryway.

Ilya walks through the kitchen and past the bathroom, still finding nothing. He heads towards the living room next. His imagination is already going, wondering if this really is a surprise of some kind. Maybe Shane will come out from around a corner, launch himself at Ilya, push him up against the wall and—

Ilya’s thought process slams into a brick wall when he enters the living room. He stops walking, coming to a halt by the side of the couch.

The curtains are drawn, but sunlight still bleeds in at the edges, stretching across the room in strips. Shane is curled up on the couch with his legs tucked to the side of him, engulfed in a blue hoodie that Ilya has never seen before.

Ilya is well acquainted with pretty much every item of clothing that Shane owns — he doesn’t own a lot, but what he does own is all plain, mostly branded stuff. This hoodie is a pale blue colour with cartoon-style clouds on it, completely unlike the rest of Shane’s wardrobe. Shane has his tablet in his lap, and he is chewing absently on one of his hoodie strings. Ilya cannot see very well, but he recognises what he does see — Shane is reading the Snoopy comics. On a free website, it would seem, based on the ad that just popped up on the screen. Shane also has his noise-cancelling earphones in, which would explain why he hadn’t heard Ilya coming in. Shane’s phone is also nowhere in sight.

Fuzzy, Ilya thinks, as his gaze flickers over Shane’s form. Shane’s arm is curled over his stomach and his body is wedged into the corner of the couch. Despite how he folds in on himself, he does not appear wound with any sort of tension. His shoulders sag, loose in a way they are usually not.

Shane must finally sense a presence in the room, because his head snaps upward suddenly, his eyes widening when he spots Ilya hovering there. Shane’s hoodie string falls from his mouth and his shoulders draw up immediately, something wild and panicked flashing in his eyes.

“Ilya,” he stammers out, fumbling slightly as he slams his tablet face down on the couch. He quickly takes out his earphones, leaning over to place them on the coffee table but dropping one of them on the floor in the process. It clatters to the ground, echoing almost deafeningly in the silence between them. Shane lets out a shaky breath as he picks it up and puts it beside the other one.

Based on Shane’s reaction you would think that he had been watching something utterly depraved, not just reading some children’s cartoons.

“Nice hoodie,” Ilya remarks.

Mortification grips Shane’s features as he looks down at his hoodie, like he has just remembered that he is even wearing it. Redness blooms across his face — not a fun, flustered flush, but a bright, embarrassed one.

Okay. So this is a no-joking time, then.

“Shane—“ Ilya starts, taking a step forth.

“What— what time is it?” Shane asks. His voice is thin, less anchored than usual. The syllables drag as though it takes effort to even get the words out.

“About three o’clock,” Ilya says slowly. His eyes are still fixed on Shane, trying to parse through the sudden, strange tension filling the room.

Shane’s expression shutters, and he raises a hand to his forehead. His gaze goes unfocused, as though his attention is drifting inwards. Sometimes this is not a bad sign. Usually, it is.

Ilya checks his phone for the date, double-checking that it’s definitely the day he was supposed to come over. Yes. It is definitely the day. His brows furrow slightly, perplexed. Is he missing something here?

“I lost track of time,” Shane murmurs, seemingly to himself. “I—“ he cuts himself off, and his next breath shudders. Ilya knows what that means by now — Shane is on the verge of freaking out. His breathing had gone shaky like this before he’d fled Ilya’s apartment a few months ago, that afternoon when Ilya had made tuna melts for both of them.

“Shane, is not a big deal,” Ilya says, trying to temper his own confusion. He goes to say more, to say that they do not have to do anything, but then Shane suddenly stands up from the couch.

“I’m sorry, I— I just, fuck, I need a second, um. Sorry,” he stumbles out, as he quickly makes for the hallway. His voice is small, wavering. Even the word ‘fuck’ sounds strange coming from his mouth, softened around the edges like a child who thinks they will be scolded for swearing. Shane usually swears like a second language.

Ilya blinks, stunned. What the fuck is happening? Panic starts to thread through his confusion, twining and coiling tight inside his stomach.

“Whoa, Shane, hold on—“ Ilya starts, reaching out to try and stop him as he passes. His fingers brush against Shane’s arm, but Shane shrugs off the touch and keeps walking.

Ilya has the sudden, overwhelming urge to grab onto Shane, to pull him back, but he does not want to make Shane feel trapped. If he feels trapped, his panic will only sharpen.

Ilya remains rooted in place as he hears Shane’s hurried footsteps down the hallway, the bathroom door swinging open then clicking shut again.

What the fuck?

His mind starts to reel, filtering through everything that had just happened. What could possibly make Shane react like that? Ilya’s own doubts begin to creep in, tightening inside his chest. Did Shane regret inviting him to the cottage? Is he having second thoughts? Ilya shakes his head, trying to force the thought away. No, he thinks. Shane’s panic just now had been a different shade from his panic at Ilya’s apartment months ago. Less coloured by fear, or confusion, more coloured by…shame. Embarrassment. But what is he embarrassed about? The comics? The hoodie? Chewing on his hoodie string?

Ilya’s brows furrow once more, utterly lost. Both the comics and the hoodie are normal things, even by ‘socially acceptable’ standards. Nothing to be embarrassed over. Perhaps they are not Shane’s usual speed, what with his preference for clean, plain, brand-friendly clothing and boring books about discipline or hockey autobiographies. But they are still safely within the bounds of ‘normal’, whatever that word is good for.

And who the fuck doesn’t chew on their hoodie strings?

Shane had seemed particularly alarmed about the fact that he’d lost track of time, which means that he had intended to wrap up what he was doing before Ilya arrived in the afternoon. Shane is never usually one to lose track of time, either — in fact, he keeps track of every minute almost religiously. He is always the first to remind Ilya if they have limited time to do something, always the first to remind Ilya that they both have early flights the next day.

So when Shane is fuzzy, time is more slippery. But that still does not explain Shane’s distress.

Ilya finds himself moving again before he knows it, dumping his duffel bag down on the kitchen floor near the counter and following Shane’s path down the hallway. He stops at the bathroom door.

“Shane,” he calls. “Are you okay?”

There is a mumbled reply from the bathroom that Ilya cannot make out. He presses his ear against the cool wood of the door, trying to get closer.

“What was that?” Ilya questions.

“I’m fine, just need a minute,” Shane repeats, a touch louder, yet still slightly mumbled. Soft.

“Okay.” Ilya hesitates, bowing his head against the door. He wants to say something more, but the words prickle uncomfortably at his throat. Too honest. Too much. “I will be in the living room, yes?” he says, after a moment.

“‘Kay,” Shane agrees, smaller than before.

There’s something about his voice that makes Ilya’s chest clench, that makes him want to stay right where he is. But he pries himself away from the door anyway, reluctantly heading back down the hallway. He drops down onto the couch, leaning back against the cushions. The silence is far too loud, pressing in on Ilya from all corners. He leans over and grabs the TV remote, turning on the TV and flicking it to a random channel.

Ilya alternates between staring absently at the TV, scrolling his instagram feed, and just sitting there tapping his hand against the couch. The minutes seem to stretch endlessly as he waits, casting frequent glances at the clock on the wall. It’s one of those fancy, decorative clocks, with no numbers and strangely shaped hands. Probably selected by an interior designer. The thought makes Ilya smile slightly despite himself.

Another minute passes before Ilya finally hears the bathroom door tentatively open, followed by halting footsteps down the hallway. Ilya fights the urge to spring to his feet, staying put on the couch until Shane comes into the living room, hovering uncertainly by the side of the coffee table. He is no longer wearing his blue hoodie, just a plain black nike shirt.

Shane takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, as though steeling himself.

“I’m sorry you saw that, and I’m sorry I freaked out,” he says.

Ilya blinks. “Saw what? You sitting on a couch?” he questions, that perplexed feeling returning with a vengeance.

Subtle surprise flashes across Shane’s face, there one moment and gone the next. “I…” He stops himself, clearing his throat. He clearly had not expected that reaction.

“Seriously, Hollander, what is the problem? Is it illegal to relax in your free time now?” Ilya asks.

Shane presses his lips together, his eyes darting away and settling somewhere beyond Ilya’s head. “You’re being an asshole,” he says.

“No, I am trying to understand,” Ilya corrects. “You lost track of time, so what?”

Shane hesitates. He opens his mouth to respond, then quickly shuts it again. His expression is tightly controlled now, the shutters slammed closed, but uncertainty still flickers in his gaze.

“I don’t know, I just— fuck, I don’t want to talk about it, okay? There’s nothing to understand, it’s fine.”

“There is nothing to understand, and you do not want to talk about it,” Ilya echoes. “These two statements do not go together, Shane.”

Shane’s jaw clenches slightly. “Just drop it, okay? I’m serious.”

Ilya gazes at him for a long moment, his eyes flickering over Shane’s rigid form. Shane has been the one lately who always wants to talk things out, to verbalise what is happening between them. Now, he is entirely closed off to the idea of talking. For a moment, Ilya considers prodding further, but he does not want a repeat of Shane running away again. So, he simply nods.

“Okay. Come here, then,” he says, opening his arms.

Shane hesitates, lingering by the coffee table.

Ilya’s voice takes on a more coaxing edge. “Come here, Shane. Please?”

Shane presses his lips together again. He approaches the couch cautiously, coming to a halt in front of Ilya. Ilya waves his hands a bit, gesturing Shane forth. Finally, Shane acquiesces, climbing down onto Ilya’s lap with his thighs bracketing Ilya’s. Ilya winds an arm around Shane’s back, his palm settling near his shoulder blade.

Shane is looking down at the couch, avoiding Ilya’s gaze. Ilya reaches out with his free hand and gently tilts Shane’s chin upwards, until his eyes meet Ilya’s.

“We do not have to do anything,” Ilya tells him.

Shane nods, letting out a slow exhale. His shoulders lower slightly. “Could we just kiss?” he asks. “I don’t wanna, uh. Do anything more for now.”

A smile curves Ilya’s mouth, just a little bit teasing. “Oh no. Just kissing. What a terrible chore. How will I live?”

“Shut up,” Shane says, smiling slightly.

There he is, Ilya thinks.

“Mm, only if you make me,” Ilya says, gently stroking his thumb along Shane’s jaw. He feels the way Shane’s jaw unclenches slightly under the motion.

Shane leans in and presses a few chaste kisses to Ilya’s mouth. Then, he shifts closer, his hands settling on Ilya’s shoulders as he deepens the kiss, his lips parting against Ilya’s. Ilya’s hands remain soft against Shane’s back, cupping his jaw. No wandering lower, no pressure for anything more.

Ilya sighs into the kiss, content. When Shane draws away for breath, Ilya leans up to press a kiss to his forehead. A small smile appears on Shane’s lips, and he shifts slightly to tuck his face against Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya’s hand falls away from Shane’s jaw, settling in his hair instead. As he brushes his fingers through Shane’s hair, he feels the tension begin to seep out of Shane. He leans more heavily into Ilya, his fingers curling into the fabric of Ilya’s hoodie. Ilya exhales, finding himself relaxing too.

If Ilya is honest with himself, he thinks he could stay like this indefinitely.

—

As expected, they do not talk about it. They have dinner, they lounge and watch hockey, they fuck in the morning. They fall into a rhythm of texting every day that Ilya probably loves too much already, and they make arrangements for their two weeks at Shane’s cottage in Ottawa. Ilya still thinks about it, however, replaying the events in his mind and trying to parse through them. He thinks about that blue hoodie that he has never seen before, thinks about the softened quality of Shane’s voice, muffled through the bathroom door.

By the time the NHL Awards roll around, these thoughts have mostly settled at the back of Ilya’s mind again. Just like every year, Ilya sits through the whole boring show, claps at the appropriate times, and only glances across the crowd at Shane a handful of times.

Then, he takes full advantage of the open bar at the after-party and gets himself buzzed enough to entertain all of the small talk and mingling, only really relaxing when it’s just him and his teammates.

The warm overhead LED lights slowly start to brighten as the after-party winds down. They make a last call at the bar, and Ilya heads over immediately, wanting one final drink.

“Vodka and ice, please,” he says to the bartender, who gives a quick nod.

“Same vodka as before?” the bartender asks.

“Yes. Russian Standard,” Ilya says. It is the only Russian vodka they have. Not the best, but still okay. Ilya leans up against the counter as his gaze travels across the room.

A lot of people have filtered out now, but there are still stragglers, talking in small groups and sipping their last drinks. After a few moments, the bartender hands Ilya his drink, which he accepts gratefully.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

Ilya shifts, leaning back against the bar as he sips his drink. His restless gaze finally finds Shane hovering alone near one of the long dining tables. Shane had been drinking tonight, which is unlike him. Not much, but enough that he had sounded tipsy the last time Ilya walked past him. It made Shane looser than usual, more sociable, and his teammates absolutely lapped it up, parading Shane around to any and everybody.

Shane turns at that moment, and his entire face lights up when he notices Ilya, caught in the room’s warm glow. An unabashed smile comes to his lips, and he waves across the room at Ilya.

Ilya’s heart stops, affection and horror warring for a place inside him.

What the fuck is Shane doing?

Ilya casts a wary glance over at the other remaining attendees, praying that none of them had seen the softness of Shane’s expression.

Ilya looks back at Shane, whose eyes are still lit up like their glittering Las Vegas surroundings. Ilya does not smile back, but he raises his eyebrows, hoping the silent rebuke comes across. Maybe fondness is all that really translates in Ilya’s expression, however, because Shane starts to cross the room, making a beeline for Ilya. Ilya’s heart begins to race, and he quickly glances over his shoulder, making sure the bartender is facing away.

“Pizdets,” Ilya mutters under his breath. He tries to subtly shake his head, warding Shane away, but Shane must really be tipsy because he does not seem to register this.

“Ilya,” Shane chirps, that soft smile still on his face.

He almost looks like he had at the hospital while doped up on painkillers, smiling up at Ilya so achingly unguarded, his usual defences lowered.

And damn it to hell, Ilya just wants to sweep Shane away from here, away from everybody. Everyone else has had him for too long now, and Ilya has not seen him in weeks.

But, they are still very much in public, very much in front of a bunch of hockey coaches and executives and sponsors. And Shane is being reckless.

“What the fuck are you doing, Shane?” Ilya demands lowly, glancing over at the other attendees. “You have to leave, go somewhere else. Not here.” Ilya makes a motion with his hand, shooing Shane away.

Part of Ilya expects Shane to snark back, to tell Ilya that he knows exactly what he’s doing, thank you very much. What Ilya does not expect is for Shane’s expression to completely crumble. He looks shattered all of a sudden, as though the shining tiled floor had just fallen out from under his feet. The panicked urge to take the words back claws at Ilya’s insides, but it is overwhelmed by frustration, threaded through by confusion. Before he can make up his mind about what he wants to say, Shane is turning away and walking back across the room, clearly trying to find the exit. Shane wipes at his eyes with his palm as he goes.

Ilya resists the urge to follow by a hairsbreadth, his grip tightening on his glass of vodka. He downs the rest of his drink in one go and sets the glass down on the marble counter, perhaps a bit too hard, based on the sharp clink that echoes out across the room.

He turns his gaze back to Shane, and a slight wince tugs at his mouth when he sees that Shane has been stopped by a group of important-looking guys to talk. He leans his elbow on the counter, trying hard not to make it obvious that he’s watching Shane.

The conversation appears one-sided. The men are talking and Shane is mostly just humming along, his eyes wide and a little bit glassy. His shoulders are drawn upwards and he’s hunched in on himself slightly, his hand twitching as though wanting to fidget with his sleeve. This is more than just tipsy, Ilya realises. This is…fuzzy. Despite this, Shane still nods along in an attempt to be earnest, and he’s clearly trying hard to entertain the conversation.

Fucking Christ, Ilya thinks. If there is one thing Shane will always do, it is try. Try, and try, and try, until he either pushes through or cracks under the pressure.

Ilya quickly pulls his phone from his pocket, typing out a message to Shane.

Lily: If I leave now, can you get out of this conversation soon and follow? My room number is 1312.

Ilya watches as Shane’s phone buzzes with the notification, but Shane completely ignores it. Not so much as a glance downward, or a glance in Ilya’s direction. Shit.

He tries to catch Shane’s eye, but it does not work. Shane is either spaced out, or he is ignoring Ilya on purpose.

Ilya stands there for a moment, conflicted. Then, before he can fully think the decision through, he is approaching the circle, eyeing off the man who is taking lead of the conversation to see if he can recognise him. When Ilya gets a good view of his face, he quickly realises that he has met him before.

Fuck, who is it again? It’s a sponsor, definitely a sponsor. Ilya had spoken to him briefly at another hockey event. A big sponsor, something to do with hockey gear…yes, CCM, that’s it. He’s an executive from CCM, and he has a daughter who’s a fan of the Boston Raiders, and his name is—

“Michael,” Ilya greets cheerfully, painting a smile across his face as he joins the circle.

Based on the surprise that flickers across Michael’s face, Ilya may not have been in a very sociable mood when they had first met. Whoops.

“Well, if it isn’t Ilya Rosanov,” Michael returns, recovering quickly from his surprise. “You’re not here to duke it out with Hollander, are you? I was just telling him how great it is that we’ve finally been able to partner with him officially.”

Ilya casts a brief glance at Shane, who is pointedly looking away from Ilya, towards the wall. He is trying hard to school his expression, but the cracks are dangerously close to the surface, shining through in his unsteady inhales.

“No, no, not tonight. I am feeling generous,” Ilya remarks, grinning. He hopes it does not look too sharp.

Michael laughs, turning to face him. “So that All-Stars game was something, huh? Madison was pretty excited to see you two play on the same team. Says you were doing pretty well before that knock out.”

Ilya does his best to keep the conversation on himself, steering it away from Shane. He glances at Shane occasionally, but Shane is always looking away from him. For some reason, this makes something inside Ilya’s chest squeeze painfully. When Ilya feels as though he has entertained the pleasantries and small talk for an appropriate length of time, he starts to wrap things up.

“Now, gentlemen, I must reveal my true motive to you all,” Ilya says. “Hollander’s coach has asked me to retrieve him, he says he needs to speak with him in the lobby.”

Shane’s gaze finally snaps to Ilya at that, brows furrowed slightly.

“And he sent you?” Michael questions, amused.

“Yes, he was feeling very humorous,” Ilya says, provoking a hearty outburst of laughter from all three men.

“Well, what are parties for, right?” one of the men remarks.

“Yes, exactly,” Ilya agrees, smiling. He gives Shane a meaningful look, nodding towards the exit. Shane hesitates, before giving a small nod in return. “Well, we’ll be going now, but it was very nice talking. See you next time, yes?”

“See you, Rosanov,” Michael says. “And Hollander — we’ll definitely be in touch, alright? We got some ideas for some promotional things we’d love to have you on board for.”

“Sounds good,” Shane agrees, offering him a small smile.

When Ilya steps back from the circle, Shane follows. Ilya instinctively wants to place a hand on Shane’s back to guide him, but he suppresses the urge by a small margin. A tense silence falls between them as they walk towards the exit, keeping a few strides apart. Shane’s gaze darts towards Ilya, quickly rabbiting away again when Ilya meets it.

Warm LED lamps become harsh, fluorescent lights when they enter the lobby of the hotel. Shane squints for a moment at the onslaught. The reception area is large and sprawling, a collage of sharp marble angles and glittering light.

“This way,” Ilya says, as he begins to make his way towards the grand staircase at the centre of the room. There is a small, tucked-away corner wedged between the edge of the staircase and the corridor leading to the event rooms. Once Ilya reaches the corner he leans up against the marble edge of the staircase, facing Shane.

Shane hovers a meter away, looking uncertain. He casts an anxious glance over his shoulder, then steps forth and stands by the wall opposite Ilya, out of view from everybody else.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Shane mumbles, after a moment.

Ilya snorts. “I save you from the world’s most boring conversation and that is how you thank me?” he says.

Despite Shane’s efforts, a smile begins to tug at his mouth. “Why would you need to save me from a boring conversation if I’m boring? Shouldn’t I blend right in?”

“No, no, Hollander, you misunderstand. That conversation was more boring than you. Very drastic. That is why you needed saving from it,” Ilya says.

Hollander’s smile widens a fraction. “He was nice enough.“

“Nice and boring can go together, yes.” Ilya makes a gesture towards Shane, demonstrating his point.

“Asshole,” Shane huffs.

“Not nice to me, though. Asshole to me, nice to other people. Very sad,” Ilya says, exaggerating a pout, which earns him a shove to his shoulder.

“Fuck you. You deserve it,” Shane says.

The word ‘fuck’ has that same strange cadence that Ilya had noticed at Shane’s apartment weeks ago. Its usual sharp edges are dulled, quieter than the rest of his sentence, like a kid testing it out for the first time.

Ilya’s smile softens. “Maybe,” he concedes, indulgent.

Shane gazes at him for a moment, his smile slowly fading. His eyes dart away, his thumbs hooked in his pockets. “I’m sorry for coming up to you,” he says quietly. Some of the fuzziness from earlier seems to have dissipated now, leaving something more self-conscious in its wake.

“Is okay,” Ilya says. “You were, ah.” Fuzzy. Ilya gestures about. “Tipsy. Cannot handle your alcohol.”

“Hey, I can,” Shane insists, frowning slightly.

Ilya’s eyebrows raise. “Three cocktails and you were the party’s social butterfly, Hollander.”

Shane shakes his head. “Hayden told me the first one was ginger ale. And he was right, it did have ginger ale in it, but uh. It was actually a ginger ale cocktail.”

Ilya nods, amused. “Ah. So it was all Pike’s fault.”

“I mean, yeah, basically,” Shane says, smiling slightly.

Another silence settles between them. Ilya shifts against the wall, his eyes flickering over Shane’s expression. His features are slightly more relaxed now. Beyond their little corner, he can hear the faint bustle coming from the lobby, a hum of chatter and suitcase wheels rolling against the tiles. He cannot see out into the lobby, though, and there is no way for people to see them unless they specifically walk down this corner.

Ilya breaks the silence first. “I did not mean to upset you,” he says.

He practically sees the exact moment that the shutters close on Shane’s expression again, careful neutrality sweeping over his features as his lips press together. Steeling himself.

“It’s fine. I mean, I— I wasn’t upset,” Shane says, his tone painstakingly even.

“You looked upset,” Ilya points out.

“Well, I wasn’t,” Shane says, his voice firming slightly.

Ilya tilts his head. He wants to prod further, but he knows that this isn’t the place for it.

“Okay,” he says. “We can go up to my hotel room, yes? I will go first and then you can follow, maybe five minutes or so.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Shane agrees. He swallows hard, his gaze falling to the floor.

Ilya steps forward. “Shane. We do not have to do anything,” he tells him.

“I know that,” Shane says quickly.

“Okay.” Ilya’s brows furrow slightly, and he dips his head, trying to get a glimpse of the expression on Shane’s face. “So what is the problem?”

“There’s no problem,” Shane insists. “I just— maybe I shouldn’t come to your room tonight.”

Ilya shrugs. “Okay, so I come to your room. No problem.”

“No, I mean—“ Shane huffs, a tinge of frustration entering his voice. “I just…” he trails off.

“You just…?” Ilya prompts.

“I’m just…I’m just not feeling, uh. Up to it, I guess.”

Ilya considers this for a moment. He says the first thing that comes to his mind.

“Fuzzy,” he says.

Shane’s head immediately shoots up to look at Ilya. “What’d you say?” he questions.

Okay. So maybe that was a bad idea. Sometimes, you should not say the first thing that comes to your mind.

“Fuzzy,” Ilya repeats, trying hard to keep his tone casual.

Shane blinks. “What does that mean?” he demands.

Ilya hesitates, his mind quickly cycling through options for things to say. None of them seem great right now. All of them will spark at least some embarrassment in Shane, who seems very high-strung right now.

“Just, ah.” Ilya gestures about.

“Just what?” Shane questions, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Is just how you get, sometimes,” Ilya says, a touch of defensiveness wound through his voice.

“…How do I get sometimes?” Shane asks, sounding uncertain about whether he actually wants the answer. He’s trying to keep his tone neutral, but anxiety is starting to bleed in at the edges.

Ilya hesitates. “Like…soft,” he says. “Spacey. I don’t know.”

“Oh my god,” Shane mumbles, leaning back against the wall. He brings his hands up to cover his face.

“Shane,” Ilya says, taking another step forward. “Please do not freak out.”

“Way too late,” Shane says, his voice muffled by his palms. He slides down the wall slightly, looking distinctly as though he wants to leave his body out of mortification.

“Is not a bad thing,” Ilya insists.

Shane lowers his hands just to give Ilya a deadpan look.

“What? Is not,” Ilya says. “Is like when I came over, and you had your hoodie and whatever. You get soft, you want to cuddle, is simple. Maybe want kids’ stuff, sometimes, I don’t know. Like the comics—“

“Oh my god,” Shane says again, raising his hands back up to cover his face. “Ilya. Please stop talking. Not helpful.”

“Okay, okay,” Ilya relents, raising his hands in surrender. “I will stop. But is not a big deal, Shane. Maybe it feels like big deal, but is not to me.”

Shane just shakes his head, sucking in a shuddering breath. He slides further down the wall, his head lowering.

“Shane,” Ilya says, softer now. He takes one more step forward, closing the gap between them. He sets a hand on Shane’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “You know I will not judge you, yes?”

“That’s a lie,” Shane mumbles, his voice still muffled by his hands.

Ilya hums. “Okay, maybe I will judge you for boring things,” he concedes, which makes Shane huff. “But not important things.” He gives Shane’s shoulder another squeeze. “You’re good with me, okay?”

Shane hesitates, clearly turning the words over in his head. After a moment, he gives a tentative nod. He slowly lowers his hands away from his face, his eyes slightly glassy.

Ilya offers him a smile, moving his hand from Shane’s shoulder to his face, cupping his cheek.

“I have plan,” Ilya says.

“What is it?” Shane asks, voice small.

“We will go back to your room,” says Ilya. “You will go first, then I will follow after five minutes. Then, once we are in your room, we will cuddle. We do not have to do anything, we do not even have to talk.” He brushes his thumb along Shane’s cheek. “Sound okay?”

Shane hesitates, but only for a second. “Sounds okay,” he confirms. Something uncertain flickers in his gaze. “Five minutes?” he says.

“Yes, exactly five minutes,” Ilya agrees. “I will set timer on my phone.”

A faint smile tugs at Shane’s mouth. “Okay,” he agrees.

Ilya pats Shane’s cheek in approval, before drawing away. “There’s my boy,” he says, the words escaping him faster than he can temper.

A flush creeps across Shane’s cheeks, but it is not a bright, mortified blush this time, it is more like a subtle, pleased warmth.

“I will see you soon, yes?” Ilya says.

Shane nods and turns to head out of their little corner. He pauses a few feet away, looking back at Ilya for a moment.

“Bye-bye,” he mumbles.

Ilya’s expression slackens slightly with surprise, affection flaring bright and sudden inside his chest. Shane sounds exactly like he had at the hospital, when he’d bid Ilya goodbye, and Ilya had wanted nothing more but to stay.

“Bye,” Ilya returns gently, fighting the urge to follow Shane out of the corner. He hears Shane’s footsteps above his head as he heads up the staircase, towards the elevators.

Ilya starts a timer on his phone for five minutes and opens up instagram. He only scrolls for a couple of photos at a time before anxiously checking back on the timer. It feels like time has slowed down to a crawl, specifically to taunt him.

While he’s waiting, a text comes in from Shane.

Jane: 1210

Jane: Room number

Ah, right. That is one thing he had forgotten to ask. He reacts to the message with a heart.

Lily: See you soon

Ilya pauses the timer when it has one second remaining and switches it off, shoving his phone into his pocket and walking out of the little nook beside the staircase. He takes the steps two at a time and presses the button for the elevator multiple times in rapid succession. A couple standing nearby give him a pair of strange looks, which he answers with a serene smile.

It takes him another two minutes to reach Shane’s hotel room. Once he does, he checks both ways down the hallway before knocking. Shane opens the door almost immediately, warm light flooding out into the hallway. His hair is slightly ruffled now, and he has taken off his suit jacket and tie.

“Hey,” Shane greets, tugging at his sleeves. His gaze flickers between Ilya and the hallway behind him.

Shy, Ilya thinks.

“Hey yourself,” Ilya returns, smiling.

Shane steps aside to let Ilya in, closing the door behind him. The room is pretty much identical to Ilya’s, minimalist and warm with a queen-sized bed pushed up against the wall. Shane has drawn the blinds, but flickers of the city lights peek through around the corners of the window.

Ilya walks over to the chair in the corner of the room and shrugs off his own suit jacket, draping it over the chair. He untucks his dress shirt from his slacks and pulls off his tie, too. Shane is still standing in the same spot when Ilya turns back around, his thumbs in his pockets.

“It was not too long, yes? I timed it, exactly five minutes,” Ilya says, as he walks over to the bed and sits down on the edge.

Shane nods, watching as Ilya takes off his shoes. “You forgot to ask my room number,” he says, smiling slightly.

Ilya smiles too, setting his shoes aside. “Yes. Bit silly of me, hm?”

Ilya sits upright and scoots backwards on the bed, until his back is pressed against the headboard. Shane still stays put, his lips pressed together.

“Shane,” Ilya says, holding out his arms. “I was promised cuddles. I am here to collect now.”

Something softens in Shane’s expression. He toes off his own shoes, then he walks over to the bed, climbing onto the mattress. He crawls until he reaches Ilya, hesitating for just a moment before pressing himself into the circle of Ilya’s arms. Ilya’s arms wind around Shane’s back, and Shane leans into Ilya’s chest, tucking his head beneath Ilya’s chin. Ilya shifts, lifting Shane up a bit so that he’s seated more comfortably in Ilya’s lap.

Although they aren’t wearing the most comfortable clothing to cuddle in, Ilya still feels something warm unspool inside of him as Shane burrows against him, leaving no gaps between them. Tension he’d been carrying since the start of the award show begins to trickle out of him bit by bit, and it makes him realise how much his jaw has been aching from clenching it. He consciously loosens it, running his palms along the solid expanse of Shane’s back. There’s always something grounding about the feeling of Shane’s weight against him, something he had first picked up on during sex but has come to realise extends far beyond that. He has even grown fond of the stupid expensive cologne that Shane is contractually obligated to wear, its scent fresh and woody.

After a few minutes, Shane draws back slightly and rests his chin against Ilya’s chest. “Ilya?” he says.

“Hm?” Ilya hums.

Shane pauses for a moment. “I’m going to say something, and I need you not to laugh, or make fun of me. Okay?”

“Okay,” Ilya agrees immediately. He can sense that now is not the time for ‘depends on what it is.’

“Alright.” Shane takes in a deep breath. “You know what you were talking about before? The…thing, you mentioned.”

“Fuzzy,” Ilya fills in.

“Yeah, that.” Shane’s gaze falls away from Ilya’s. “You…you said that I want kids’ stuff, when I’m like that.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “Is not correct?”

“No, it’s…um. It’s just that…” Shane takes another breath, his grasp on Ilya’s shirt tightening slightly. “It’s not just that I want that stuff. It’s more like…”

Shane trails off, seemingly unable to finish his sentence. Ilya waits, lifting a hand to run through Shane’s hair. Shane shakes his head slightly, pressing a palm over his face.

“Have you murdered someone?” Ilya asks suddenly, causing Shane’s gaze to snap upwards in alarm.

“What? No,” he says, bewildered.

“Okay. Then whatever you want to say now cannot be so bad, then,” Ilya says.

A disbelieving smile twitches on Shane’s lips. “Jesus Christ.”

“Is true, no?” says Ilya.

Shane just shakes his head. “I’m trying to say that…it’s not just that I want, um. Kids’ stuff. It’s that I feel more like…um.”

Realisation slams into Ilya. “Like a kid?” he finishes.

Shane’s expression seems torn between relief that he didn’t have to say it himself and horror at what he’d just admitted to Ilya.

Ilya takes a moment to process the words. That is what he had been missing. Not just fuzzy, but…young. It puts together the disjointed thoughts and puzzle pieces that had been gathering at the corners of his mind for a while now.

It seems like a more apt description as Ilya runs over the events of that afternoon a few weeks ago inside his head. It makes more sense why Shane had been so mortified. It was not just about the hoodie and the comics, it was about what these meant to Shane, and what it meant for Ilya to see them.

“Okay,” Ilya says, running a hand along Shane’s back. “Is not a problem. I am good with kids.”

“Oh my god,” Shane mumbles, burying his face back in Ilya’s chest. Ilya faintly hears an embarrassed groan.

“What?” Ilya questions, slightly offended. “I am.”

“You are way too chill about this,” Shane says, voice muffled against the fabric of Ilya’s shirt.

Ilya frowns at that. “Do you want me to not be chill about it?”

“No, I just— I don’t know,” Shane says, his fingers curling tighter in Ilya’s shirt. “I know it’s not exactly…normal.”

Ilya leans down and presses a kiss to Shane’s head. “Normal is not very important to me. In fact, I think it is boring. Another thing that is more boring than you.”

He feels the smile that Shane presses against his shoulder. “The list of things that are more boring than me is starting to stack up, huh?”

“Do not get ahead of yourself,” Ilya says flatly. “Is not that many.”

“Mkay,” Shane says, still smiling. He tips his head up to look at Ilya, his expression soft.

Ilya smiles back down at him for a moment, before schooling his expression into something more solemn. “I feel bad now,” he sighs.

“Why?” Shane questions, peering up at him.

“Because you were fuzzy, and I told you to go away,” Ilya says.

“It’s fine—“ Shane starts, but Ilya interrupts him.

“No, no. Is not fine. I have to make up for it now,” he insists, keeping his tone serious. “Come here.”

Ilya leans down and starts to pepper little kisses across Shane’s cheeks and forehead, barely suppressing a smile when Shane starts to laugh.

“Ilya—” he protests. His fingers untangle themselves from Ilya’s shirt and start to press at his chest instead, trying to put some distance between them.

“Noooo, Hollander, I have to say sorry. Hold still,” he says, his grip on Shane’s tightening slightly as he trails kisses down his face, pressing a few along his jaw.

Shane’s next burst of laughter sounds suspiciously close to giggles, his hands pushing more against Ilya’s chest. Ilya lets go of him this time, allowing Shane to roll off of him and onto his back. Ilya rolls with him, rumpling the hotel bed covers in the process. Ilya shifts so that he is hovering over Shane, and the smile twitching on his lips finally wins out, spreading across his face.

Shane is still grinning even after Ilya stops kissing him, his eyes bright as he gazes up at Ilya. The haze of uncertainty from earlier has dissipated, leaving something soft and trusting in its wake. Shane doesn’t appear absent, or lost. Just…tucked away.

“My boy,” Ilya murmurs, affectionate. Shane’s face pinkens slightly at the words. “Where is your hoodie, hm? The blue one with the clouds,” Ilya says.

Shane hesitates. “In my suitcase,” he mumbles.

Ilya’s expression brightens. He was hoping that Shane had brought it with him, but he’d had some doubts.

“Should I grab it?” Ilya suggests. “Only if you want.”

Shane considers this for a moment, and Ilya can practically see the cogs turning inside his head. Eventually, Shane gives a tentative nod. “Okay,” he agrees.

Ilya sits up on his haunches, offering Shane a smile. “Gimme one second, yes? I will grab.”

Ilya feels Shane’s gaze on him as he climbs off the bed, walking over towards Shane’s suitcase in the corner of the room. He unzips it and lays it flat on the floor, rifling through it to try and find Shane’s hoodie. He searches through what appears to be everything, but he cannot see any sign of it.

“I cannot see it,” Ilya says, frowning slightly.

Shane sits up on the bed. “It’s…wrapped in another jacket, in the zipped part,” he says, eyes darting down towards the bed covers.

“Ah,” Ilya says. He opens the zipped compartment inside the suitcase and finds a black adidas jacket. He unfolds it, and sure enough, there lies Shane’s pale blue hoodie. Carefully tucked away and concealed from prying eyes.

Ilya picks up the hoodie, along with a plain shirt and sweatpants. He walks back over to the bed, lowering himself down and shifting so that he’s sitting in front of Shane.

“Okay. Arms up,” he says, as he sets the clothes down beside him.

Shane’s eyes widen slightly, hesitation flickering across his face. “Ilya, I can do it myself,” he insists.

Ilya nods, casual. “Yes, I know that. But I want to help.”

Shane continues to gaze at him, wary. Ilya returns the gaze evenly.

“If you really do not want me to, I will not help. But you know I will not judge you if you do,” Ilya says.

Shane chews at the inside of his cheek. If his thoughts are any louder, Ilya thinks he would be able to hear them. He keeps looking between Ilya and the clothes, his mind seemingly stuck in a tailspin.

“Okay,” Shane relents finally, letting out a slow exhale.

Ilya nods. He does not dissect the answer, or ask Shane to explain himself further. He just lets it be.

“Good. Arms up, please,” Ilya repeats.

This time, Shane obliges, raising his arms up above his head. Ilya hums with approval, leaning in to undo the first few buttons of his dress shirt. He takes the hem of the shirt and slowly lifts it up over Shane’s head. His touch is purposeful rather than lingering, as it usually would be.

“There we go,” Ilya murmurs, as he sets the dress shirt aside. “Okay, shirt first. Keep your arms up for me.” He can feel Shane’s eyes on him as he takes the plain grey shirt and lifts it up over his head. “One arm in, then the other…yes, good.”

Ilya grabs the blue hoodie next, lifting it up and pulling it down over Shane’s head. Once it is over Shane’s head and his arms are in, he pulls it down by the hem until it settles comfortably.

He offers Shane a smile once he’s done, his eyes flickering over the cartoon clouds on the hoodie. “Very cute. When did you buy this?” he asks.

Shane shifts on the bed, pulling his sleeves over his palms. There’s a hazy quality to his gaze now, as though pulling the hoodie on had also pulled a certain softness over him.

“Mm…few years ago,” Shane says, after a moment.

Ilya feigns a gasp. “A few years ago? And I have never seen it?” he questions.

Shane hesitates at that. “Sorry,” he mumbles. The sincerity in the word makes Ilya’s heart squeeze.

“Oh no, is okay,” he assures. “I have seen it now, da? That is all that matters.”

Shane nods, his shoulders lowering slightly as though he is genuinely relieved. Ilya makes a mental note that jokes must be more obvious while Shane is fuzzy.

“Da,” Shane echoes, as though trying the word on his tongue.

Ilya nods as he reaches for the sweatpants. “Mm. Means yes. You like it? Da?”

“Da,” Shane agrees, smiling slightly, which prompts a soft chuckle from Ilya.

“Smart boy,” he praises. “Could you stand up for me? We have to get your sweatpants on. Hoodie with fancy pants is not a good combination.”

“‘Kay,” Shane mumbles. He crawls over to the edge of the bed and carefully stands up. He turns to face Ilya, blinking expectantly.

Ilya shifts over towards the edge of the bed, setting his feet down on the floor. “Okay, these go first, then sweatpants go on,” he murmurs, as he reaches out to undo the button on Shane’s slacks.

He steadies Shane as he steps out of the slacks, then picks them up off the floor and sets them aside.

“Good,” says Ilya, as he reaches for the sweatpants. “Now, step into these, one foot, then the other…da, good boy.” Ilya tugs the sweatpants up Shane’s legs, giving his tummy an approving pat once he’s done.

“There we go. All changed now,” Ilya says.

Shane looks down at his clothes, as though he has only just realised that he is now fully changed. He smiles slightly, wrapping his arms around himself. Aching fondness tightens inside Ilya’s throat, silencing him for a moment.

Ilya takes a breath. “Are you hungry, zayka?” he questions.

“What does that mean?” Shane asks curiously. The words wobble slightly, less polished than usual.

“Means bunny,” Ilya tells him.

Shane considers this for a long moment, brows furrowing slightly with confusion. “But…I’m not a bunny,” he says.

Ilya smiles at that. “Mm, are you sure? You are quick like one, and your hoodie makes you soft like one.”

Shane gives this some thought, as though he is carefully weighing up the evidence. “But I don’t have fur,” he says.

Ilya nods, barely schooling his smile away. “Ah, yes, I suppose that is true. Okay, if you are not a bunny, then are you hungry?”

Shane needs to think about this too. After a few beats, he nods.

“Should we order room service?” Ilya asks.

Shane quickly shakes his head. That is a no, then. Perhaps Shane is worried about the prospect of someone being near the hotel room when he’s feeling like this.

“Okay,” Ilya says. “Let’s check the minibar, da? That might have something.”

Shane nods in agreement, and so Ilya stands up from the bed, heading over to the small cupboard by the microwave. When he turns around, he finds that Shane is still standing by the bed with his arms wrapped around himself, watching Ilya.

Ilya nods his head towards the minibar. “Over here, silly. Come and see.”

“Oh,” Shane gasps, realisation sweeping his face. He hurries over to stand by Ilya.

“Okay…let’s see, let’s see.” Ilya picks up a packet of chips. “How about these?” Shane shakes his head, which is probably to be expected. Ilya grabs a bag of caramel popcorn next. “This?” Shane shakes his head again. Ilya rifles through the selection, trying to find something that is moderately ‘healthy’, even if it does not fit perfectly into Shane’s meal planning. It seems that Shane’s concern for healthy food is a constant fixture.

“How about these?” Ilya questions, holding up a packet of dark chocolate-covered almonds.

Shane pauses, examining the packet for a long moment. He nods his approval, and Ilya internally lets out a sigh of relief. This is just about the only thing that would not be considered ‘junk food’ by most standards.

“Very good. Okay, let’s sit down on the bed again, and you can eat them,” Ilya says.

Shane walks back over and settles down at the centre of the bed, his back up against the headboard. Ilya hands him the bag of chocolate almonds as he sits down beside him, making himself comfortable. For a minute or so, Ilya just watches as Shane eats the almonds, occasionally handing one over to Ilya. Ilya’s gaze starts to wander across the room, sweeping by the bedside table beside him. Shane’s ipad is charging there.

An idea suddenly sparks in Ilya’s head.

“It was the Snoopy comics you were reading, yes? The Peanuts comics?” Ilya questions.

Shane nods, blinking at Ilya as he chews an almond. He holds out another almond for Ilya, who mumbles a small “thanks” and pops it into his mouth.

“Should we read them now?” Ilya suggests between chews. “I am very good with reading. I can do the voices.”

A small smile appears on Shane’s face. “Okay,” he agrees.

Ilya takes the ipad off charge and draws it onto his lap, tapping the screen. Shane’s passcode comes up.

“Gimme your fingerprint,” he says, which prompts a giggle from Shane.

Ilya holds out the ipad so that Shane can do his fingerprint, unlocking it.

“Gimme your fingerprint,” Shane echoes in a silly voice, as he pops another almond into his mouth.

Ilya frowns. “Hey. I do not sound like that.”

“Mkay,” Shane mumbles, still smiling.

“I do not,” Ilya insists dramatically, which provokes another round of giggles from Shane.

Ilya shakes his head, smiling slightly to himself as he brings up the browser on Shane’s ipad. He finds the comics open in an incognito tab, wincing slightly as a few ads immediately pop up on the website.

“Why do you not have the physical copies?” Ilya asks. “That way there would be no ads.”

The smile fades from Shane’s face at the words, and Ilya immediately wants to take them back. Shane gives a half-hearted shrug, his eyes darting away as he pops an almond into his mouth.

Ilya carefully files that conversation away for later. The ads only seem to come up when you initially open the page, so it will not interrupt their reading too much. It seems that Shane is up to the comics from 1989.

“Is okay,” Ilya says. “This will do for now, yes?” He lifts his arm out to Shane. “Come here, come cuddle up.”

Shane obliges, shuffling across the bed and tucking himself beneath Ilya’s outstretched arm. Ilya wraps his arm around Shane, drawing him in close.

“Okay.” Ilya clears his throat as he flicks to the first page.

Linus is the only character in the first few panels of the comic, which have him standing atop a grassy hill. He reads Linus’ first few lines.

“Everybody listen!” Ilya says, dragging the syllables out dramatically. He tries to keep his volume somewhat down, in consideration of the rooms next door. He squeezes Shane’s shoulder, then turns his head, as though announcing it to the world. “I am it! I am the king of the hill! Nothing on this earth can remove me from my domain! I am the king! The king of this hill!” He rocks Shane back and forth for emphasis, which makes him giggle.

Ilya reads Lucy’s line next, as she approaches Linus on the hill.

“You’re not the Suzerain,” Ilya says, in a deadpan voice, before switching back to Linus. “What’s a suzerain?” he says.

Lucy again. “A king,” he answers, still in that deadpan tone. He pauses before reading Linus’ response. “I am the suzerain!” he says, gently jostling Shane again, prompting another bout of giggles.

Ilya returns to Lucy’s deadpan voice. “No you’re not,” he says. He pauses here, smiling slightly at the panel. Lucy is pushing Linus rather dramatically from the top of the hill, sending him tumbling. He uses her voice again. “I am the suzerain!” he says. Then, he says Linus’ final line in a small, meek tone: “I was the king,” he mumbles sadly, feigning a pout.

Shane giggles again as he eats his final almond, setting the packet aside.

Ilya had been aware of the Snoopy characters, particularly through merchandise, but he has never actually read the comics before. They were not particularly popular in Russia when he was young. Still, based on this, he can see why Shane might like them while he’s feeling young.

“Okay, so what did we learn from this first page?” Ilya asks, with mock seriousness.

Shane hums, kicking his feet as he thinks. He looks back up at Ilya. “Lucy is mean?”

Ilya smiles. “Da, she is mean. But also funny. It balances out, see?”

“Like you,” Shane says, bringing his sweater paw up to cover his mouth.

Ilya gasps in offence. “I am not mean! Very funny, but not mean. Take that back right now.”

Shane shakes his head. Though his smile is covered, Ilya can see the way his eyes crinkle with it. “Mean,” he says again, voice muffled slightly.

Ilya shakes his head in faux disbelief. “I am not mean. Explain to me how I am mean.”

“Win sometimes,” Shane mumbles, his smile widening slightly.

Ilya’s eyebrows raise. “Oh, I win sometimes, huh? So you are a sore loser?”

Shake shakes his head, muffling a laugh with the sleeve of his sweater.

How the fuck is Ilya supposed to even pretend to be mad at that? It is not fair. He is being victimised.

Ilya shakes his head. “You are lucky that you are a cute sore loser,” he mumbles, as he adjusts his arm around Shane again and settles back against the headboard. “Let’s keep reading, yes?”

Shane nods eagerly, drawing his hand away from his face and leaning his head against Ilya’s shoulder again.

Ilya possibly has too much fun doing the voices for the characters. In his defence, Shane makes a very generous audience, and he seems to find Ilya’s impressions very funny. He is much more generous than adult Shane, who tries very hard to pretend that Ilya is not funny because he does not want Ilya’s ego to grow too big, whatever that means.

Ilya gets through about thirty pages of the comic before he notices that it’s starting to get late. He feels a little bit regretful because Shane has clearly gotten comfortable, even nibbling on the ends of his hoodie strings. But it would not be wise for either of them to stay up too late, considering they both have flights the following morning.

“Okay, I think that’s enough for now,” Ilya announces, as he clicks out of the tab. “Time to brush teeth.”

Shane groans at that, collapsing dramatically onto the bed. Ilya snorts and gives him a small poke, gasping when Shane still doesn’t move.

“Oh my goodness, he is dead.” Ilya shakes his head mournfully. “What will I do? How will the hockey world go on?”

Shane lifts his head up at that, blinking at Ilya.

“Oh, he is not dead! Thank goodness. Okay, so we can go brush teeth now,” Ilya says.

Shane promptly lets his head fall back down onto the bed at that, going still. Ilya can’t help but roll his eyes as he stands up, circling to the other side of the bed where Shane’s head is resting.

“Do not make me carry you, Shane,” Ilya threatens playfully.

He sees Shane shift, hiding a smile against the bed covers. “You can’t carry me,” he mumbles.

“What? Yes I can. I have carried you before,” Ilya says, frowning.

“No you haven’t,” Shane insists, voice muffled slightly.

“Oh, so you are a little liar now, hm? You lie for fun?” Ilya questions, eyebrows raised.

“‘M not,” Shane says.

“Okay, that’s it. Sit upright on the bed, I’ll show you,” Ilya says.

Shane remains still for a few moments, clearly weighing following Ilya’s instructions versus having to brush his teeth. Following instructions seems to come out on top eventually, because he slowly drags himself upright, scooting to the edge of the bed. His hair is mussed, and his hoodie is all messed up. Ilya reaches out to fix it, tugging it down by the hem.

“Good,” Ilya says approvingly. “Arms around me, okay? You have to hold on tight.”

Shane nods, and so Ilya leans down to grasp under Shane’s thighs, making sure he has a secure hold before he slowly straightens, lifting Shane with him. Shane winds his arms around Ilya’s neck and wraps his legs around Ilya’s waist, holding on tight. It is not an easy task by any means — Shane is quite built, after all — but it’s certainly doable. Ilya lets out a soft grunt as he adjusts his hold, getting a more comfortable grip on Shane.

“There, see?” Ilya says. “And now that you are trapped, it’s time to brush teeth.”

Shane lets out a small huff against Ilya’s neck, his hair tickling Ilya’s jaw slightly as he tucks his face against him like a dejected koala.

“Read more after?” he questions, voice small.

Ilya nods. “Yes. Except, I will tell a story this time. Better than Snoopy comics.”

Shane makes a small, curious noise as Ilya begins to walk towards the bathroom. “What kind of story?” he asks.

“A very exciting one,” Ilya promises.

“Who’s in it?” Shane asks.

“Me, of course,” says Ilya.

“Is there anyone else in it?”

“Nope. Just me.”

“What’s it about?”

“You will have to see.”

“Does it have animals in it?”

“Da. It does.”

“Does it have a happy ending?”

“Again, you will have to see.”

“Does it have hockey in it?”

Ilya gives him an incredulous look. “Okay, too many questions now. I am banning all questions about the story,” he says.

Ilya approaches the vast bathroom counter and carefully sets Shane down beside the sink.

Shane is pouting slightly now. “Does it?” he presses, eyes wide.

Ilya huffs, reaching out to grab the hotel toothbrush kits behind the sink. “Fine, okay, I will add hockey.” He leans in to press a quick kiss to Shane’s cheek, silently letting him know that he is not actually annoyed.

Shane smiles at that, swinging his legs a little bit. “Yay,” he mumbles.

Ilya just shakes his head, squeezing toothpaste onto one of the hotel toothbrushes. It is a crappy plastic one, but it will have to do.

“Here we go,” he says, as he hands the toothbrush to Shane. “Just for two minutes, yes? Not so long.”

Shane hums and starts brushing his teeth without complaint. Perhaps the story has motivated him. Ilya will just have to think about what the story actually is, now.

Once Shane has finished brushing his teeth, Ilya uses a handtowel to gently wipe away the toothpaste smudged at the corners of his mouth.

“Good boy. See, all done now,” he says, as he takes Shane’s hand and helps him down from the counter.

“Story now?” Shane questions.

“Da. Story time now. Come, we’ll cuddle up first, yes?”

“‘Kay,” Shane agrees. He doesn’t let go of Ilya’s hand once he’s down from the counter, so Ilya holds on too, guiding Shane out of the bathroom. He flicks off the light behind him as he goes.

Ilya pulls back the covers and sits down against the headboard. Shane quickly follows, tucking himself into Ilya’s side with his fingers curled into Ilya’s shirt. Ilya draws the covers over both of them.

Ilya dramatically clears his throat. “Okay. Are you ready?”

Shane nods eagerly.

“Are you sure?” Ilya questions.

“Yes,” Shane says, dragging the word out.

“Okay, okay.” Ilya clears his throat again. “So, back in Russia, I would sometimes walk in the forest. Like you do, sometimes, yes?” Shane nods, gazing up at Ilya with rapt attention. Ilya can’t help but smile slightly. “Except, one day, when I was in the forest, I saw something…an animal. It was terrifying. Have a guess, what do you think it is?”

Shane’s brows furrow with concentration as he thinks. “Mmm…a bear?”

Ilya shakes his head no.

“A wolf?” Shane tries.

“Nope,” Ilya says.

“A…boar?”

“Nope, not a boar. It was…” Ilya pauses for dramatic effect. “A squirrel!”

Shane stills, taking a moment to process the words. Once he does, he immediately bursts into giggles. “A squirrel?” he echoes.

Ilya feigns a frown. “What’s funny? Why are you laughing?” he demands.

Perhaps he comes across too serious, because something flickers in Shane’s gaze, and he quickly tries to reel in his giggles. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

Ilya softens immediately, leaning down to press a kiss to his head. “No, is okay,” he assures. “I was being a little bit silly. But it was not just one squirrel, Shane. It was many, many, many squirrels.”

“How many?” Shane asks curiously.

“Eighty-seven,” Ilya intones.

“What?” Shane exclaims, his disbelief returning.

“Yes. Eighty-seven. That is like, one hundred and seventy-four beady little eyes looking at you. Oh, and it was nighttime too, so the eyes were glowing.”

“You said it was daytime,” Shane says, frowning slightly.

“No I didn’t,” Ilya says quickly.

“Yes you did!” Shane insists, a smile starting to form on his face.

“Okay, okay, fine, maybe I said it was daytime,” Ilya relents. “But I was lying then. Is actually nighttime.”

“Mkay,” Shane says slowly, looking as though he’s adjusting his mental image of the story. “What were the squirrels saying?” he asks.

“Ah, that is the scary part. They were saying such terrible things, like ‘we want…to eat youuu…’” Ilya says, lowering his voice dramatically. He playfully nibbles at Shane’s ear, which prompts a surprised squeak as Shane pulls away, laughing.

“And then they chased me, Shane! They chased me through the forest with their little claws. I tried to climb a tree, but it was no use. They had me surrounded.”

Shane gasps at this, looking genuinely concerned. “What did you do?”

“I threatened the squirrels,” Ilya says, “I said to them, ‘I have a friend who is a bear who will come and eat you if you try to eat me!’ But the squirrels just laughed. They did not believe me.”

Shane’s grasp on Ilya’s shirt tightens slightly, his eyes wide.

Ilya continues. “So, the squirrels were coming closer. My bear friend was not coming. The squirrels were about to eat me. But then, it turns out…”

Shane holds his breath. Ilya tries hard to suppress a smile.

“I was the bear all along!” Ilya says, shifting out from underneath Shane so that he can tackle him to the bed. Delighted laughter bursts from Shane as he squirms and struggles, pushing at Ilya’s hands.

“But I’m not a squirrel!” Shane squawks.

“No, but you are a bunny, which is just as tasty. Maybe more tasty,” Ilya teases, making exaggerated eating sounds as he nibbles at Shane’s neck.

Ilya lets up after a few seconds of his attack, not wanting to actually overwhelm Shane by accident. Giggles continue to pour from Shane’s mouth as he lies on the bed, his cheeks pink and his eyes bright. His limbs had gotten tangled in the covers from his struggling.

“So?” Ilya prompts, smiling. “Did you like my story?”

Shane nods as his giggles slowly start to die down. He holds out his arms towards Ilya and makes grabby hands. Ilya gladly fulfils the silent request, wrapping his arms around Shane and gathering him in close. He presses a kiss to Shane’s cheek.

“Zayka,” Ilya murmurs affectionately.

Shane is either too happy or too tired to argue with the endearment. That is, he seems pretty happy, until suddenly a frown starts to spread across his face, his brows furrowing.

“Ilya,” he says, quietly.

Ilya’s stomach immediately drops, and he draws away from Shane slightly. Had he taken something too far?

“Yes?” Ilya prompts. “What’s the matter?”

Shane pauses for a moment. “You said you were gonna add hockey to the story, but there wasn’t any hockey.”

Oh my god, Ilya thinks to himself. He has to take a moment to settle his heart.

“You play hockey everyday and yet you want it in your story?” Ilya questions.

When Shane just blinks up at him, looking expectant, Ilya deflates with a dramatic sigh.

“Okay,” he relents. “The bear has a change of heart, and decides not to eat the bunny after all. But he does eat the squirrels, all eighty-seven of them. Once he is done with this, him and the bunny celebrate by playing some hockey in the forest. The end.”

Shane beams at that. “That’s us!” he says.

“Yes, zayka, that is us,” Ilya agrees, unable to keep the fondness inside him from threading through the words. He leans down to press another kiss to Shane’s cheek. “Are you happy now?”

Shane nods, tucking his face against Ilya’s chest and cuddling in close. Ilya lets out a sigh as he runs his palm along Shane’s shoulders and back, nosing along Shane’s hairline. His hand lingers near Shane’s side, where he can feel the steady beat of Shane’s heart if he presses his fingers in slightly. He feels Shane’s chest rise and fall with each slow breath he takes, feels his ribs expand then contract. There is something assuring about the motion.

Looking down at Shane, Ilya can’t help but wonder what Shane does when he’s feeling like this and he’s alone. Does he have something he can cuddle like this?

“Shane,” Ilya says, nudging him gently with his nose to get his attention.

Shane hums a bit absently.

“I know you have your hoodie for when you are fuzzy, but do you have anything else? Like a plushie or something?” Ilya asks him.

Shane hesitates, and Ilya feels him tense, the muscles in his back pulling taut. Shane slowly shakes his head.

Another conversation to file away for a later time, Ilya thinks.

“Okay. Is okay. I was just curious,“ Ilya says. He presses an apologetic kiss to Shane’s head, smoothing his palm over Shane’s shoulders to try to get him to relax again.

Slowly but surely, Shane starts to melt against him, his grip on Ilya’s shirt loosening slightly. Eventually, Shane goes completely limp, his breaths soft and even with sleep. The sharp remnants of Ilya’s day — the small talk, the low simmer of frustration — dissolve somewhere in the warmth of Shane’s weight against him. He sighs, and decides he will examine what all of this means for them another day.