Chapter Text
To say Shane is tired would be an understatement.
He’s flattened, squashed, and entirely worn. His body has been grounded to dust, yet somehow he has been blessed with the opportunity to stay alive through such fatigue.
Tonight had been tiring, to say the least. So much was going on that at the end of it all, Shane just ached for his bed.
The Centaur’s had a game with Montreal, which only means a brutality so unforgiving that no one on the team comes out unscathed. It’s just how it goes. Two of Montreal’s biggest targets on a singular team plus their teammates that defend them make up for a recipe of danger.
It seemed that with this match, Montreal had been more focused on tormenting the team rather than actually scoring. Shane had wondered if they finally understood that no matter how violent they got, they would be able to score a win against the Centaur’s. Which left them to their own devices and the interest of trying to see how close you could get a hockey game to become a UFC fight.
So when Shane finally gets into bed, he’s lax in all of his muscles and aching everywhere in his bones.
His hips pinch from certain celebratory activities that he and Ilya got up to once returning home, and while it was enjoyable, it was definitely not smart to pair it up with the bruises beginning to bloom on his body; all from Montreal and their spineless players, of course.
The comforters of the bed are warm and freshly washed with the tender scent of Shane’s favorite detergent, the lavender one that he’s unsure of what the name is but it doesn’t matter because it’s lavender. They wrap around his body, embracing him with such a gentleness he wants to swell with tears from how gifted he is to have such a comfortable bed.
Maybe he’s overreacting. He’s extremely tired, sensitive and worn in all the right places, and his head throbs with a need to rest.
Beside him the mattress dips with the weight of Ilya, who shifts around to raise the linen over himself. Unlike Shane, he rests himself half way up the bed, propped and still not ready to fall asleep.
“You’re not tired?” Shane mumbles, moving deeper into the pillow at his head and glancing up at Ilya with bleary eyes.
Ilya raises a hand to palm at Shane’s hair, brushing the black scruff and letting it run through his fingers, “No, go to sleep kotenok.”
As Ilya scrapes his nails across Shane’s scalp, he treads closer towards sleep. He wants Ilya to sleep with him. To come down from where he’s propped up and cuddle him into that state of sweet dreaming. He wants to do it together, like they’ve done everything today.
He flops a hand on Ilya’s stomach, letting it splay out and softly slap against his skin, “Go t’sleep w’me,” Shane slurs, pinching Ilya and smirking loosely at the gasp that releases from Ilya’s lips.
“I’ll be there with you soon,” Ilya reaches over to his bedside table, making Shane’s hand slip off his stomach as he retrieves his phone.
He’s not going to be sleeping with Shane at all by the looks of it. Shane knows that the moment he has his phone in hand, he’s more focused on watching some ridiculously stupid memes— whatever those are— and playing games until the sun rises.
A hockey game and great sex will not stop Ilya from grinding on the game. It takes a lot to tire him. Truly. Shane has tried many things.
So Shane sighs, and accepts defeat before the battle has even begun. He takes one good look at Ilya, whose face is illuminated by the screen of his phone. His eyes are much brighter and blue from the screen, and his skin has paled.
He’ll be dreaming of Ilya rather than with, it seems.
“No you won’t,” Shane murmurs, and rolls to face the other side. When he’s met with the sight of his bedside table, he immediately misses Ilya’s face. It’s odd, he’s right next to him, and could easily run it back and bother his husband until he yields.
But he doesn’t. Bundled in the covers of the bed, he shares the warmth of it with Ilya, who keeps his nose pressed into that phone of his.
Shane doesn’t even know how that thing is still alive. The storage is begging for help at this point, dying a slow and very much belated death. The screen has been cracked and repaired so many times that Shane has lost count at this point. The case is beat up and in dire need of a replacement. The phone, in its whole integrity, is a poor excuse for humanity’s finest technology.
Not to mention the fact that Ilya has jumped over to Shane’s phone too. Sure, he has understood the “five games at a time” rule, but that doesn’t mean he runs the battery on Shane’s phone more than he thought was possible.
Shane doesn’t even get to see his phone anymore. Ilya has scalped every single piece of electronic devices in the household. They’ve all been tormented by his endless games and battery draining habits.
He can’t think about it anymore. His brain is mush, reaching the limit of its own storage. He’ll worry himself about it some more when he wakes up tomorrow.
Eyes fluttering shut, Shane lets him go to some much needed rest.
❧
When Shane wakes, it’s not because of a nightmare or Anya trying to sneak into his arms.
No, it’s none of that.
When Shane wakes, it’s because of the screech of tires blasting through the room at such a ferocity it startles him. He jolts in the bed, twitching alive and opening bleary eyes to make sense of the abrasive noise.
His body still aches, and his mind is numb with that tender sensation of sleep and being pushed to its limits. He wants to go back to sleep. He feels like those children who cry and tuck tantrums about wanting to be put to bed already.
Yet the screeching of tires continues, with the occasional roar of engines overpowering the tires.
Shane is pissed.
Gripping the edge of the comforter tight, he rolls over to face Ilya. He’s propped up on the headboard exactly where he was when Shane fell asleep. His curls are splayed around the board and his head recklessly, giving him a youthful look that Shane can’t negotiate with right now.
In his hands he grips his phone horizontally. His hands are grasping each end, and his thumbs reach over to control his game. Colors flash across his face and flicker light upon his skin, morphing its color from tan to pale in seconds. Shane can see the reflection of the game in Ilya’s eyes, a twinkle so childlike he doesn’t want to berate it.
But he’s tired, and he’s fed up with Ilya. He hated when he’s woken up from his sleep, especially since he’s a light sleeper. It’s so difficult to get his mind to shutdown, so when he finally does it’s like finding a gold mine. Ruining all of his hard work only irks him, and makes him reminisce on what he could’ve had; a night well rested.
Ilya doesn’t register Shane, who is boring his eyes into the side of his husband’s profile with such a poison that it could set someone else on fire. He continues to play his racing game, the squealing and rumbling of the digital car’s running a muck in the air in between them. Shane is getting a headache from it, he thinks.
Or he might just be ticked off, one or the other.
“Ilya.” Shane rumbles, voice tight and scratchy with sleep as he glares at Ilya.
He peers at the corner of his eyes, glancing at Shane. His eyes widen and he slams the phone against his bare chest.
“Did I wake you?” Ilya reaches over, swiping a thumb over one of Shane’s eyebrows, laying the sleep-ruffled hairs flat and back into their shape.
Shane pulls away, swatting at Ilya’s hand and reveling in the pained expression settling on his face, “Yeah, with your stupid game.”
Now, Ilya is fumbling. He scrambles and scoots closer towards Shane, abandoning his phone, “I am sorry malysh,” he wavers, “I— I did not mean to!”
Ignoring Ilya’s cue to cuddle, Shane rolls over and gives him his bare back, “Whatever, you asshole,” he grumbles, nosing into the pillow, “Maybe turn it down next time.”
“Shane!” Ilya gasps, swatting his shoulder and shifting closer to his husband. He fits himself behind him, wrapping his arms around Shane’s waist and pulling him tight into himself.
“You do not mean that,” Ilya mumbles into Shane’s neck, his breath brushing along his skin with a clammy warmth that coaxes Shane into forgiving Ilya.
He doesn’t want to. Ilya knows how hard it is for Shane to get himself to sleep. Sure, there are other avenues to push him further down that line of fatigue, but sometimes his brain does not always yield. Tonight was one of those nights.
Shane hums, grasping onto the hands that splay across his stomach, “Maybe.”
“You are mean,” Ilya huffs, the cold tip of his nose pressing against Shane’s nape as he pinches his stomach.
Shane kicks him in return, shoving his heel back onto Ilya’s shin and bathing in the soft groan he releases. He can play that game.
He would. If he wasn’t so tired he would spin around and put Ilya in a chokehold, and then maybe end up in a compromising position that leads them nowhere and everywhere they want to be all at once. That’s how it always ends when they wrestle around. They pinch and pull, tug and grope, all until the other shifts in a suggesting way and then off they go.
But Shane lets Ilya pinch him once more, unbothered by the soft pain that flares on his skin. He just wants to sleep. They can wrestle around tomorrow.
“Go to sleep, Ilya,” Shane grumbles, pinching the hairs of Ilya’s legs with his toes and tugging, “Seriously.”
“Ow, ow—! Yes, okay, sorry!”