Work Text:
The drive home from practice was quite possibly the most silent drive Shane had ever experienced in his life.
He could feel Ilya’s anger, simmering away underneath his skin as he drove, all thick and ready to boil over.
He could see it in the set of his jaw and the way it twitched every few seconds, eyes trained, all hard and cold on the road ahead.
He could hear it in the way Ilya’s breath puffed out like it pained him to do so, like there was something heavy sitting behind his teeth, ready to be yelled, to be argued— but he remained reticent, in a haze of quiet fury that flooded the car.
Shane forced himself to look away, to push it from his mind in favour of concentrating on the world outside that blew past far too quickly. He really wanted to tell Ilya to slow down, to drive sensibly, but just one quick glance at the white knuckled grip his husband had on the steering wheel was enough to set him back to the window, recoiling a little further away from him.
He jumped when Ilya’s hand reached over to cover his, and he hadn’t realized he’d been rubbing it over his knee, back and forth furiously like he was shining a stubborn piece of silver.
Ilya’s large, warm hand steadied him for a few moments, fingers wrapping around his to still their incessant motion— only pulling away so he could park the car as they reached their Ottawa home.
Shane finally dared to glance back up, dark eyes meeting blue that were now shining fiercely, just gazing at him with a sadness he didn’t quite know what to do with.
Shane didn’t know what Ilya wanted him to say, what he was expecting from him here. But his husband's eyes just searched his, waiting for him to speak, to admit something Shane was never going to bring himself to. Shane averted his eyes, ignoring the sigh from Ilya as he glanced around, noting their grocery delivery waiting for them on the front porch.
“The food needs to be brought in.” Is what he said instead and bailed out of the car.
Shane shut the door and rested his hand on the car, taking a moment to steady himself, willing his head to stop spinning with the sudden upright movement.
“Don’t touch them.”Ilya was already out as well, slinging both their bags over his shoulder, voice low and challenging as he beat Shane to the door.
“Ily—” Shane rolled his eyes in frustration.
“Do not touch them, Hollander!” Ilya whipped around to him, standing guard in front of the box, eyes narrowed in his annoying Russian stubbornness.
Shane flinched at the use of his surname, but held his ground for a moment, glaring at his husband who was looking ready to throw him over his shoulder and haul him inside…and unfortunately not in the fun, sexy way he was used to.
“Fine,” He threw up his hands, exasperation spilling out of him. He was so done with this Ilya right now. “Fucking fine Ilya, just do what you want. You bring them all in then.”
He opened the front door with a little more vigour then it deserved, the doorknob hitting the wall as it swung fiercely, a thud echoing through the entrance hall.
He stilled it and forced himself to take off his shoes and put them away carefully, before he stormed through to their bedroom. Anya rushed to him, but kept glancing back over her shoulder as if she was torn on who to greet first— Shane tried not to feel too upset when she bounded off towards the front door. But he couldn’t blame her, he’d choose Ilya every time as well, even when he was angry like this.
He huffed, dropping to the end of their bed and let his head hang in his hands. There was a distant buzzing under his skin, and he still felt, though he would never admit it to Ilya, a little shaky.
Something dropped onto the bed beside him with a dull thump and Shane raised his head. A protein bar sat where it had been thrown, staring at him all accusingly.
Ilya stood at the doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed and set as he nodded at the bar.
“You need to eat.”
Shane clenched his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. “I had one at the rink, you forced it into me, remember?”
“You need more.” Ilya replied simply.
“For fucks sake Ilya, will you just let it go?” Shane leapt from the bed, immediately regretting it as black spots speckled across the edges of his vision. He swallowed hard, turning away from Ilya so he couldn’t see his face.
“No, I will not.” Ilya rounded on him, and in a single second Shane was being spun around to face him, hands firm and a little tight as they clasped his skin, fingernails pressing into his forearms. “You passed out Shane.”
Shane shook his head, eyes burning as he found an interesting spot on the ceiling.
“No, listen to me,” Ilya shook him. “You are stressing about something, you are barely eating, you are exercising too much. You FUCKING FAINTED in the gym today. Do you not get that? You were down, out completely for several seconds, if Luca hadn’t found you....”
They stared at each other for a few moments, Ilya’s chest heaving, eyes shining bright with something heavy as Shane just glared back at him.
“Terry cleared me, said I was fine now,” Shane tried to keep his voice steady, tried to keep himself reigned in. He’d already slipped once today, he couldn't afford to slip again. “I just got dizzy for a moment, I’m perfectly healthy—”
“Bullshit.” Ilya practically spat back. “Healthy people do not pass out from running on treadmill a few minutes. Healthy people don’t get on treadmill after already training for countless hours on ice. Healthy people don’t eat like child.”
“Ily—”
“Healthy people don’t limit their life like you do. What is your plan here, huh?” Ilya’s voice broke a little. “Keep going ‘til you drop dead when you hit your head and no one is around to find you?”
“There is nothing wrong with being healthy. I have it under control and I am not going to get into this with you again.” Shane remained calm, and he had to actively hold himself still as fury rippled across Ilya's face again.
Ilya looked desperately like he wanted to yell, to shake him again, to probably force march him to the kitchen and shove some pasta down his throat, but he merely bit back whatever it was, releasing him like just touching Shane was burning him to a crisp.
With one last, destroyed look, he turned on his heel and strode through the door, the heat of his rage whirling around his feet. Shane followed his retreating form with his eyes, and as the back door opened and shut with a slam, he slumped back into the wall, suddenly left feeling deflated, hollowed out, and horribly cold in the wake of his husband's departure.
He stood there for a few moments, eyes trained on the door to their bedroom as he rubbed his thumb over his fingers methodically, trying his best to regulate his breathing and bring some kind of order back to his mind and body.
Ilya didn’t fucking get it, and didn't believe him when he said he had it under control— he was worrying for no reason.
He knew he approached a lot of things differently to how Ilya, Hayden and even their team mates might, but this was just his process. It had been working for him for his entire hockey career and he wasn’t about to just change things up now— god he couldn’t imagine what the knock on effect would be if he did.
But h thought Ilya understood who Shane was, they’ve known each other since they were 17 for fucks sake, and Shane had always been like this. Ilya had poked fun at him for years now, so where did he get off coming at him like this because of a small slip up?
And sure, maybe he’d been tightening things a little more lately, but it was just his process, it was just how he got his life back on track.
Life isn’t linear afterall.
Since he’d joined the Centaurs a few months back, and with the shock departure of him leaving Montreal, his life had entered a whole new level of intense.
He and Ilya were the first married couple to not only play in the NHL but also to be on the same team. They’d had the eyes of the hockey world on them, tracking them like they were being staked out, as if someone was just waiting for them to fuck it all up.
Now Shane wasn’t a stranger to pressure.
Since the beginning of his NHL career, he’d always been in the spotlight and under close media scrutiny, following his every move as he progressed. And he had always felt the pressure to be perfect, to be the best player for his team, and for the league, it’s what they expected of him, what he expected for himself— but that is exactly why he had to have things in order in his life, so that it left room for him to focus on being the best.
He did things certain ways, at certain times. He researched everything within an inch of its life so that he had all the information he needed. He ate a perfectly balanced diet at perfectly timed intervals. He didn’t drink through the season and even off season, didn’t indulge. He had it all mapped out, he had everything he could control, under control.
He was a well oiled machine and it’s how he kept his life in check when everything else was out of his control— and he knew it made him a better player.
And he wasn’t about to stop that now. He wasn’t going to dare give someone the chance to say that just because he was married to Ilya, married to a man, and playing on the same team as him now, that his game was going to suffer, that he was no longer the best player he could be.
He wasn't going to dare give them the chance to say he’d gone soft, or that Ilya was going to distract him from playing to the best of his ability. No fucking way.
They didn’t get it at all though. They didn’t see that Ilya made him an even better player. That the two of them together on the ice was magic. That they were able to read each other's minds, and when they were on the same line, they were in perfect sync with each other.
But now, they just saw what they wanted to.
And so he simply adjusted what he could, what he had control over, because he was going to fucking prove them wrong.
Ilya didn’t get it though. He’d always been so indifferent to the media, and prying eyes. It was like he was completely able to switch off his care for them, letting it slide right off his shoulders with a perfectly, unbothered shrug and a string of snarky Russian words that only Shane understood.
But Shane honestly still doesn't know how he manages it.
And it’s not that Ilya doesn't care. In fact he cares about a great number of things— some things so much that it weighs quite heavily on him. But this thing….this thing, he manages to brush off so easily, and Shane is, admittedly, a little jealous that he’s able to. He longed for the day when he could just breathe easily after a game and not have to worry about a camera being shoved into his face and his every move scrutinised, justification being demanded, especially when they think he didn't perform as he should.
Ilya however, was apparently determined to not let this thing of Shane’s go. This was the hill he was planning to die on, and Shane was feeling more and more exhausted having to have the same fight with him.
Finally, with his breathing back under control, Shane pushed himself off the wall and slowly made his way back through to the kitchen. It was quiet, no trace of Anya’s pattering feet and sweet presence, which means Ilya must have taken her with him.
Ilya had dumped the box of groceries on the counter, a few apples spilling out of the top from where they were thrown quite unceremoniously. His husband knows where everything needs to go, but he also knows that Shane likes to be the one who unpacks it.
It means he’s able to portion off the meat perfectly and stack the fridge in the right way that’s conducive to how everything is going to be used. If Ilya did it himself, everything would just be placed on random shelves, in random orders— utter chaos.
He took a deep breath, pushed back the sleeves of his hoodie, pushed down the shaky feeling that had been clinging on to him since the gym, and got to work.
It wasn’t long before he had the fridge in order, all the fresh produce and pantry items neatly packed away, labels clear and facing outwards, with only the meat left the portion up.
He took out the cutting board and knife that Ilya had sharpened that morning, before also plucking out the kitchen scales. He frowned however as he hit the on button and nothing happened, the screen staying annoyingly blank.
Shane hit the button a few more times for good measure, but was left with nothing but disappointment. Huffing out a sigh, he flipped the scales over and took out the batteries, carefully discarding them.
He pulled open the draw where they kept the spares and rifled through for a few minutes before pausing, his frown deepening when he came back out empty handed.
They always had spares in here. He always made sure that they had a healthy stock of batteries, just in case— because you never knew when they’d suddenly die on you, which Shane found unacceptable.
“They are here.” He muttered, shaking his head as he kept rifling through the drawer, his hands picking up speed in desperation. He needed to find them, he needed to get this meat sorted out, otherwise how would they know that the portion size is correct for the right amount of protein they needed, and the longer it sat here on the counter, the longer it wasn’t being temperature regulated.
Ilya would tell him to relax, but not having it cut up correctly was a huge issue. If he couldn’t weigh it all out properly, then the macros will be all wrong, and if the macros are wrong then his meals will be off and it will fuck with him mentally and he just knows he’d fuck up training if his head wasn’t straight, and then he’s lose his edge and if he lowses his edge…
Shane could feel his breathing grow heavier as he yanked out the drawer and upended it on the counter. Appliance instructions, ziploc bags, scissors, lighters, various keys, small tools and many, many other random items flying across the counter upon impact, some skating over the edge and hitting the floor with a clatter.
He sifted through the mess, his eyes searching back and forth for the fucking batteries. He almost, almost cried out when they were obviously not there, and so he moved on, wrenching open another drawer and doing the same, just in case, for some crazy reason, they had been moved.
Shane could feel his hands shaking, he knows they are, but he doesn't know how to make them stop. He just needs these fucking batteries so he can weigh what he fucking needs to and finish the fucking job, so he can go shower and finally crawl into bed.
Shane was like a hurricane as he moved around the kitchen, ripping out drawer after drawer, shelf after perfectly organised shelf. He didn’t slow though, his limbs were no longer his own as they moved, pulling things out where they had peacefully been sitting. And when he finally did stop, when the last draw was upended on the floor, Shane finally stilled and glanced around at the wreck, chest heaving.
His beautiful kitchen was a war zone, torn apart and—
“Oh…”
Shane felt his eyes well up as he bent to pick up a magnet that had been safely stuck to the fridge, now cracked down the middle from hitting the floor.
Ilya had made it for them, for him. He’d joined Jackie and the kids for a little craft morning last season after the Centaurs had been knocked out of the playoffs, before Shane had joined the team. They’d been working with clay, making little figurines and magnets, and Ilya had made a sweet little loon magnet for them, hand painted and everything.
“No…no…” Shane felt the tears spill over as he cradled the broken magnet in his hands, thumb brushing gently over the jagged edge that split the birds back in two. He clutched it to his chest as he sank to the floor, the mess of his tirade littered around him, tears now streaming down his face.
He felt himself slump back into one of the cabinets, his whole body buzzing, like his blood had turned to static. The world around him drowned out as he crashed…hard.
He didn’t…he couldn’t….he…. he….
“Shane.”
Shane isn’t sure he’s breathing any more. Or perhaps he’s breathing too hard. Either way it was becoming a problem.
“Shane!”
He tried to swallow, tried to catch a fucking breath.
“Sweetheart.”
Hands, strong and warm were on his face, forcing him to turn towards the voice that came with them.
“Shane, breathe with me, please.” The hands grabbed one of his, pressing it to a warm chest where a heart lay beneath, thudding strong and steady.
It took several minutes. Several long minutes of steady breathing, where his shaking hand was held tightly, life being breathed back into him, for him to come back to himself.
He glanced up, eyes stinging, all raw and blurry still as he took in Ilya's worried face.
“I’m sorry…I’m so sorry.” He hiccuped, holding out the broken magnet to his husband.
“Shhh.” Ilya closed his hand up again, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about that malysh.”
But when Shane opened his mouth to protest, Ilya gently pried it out of his grasp, placed it out of reach, before pulling him to his chest. Shane whimpered, sinking into the embrace, his body falling limp as it finally, finally gave up the fight.
They stayed like that for a long time— long enough for Shane to no longer be aware of where his body ended and Ilya’s began, long enough for the world around them to grow dark.
And when Ilya finally moves him, bundles him up in his arms and carries him to their bathroom, Shane has no fight in him to protest, to say anything. He feels like he’s been cut loose all of a sudden, freed from the tightly bound stitches holding himself together, and now there’s just nothing holding him together other than Ilya’s arms.
Ilya stood him in the shower, carefully stripped him of his clothing, whispering to him in Russian, every sweet and low, lilted word sounding more like a lullaby that soothed him more than he ever realised they could. Though he used Ilya’s voice and steady hands like an anchor, Shane could still feel himself wavering, no energy left inside to keep himself upright. But Ilya held him up, held him close and with the strength of someone who gave with their entire heart, no questions asked. If he’d been more aware, he may have noticed Ilya’s shaky breaths, like he was terrified to let him go.
He thinks he mumbles something at one point, but Ilyas just hushes him again as he works the shampoo into his hair before rinsing it out.
Shane blinks and he’s suddenly being helped into soft, oversized sweats and set down into their bed, sheets smelling perfectly fresh and crisp to touch.
Ilya smoothed back the hair from his forehead and pressed a soft kiss in turn, before lightly touching his cheeks, thumbs feather light as they brushed over his freckles.
“Bozhe… what am I going to do with you?” The voice is sad and painfully fond and drifting further away.
*
It’s light when he eventually stirs, and Shane is hit with that overwhelming, delirious feeling you get when you wake up from a nap you never intended on taking. It takes him a few moments to get his limbs to move, for his brain to catch up and his eyes to adjust, everything hurting, everything still feeling so raw.
Instinctively, his hand travels across the mattress, reaching for Ilya, desperately seeking the comfort his warm body always brought, but his side of the bed was empty, and cold, signifying that he’d either risen far earlier, or perhaps…never even made it to bed.
Shame flooded through him as he lay there, the memories of yesterday washing over him and pulling him back under the surface, dragging him downward until water filled his lungs. He’d actually lost control. He’d spiralled and cracked himself wide open and now Ilya would be able to see it all, and it fucking terrified him.
He couldn’t figure out how to even get himself moving, how to even get his brain to stop spiralling out of control as it remembered how he’d lost it.
Tears burned as he gasped for air, trying to pull himself back up to the surface, trying to fill his lungs with what he so desperately needed.
“Shane, hey you’re okay.”
Hands were on his face quickly, the bed dipping as Ilya leant over him now, pulling him up above the waterline, the swell washing away as Ilya’s touch took over.
“Il-ya” He choked out, a sob thick in his throat, bubbling outward involuntarily as he found the blue eyes he so desperately needed.
“I’m here, I’ve got you.” Ilya settled down on the bed, hands wrapping around him, and Shane sank into him, burying his face into his chest like it was exactly where he belonged— which it was.
His husband's hands ran up and down his back methodically, willing Shane to relax into his hold, and Shane couldn’t do anything but comply.
After what felt like forever, and somehow at the same time, not nearly long enough, Ilya released his hold a little, brushing his lips across Shane's hair and pressing a kiss in deep.
“Are you okay?” Ilya asked carefully.
“I don’t…” He started, shaking his head when words became too hard.
Ilya’s arms tightened and somehow it made Shane feel worse.
He’d never felt so fucking exposed in his entire life. He’d been so careful, for so long, and now everything he’d built up, everything he’d learned and adapted and carved himself out to be, was crumbling down around him like he was made of sand. And here Ilya was, with a bucket, trying to scoop him back up so he didn’t run out to sea.
He’d never been prepared for this, to be exposed like this, for someone to see the inner turmoil that was his head, and he isn’t even sure if he’s happy that it’s Ilya or not.
“I don’t know…”
And this time his voice broke and his face crumpled, tears flooding his vision until he couldn’t see. Ilya just hugged him together, which Shane hadn’t thought was even possible, rocking him back and forth like he was a child, hand petting through his hair like he knew Shane liked it.
“Will you tell me?” Ilya asked gently.
“It’s….hard….” He cried.
“I know sweetheart. You’ve been fighting so hard, but you don’t have to anymore.”
“I don’t…I don’t know how to stop.” Shane whispered in return, breathing laboured. “I don't want to worry you, to burden you, you have so much on your shoulders already.”
He knows it's silly to admit that, when once upon a time Ilya had admitted the same thing to him.
“I love you Shane, more than this stupid sport, more than any of it. You think I care about anything else? I care about you breathing.”
“More than Hockey?”
“Da, of course more than hockey you idiot. More than vodka, more than blini’s.” Ilya told him, voice muffled as he spoke into Shane’s neck, Shane huffing in response.
“More than my mother?”
Ilya scoffed then. “Okay don’t go crazy, she is my favourite Hollander.”
Shane shuddered with a laugh. God he loved him.
“I’m sorry about the kitchen.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the kitchen, is just things,” Ilya shook his head. “I want to know what’s going on in that head of yours. Will you tell me, please?”
Shane nodded numbly, and exhaled deeply as Ilya released him and they settled down into the bed, facing each other, Ilya’s hands still on him, tracing circles into his skin, grounding him.
His brow was creased though, his eyes soft and, Shane noticed, a little scared. He reached up to smooth out the planes of Ilya’s eyebrows.
“I know you have always had, funny relationship with food and exercise and…order.” Ilya kept going, treading over his words carefully. “But it feels like lately, it’s gotten even worse and I'm…i’m really worried what it’s doing to you Shane. You scared me”
“I know.” He whispered. “I don’t mean to, I just…”
“Has something happened?” Ilya asked gently.
Shane took a few moments to just breathe in the scent of Ilya before he answered. “It’s just felt like a lot lately, it’s felt…there’s been so much pressure and I…”
“From the team? From Wiebe?" Ilya looked like he was already plotting to murder someone, but Shane shook his head fiercely.
“No, the team is great, and Wiebe is an awesome coach.”
Ilya waited for him to continue, one hand working back and forth across his scalp, the other securely draped over Shane's torso.
“Do you not feel it too?” Shane asked him instead. “This insane pressure to be better than we were before, now that we’re-”
He could see it dawning over Ilya’s eyes as they closed in understanding for a brief moment. “-now that we’re on the same team.”
Shane nodded. “People keep asking me if playing together, being married, will be distracting for me, for us. It’s like they’re waiting for me to fuck it all up so they can be the first ones to point it out and say that it was all our fault, that we shouldn’t be doing this. That being us, being together is going to ruin our hockey.”
“People have been saying this to you?” Ilya’s eyes had grown dark.
Shane nodded again. “Have they not been asking you too?”
“Never,” Ilya shook his head. “Or if they did I did not pay attention.”
“It’s been so loud.” Shane exhaled, his voice quiet and…tired. God he was so tired.
“You didn’t tell me.”
Shane grew silent. He should have talked to Ilya, should have told him all about it. He knows this. But this isn’t how his brain works, not when it's something he thinks can fix himself.
“I tried to just ignore them,” He shook his head sadly. “I was doing everything I could to get through it, to stay on track with what I could control, you know. I knew they’d stop asking those questions eventually, when we started winning more, so until then I…I thought I had a handle on it.”
“And food, training, these are things you like to control?” Ilya asked gently, as if he didn’t already know this was one of Shane's quirks.
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Everyday, for as long as I can remember.” Shane admittedly soberly, and Ilya sighed. “Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologise to me,” Ilya’s voice was low and heavy with emotion. “It just makes me sad to think of you battling inside your head every day with this.”
“You get used to it.”
“You shouldn’t have to though.” Ilya shook his head bitterly.
Shane could only shrug, eyes fluttering closed as Ilya continued to pet through his hair.
“My brain is loud with this stuff,” He confessed. “I don’t know why this all hit me harder this time. But the stress of it, it just…fuck I don’t know how it got so messed up. I don’t know how I fucked it up so badly, but once it started slipping it just kept falling, and suddenly I was standing on absolutely nothing. I couldn't find the spare batteries yesterday…how fucking stupid is that? That’s the fucked up thing about this all, is that I know how stupid it is, that my head gets like this. I know this…but I can’t…I can't stop”
His eyes burned, tears sliding down his cheeks and onto the pillow beneath him. God he was so exhausted from crying.
“I know baby, I know it’s been hard,” Ilya’s voice was close and heavenly.
“I’m so tired.” He hiccuped.
“You are tired because you never stop fighting yourself. But you’re not alone, not now, not ever.” Ilya told him. “Now you rest though.”
And so Shane lay there and just sobbed, his husband never wavering from his side, instead lying right there in it with him.
“Maybe…” Ilya said to him when his sobs had quietened down and his body was limp and exhausted. “It would be a good idea to talk to someone. Just like I do.”
Shane gazed up at Ilya, sorrow washing over him to see Ilya’s own eyes welling with unshed tears, a soft, sad smile on his face.
“I was researching a little this morning,” Ilya continued when Shane didn’t respond. “Therapists here in Ottawa that specialise in things like…cause I was thinking, maybe…maybe these things sound a little like OCD yes?”
Shane stiffened.
Obsessive compulsive disorder.
It's not the first time someone has used those words to describe him. He’d had it thrown at him countless times over the years for his weird antics in either the locker room or when on the road with the team. Heck even Ilya had joked about it once or twice when Shane had been overly particular about something. But the thought of it actually being that had Shane reeling.
“No, fuck I’m sorry. I’m sorry Shane. I am not doctor, I just think it would be good to ask them about this maybe,” He continued, hesitation and worry laced throughout his words. “Would you do this…for me?”
“I don’t know…”
“I’m worried about you Shane,” Ilya took his face up in his hands, dark eyes meeting light. “I’m worried what this is doing to you. You fainted and I thought—” He stopped, swallowing thickly, eyes tracking over him. “I thought what if next time I am not there, and it fucking scared me. I can't do this life without you, I refuse to. I can’t lose you too.”
“You won’t ever lose me,” Shane's voice broke, his heart aching for his husband and the pain that was now etched across his face. “Fuck, Ilya…I’m so sorry.
Tears were streaming down Ilya’s cheeks now, which broke Shane’s heart even more. “I know Moy lyubimyy. I’m sorry too, for not realising sooner, for being angry with you. Please forgive me.”
“Of course I forgive you.” Shane cried out and Ilya brought him in closer so he could wrap both arms around him. God they were a fucking mess right now, sobbing into each other arms.
“You stood by me when I went on medication,” Ilya murmured into his cheek. “You held me when it made me feel ill, told me you loved me even when I was asshole and angry. You made sure I always knew you would be by my side when it felt like it wasn't working. Let me be that for you now.”
“What if…what if it can't be fixed,” Shane asked, his voice surprisingly small and timid. “What if I’m always like this?”
“Don’t say that,” His voice cracks sharper than he means it to. “Don’t say that, like it’s already decided.”
“Ilya…”
“I thought the same. But…even then, if you do not feel better in head, I will still love you, with everything I am,” Ilya shook his head. “It’s my greatest honor to love you Shane. You are my husband, you are stuck with me forever, don’t you know that?”
Shane burrowed into him. “I love you.”
It was all he had right now, the only promise he could make right then.
“They don’t see you and I.” Ilya said after a while, and Shane hummed in response.
“Who?”
“The world. This thing you and I have, no one else, not team, not your parents, not Sveta, not stupid fucking reporters. No one, but us, knows what you and I have together,” Ilya told him firmly, voice force and commanding. “We may have the eyes of the world on us at times, but none of them know what this thing is. They don’t get to have what we don’t willingly give, and fuck them all if they think they get to have a piece of us.”
Shane could feel the low hum, like a growl beneath Ilya’s skin as he spoke.
“Let them make their silly fucking comments and write their stupid fucking articles. They don’t know, Shane, you hear me? We will show the world exactly what they can do with their stupid fucking opinions. But don’t let them take the best parts of you and I,” He pressed a hand to Shane’s chest. “That is ours only.”
Shane could see the passion burning in Ilya’s eyes, could see the way his chest heaved as he nodded back at his husband. He was right, of course he was.
“Good, now…will you let me make you some lunch?” Ilya asked, fingers running down his cheeks, a smile edging into the corners of his pink lips. “I was actually in mood for tuna melt.”
Shane, surprisingly, smiled back at this. It had been a long time since he’d had one, and weirdly, he did feel like he wanted one of Ilya’s tuna melts.
“Yeah, okay. Let's eat.” He agreed and Ilya beamed.
He let Ilya pull him to his feet, let him nudge the pair of slippers he liked to wear around the house on cold days onto his feet, before he took up his hand and led him through to the kitchen. Shane almost averted his gaze as they entered, unable to face the place where he’d crumbled into pieces, desperate not to see what the aftermath was in there.
But the kitchen was spotless, like nothing had ever happened, like he hadn’t sat on the floor, the contents of the kitchen lying around him in ruins while he wept.
Ilya pushed him towards one of the stools at the island and Shane complied easily, letting him bustle around their kitchen as he gathered the items he needed. Shane couldn’t help but smile as he watched his husband, wondering what he’d done in a previous life to be so blessed with this wonderful, wonderful man, who didn’t run away when he spiralled.
Ilya caught his eye and winked, before returning his gaze to the lemon he proceeded to slice in half. Shane’s own gaze caught something on the fridge suddenly and his mouth fell open.
There, back in its rightful place, was the Loon magnet, stuck back together, a thin gold line running across the bird's back where Shane knew it had broken.
“Ilya you…” He stood, feet carrying him over to the fridge where he took up the magnet. “You fixed it?”
Ilya glanced up, his eyes soft and beautiful. “Yes, I found some glue, was easy.”
“The gold?”
Ilya stopped chopping the herbs he’d had lined up on the cutting board and straightened. “I remembered book at your parents house, about Kintsugi. I read it one night after dinner and then found the gold paint from the stash we have for craft with the Pike kids. Is not real Kintsugi, but you get the idea.”
“Finding beauty in the imperfections.” Shane murmured to himself.
“Yes,” Ilya nodded, coming closer, ducking his head to meet Shane's eyes.
They are still beautiful, still resilient, still worthy of being loved. Broken, but not forever.
Shane wrapped his hands around his husband, and Ilya’s lips pressed into his forehead, before they worked down to his lips, peppering lightly across his nose and cheeks in their travels south.
“I love you so much.” He said, voice thick and a little wet as he gazed up at Ilya. His head was still a mess, still exhausted and buzzing with noise, but it was sitting further in the background now. But maybe, here in Ilya's arms where he was so very loved, then maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay in the end.
“God how I love you.” Ilya smiled back at him.