Chapter Text
“You put the pans on the wrong shelf again,” Shane says, a pang of annoyance running through him.
When he turns, Ilya is sitting at the kitchen island on one of their stools, focused on his phone. Not looking up. Not paying attention. Shane assumes not listening, but is proven wrong when Ilya responds, “They fit there,” with a shrug.
Shane just exhales through his nose, audible and filled with pent-up emotion. Emotion he can’t even name, anger? Exhaustion? Whatever it is, it causes him to shove the pans roughly into the right cupboard. He winces at the loud noise it creates.
“What?” Ilya says, and Shane turns around to see his eyebrows raised in what seems to be surprise and confusion. The emotion portrayed is just so genuine that it pisses Shane off, “Is this about me leaving them there?”
“Three weeks in a row, Ilya.” Shane comments, his own eyebrows raised, “The pans are put back, but always in the wrong place.”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” Ilya says, fast. Shane turns back around.
“This isn’t just about the pans,” Shane mutters, low and under his breath, but Ilya catches it.
“Then what is this about?” Ilya asks, his voice competitive and harsh as he drops his phone to give Shane his attention, “Because you’ve been sighing, huffing, and turning your nose up for the past week, Shane. It’s like you are tired of me.”
Shane’s shoulders stiffen slightly.
“Maybe I’m just tired of pretending that everything’s fine, when it’s not.” Shane snaps, crossing his arms. The words are clipped and to the point, forcing themselves out.
“Oh, great, here we go again.” Ilya stands up and walks around the island to stand a few feet away from him, “What isn’t fine? The pans? The way I load the dishwasher?” Shane turns back to the cupboard, uncrossing his arms, “Or is it the fact that I tried to hold your hand in public yesterday and you acted like I tried to burn you?”
Shane’s head snaps to him, his eyes startled, “That's not–” Shane swallows roughly and breaks eye contact again, “We talked about this, Ilya. We’re hockey players, public figures, you know how it is.”
Ilya’s sharp laugh makes him wince, “Oh, always hockey, huh? Hockey is more important, yes?” He steps back, crossing his arms to match Shane’s position.
Shane just sighs and relaxes his arms, picking up another plate to put away, “That’s not what I meant.” The frustration that’s been building for the past few weeks is rearing its ugly head now, “You know what it’s like for me, Ilya. I’ve spent my whole career trying to prove myself. Prove that I’m meant to be here. That I’m just as good as everyone else. At first it was because I’m asian–and now? Now it’s because I’m gay.”
He turns to Ilya after placing the ceramic down, “I don’t want to be some fucking–poster boy,” he hisses, and Ilya throws his hands in the air.
“And I just want to hold my husband’s hand! I don’t think you have to prove yourself to hold my hand, Shane. We were outed months ago.” He throws his hands in the air, dramatic and immature, “So, Hollander, when do we matter more than hockey? Tell me.”
“I never said we don’t matter.” Shane bites, his voice bitter and rough. His grip tightens as he turns and braces himself against the countertop.
“You think it.” Ilya snaps, stepping closer until Shane can feel his breath coming down in short puffs and smell the scent of his aftershave.
Shane’s grip on the marble makes his knuckles turn white, “No, I don’t.” His voice low, “But you know what I do think? If this was bothering you for months, maybe you should’ve said something. Instead of letting it just sit there–”
Shane pauses to take a deep breath and shakes his head, “You don’t talk to me, Ilya. You turn things into jokes or change the subject and practically perform–”
“Perform?” Ilya laughs, bitter and cruel, “You want to talk about performing? Who wanted to pretend to be friends until we retire?”
“That’s different, and you know it.” Shane steps away from the counter, coming closer to Ilya, “I’m talking about now. About how you’ll let something eat at you for months and then throw it in my face like I should’ve–fucking–read your mind.” His voice is hoarse as he continues, “How the fuck am I supposed to fix something when I don’t even know it’s broken?”
Ilya purses his lips, a flash of hurt crossing his features. “You don’t need to fix me,” he bites out, watching as Shane turns back to the plates, stacking them with great precision. “Maybe you should understand that I just want you to see how I feel.”
Shane’s hands hover for a bit before returning to his task, “I do see you, Ilya. But you don’t make it fucking easy. You expect me to just, like I said before, read your mind.”
Ilya scoffs, walking back to the other side of the island, “Oh, so now it’s my fault you can’t–”
“It’s not that simple, Ilya!” Shane whirls around, plate in hand.
“You know what?” Ilya’s voice is low; it causes a shiver to run down Shane’s spine, “You know what would be simple?” He comes back around the island, not close but not far either, his jaw is set, “If I had married a woman and stayed in fucking–Russia. That would be more simple than whatever this shit is.” Shane’s breath hitches, “And who knows? I might have been happier.”
The words landed like a fucking meteor.
This wasn’t pointing out small, insignificant details.
Or even a snide remark.
It was a glimpse into Ilya’s past defence mechanisms.
This was intended to hurt and prey on Shane’s insecurities.
As an attempt to defend himself.
Shane’s grip on the plate faltered, and for a second, it hovered in the air–suspended between them–before it slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor. The sound was deafening in the sudden silence.
Neither of them moved.
Ilya steps away, away from the plate, away from Shane, away from his own words. The way they clawed out of him.
He didn’t mean them. He would never mean them. But the expression on Shane’s face told him that he couldn’t take them back.
Shane didn’t choke.
Didn’t sob.
Didn’t blink.
The tears just fell.
They trailed down his cheeks, leaving thin tracks behind. They were steady and silent. Shane’s eyebrows didn’t furrow, his face didn’t crumple. But Ilya noticed the small twitch at his temple and the way his jaw dropped slightly.
Ilya’s breath caught, low and heavy. He hadn’t seen Shane cry like this before. He’d seen his eyes filled with frustrated tears that didn’t fall, exhausted and glossy eyes, overwhelmed, pleasurable tears, but never these.
Never this stoic and flat face.
The clear devastation.
It made something in his chest and stomach twist. He felt his heart stop and a wave of nausea come over him.
For a moment, there was nothing. The sound that filled the room was from the refrigerator and the fan on the counter. Ilya’s fingers twitched at his sides, a want to touch and feel, to comfort, to reassure.
“Shane,” Ilya started, voice cracking on the syllable. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly too tight. “I didn’t–fuck.” He raked a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots like the pain might ground him. “I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t mean that.”
Shane wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, smearing the wetness across his skin. His voice, when it came, was eerily calm. “Didn’t you?”
The question hung between them, sharp. Ilya opened his mouth, then closed it, his usual action of deflections, jokes, sarcasm, charm, failing him completely.
Shane turned on his heel, stepping around the broken ceramic as he made his way to the front door. His shoulders were rigid, and his breathing was slow and measured, despite the tears that didn’t seem to stop, even when he wiped them away. He slipped his shoes on and patted himself down for his keys.
Ilya, after standing still for a good five seconds, quickly trailed behind him, also stepping around the remains of the plate. He watched as Shane shrugged on his coat and went to open the door. Ilya’s fingers curled around his wrist, gentle and without pressure.
Shane didn’t yank his arm back or pull away. He just stopped. He went still.
“Let me go.” Shane said. It wasn’t a request, but a statement.
Ilya’s grip slipped slightly, but he didn’t release him, “No.” The word comes out as a plea rather than a response. He feels Shane’s pulse under his thumb. He watches as the tears stop. But when Shane turns to him, his hand held between their bodies, Ilya can still see that tears will fall if Shane so much as blinks.
“What, Ilya?” Shane asks, “You want to talk now? After that?”
Ilya doesn’t respond.
“Let me go.” This time, it’s an order. A demand. His words are barely audible, but they’re firm: “I’m going to my parents.” Shane says before he can even think. He’s used to this. Telling Ilya where he’s going, even if it’s just to get the mail. It’s to soothe the anxiety he knows his husband has about him leaving. No matter how angry or hurt he is, he never wants Ilya to feel that way.
Ilya’s grip tightens for a moment, not painfully, but a small squeeze.
“Shane,” Ilya’s voice cracks, raw and broken. It’s the same tone he’d heard years ago, after he’d slept in Ilya’s house for the first time. After he’d eaten the tuna melt that had been made for him. The plea for him not to leave are almost identical.
Shane looks away, blinking hard, and a tear slips again. And as if he would go against his own wishes, he didn’t meet Ilya’s eyes again, “Ilya.” his voice cracks as well, but his tone is soft and matches Ilya’s.
Ilya’s fingers uncurled slowly, reluctantly, like his hand was fighting his own mind. The warmth of his touch lingered even after he let go, a fading feeling left on Shane’s skin. “You’ll come back,” Ilya states, swallowing roughly.
Shane didn’t answer.
He just opened the door and stepped out into the cold, wind biting around his body and slipping through the door with a loud whistle. When the door clicked shut, Ilya’s body straightened completely.
The silence was suffocating.
Ilya stood there, staring at the closed door, his chest heaving with every inhale.
His body moved before his brain caught up as he went back to the kitchen. He bent over to pick up the large pieces of the broken plate. He cursed as he nicked his thumb with a sharp edge and watched as blood beaded at the tip.
It was easier to look at.
Easier to focus on rather than feeling his lungs not expanding enough to take in full breaths.
He grabbed a broom and a dustpan.
The silence of the house drags on.