Chapter Text
"Please Ilya? It's not my worst idea. And you could carry a little part of me everywhere you go, until next time."
A blue moleskin college ruled notebook lies shut on Shane's lap, his hands fiddling with the ribbon end hanging between the pages.
"Hollander." Ilya cautiously eyes the book. Shane knows it's a liability, that's what his act of love is. A threat that could dismantle both of their careers. But he can't take it anymore. Some nights when they're separated by state and his body aches from a game, he misses Ilya so much his heart caves on itself. So much that it's become hard for him to fall asleep at night.
"Can we just try it? Once? I promise I won't mention our names in it anywhere." Unspoken is the fact that just in case it falls into the wrong hands.
Shane can feel Ilya weighing his options. "I am not good at writing in English." Shane smiles. As if Ilya could ever deny him anything. Ilya feels a lightness in his chest, a pleased rumble knowing he did something to make Shane happy. "That's okay!" his face perks up.
"You can write like, your grocery list. Or good morning. Or draw on the plane if you get bored. I heard journaling is good for mental health and all that, if your teammates ask." Shane bounds on, excited at the thought of getting to see what Ilya's handwriting is beyond his fan signature. Maybe his letters all crowd together or he has middle schooler writing. Maybe it slants to the left or trails into the shapes of the blocky Russian alphabet.
Ilya holds back a snort, readjusting their bodies to slot together tangled up in the gritty hotel sheets. The warmth of Shane is pressed into his side, strong and steady while Ilya toys with his hair. "Da, my teammates will love that I am journaling." he says, playfulness lacing his tone.
Shane frumbles around the bedside, twitching out of range of Ilya's embrace. He frowns, pulling him closer. Shane knits his eyebrows together a bit, shooting a glare at Ilya before nudging his arm off. "I want to get a pen." Ilya being the clingy bastard that he is, relents and lets go.
Blue ink in hand, Shane removes the rest of the plastic casing from the notebook. His eyes land on the "this journal belongs to" line. When he was younger and his mom Yuna gifted him a journal, she'd written Shane Hollander in her cursive. He recalls running his finger along the curvy loops in the S and L of his name. Now, he's tempted to write IR + SH on the line. He flips past that page quickly, moving forward to brush over his desire to make something theirs. Cozying into the warmth of Ilya, he smoothes out the spine and grips the pen in hand. Shane shoots a tentative look towards the other man, wordlessly offering the pen his way, incase he wanted to make the first stroke of ink. Sanctify the journal with his scrawl.
Ilya shakes his head. "You go my dear. It was your idea afterall. Journal will be good for brainstorming sex stuff to do in the future."
Shane's mouth drops slightly in horror. Ilya throws his head back in a chuckle, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Kidding."
The pen meets paper as Shane begins to write. Shane doubts he's kidding. "There's a rule to this. You can't read what I wrote until we are apart. Got it?"
Ilya frowns. "I want to know what you are thinking."
"Yeah but, this is for you to know in the future. Besides, it'll feel better that way." Ilya knows he's right. His Shane, so smart and thoughtful bought a journal just to deliberately prove in physical form how much their love meant.
What does he want future Ilya to read? He thinks about the impulsive trip they ran away on today at 11pm. To where the ocean shoreline meets the forest. Hidden by the moon rays of the night, dirt lodged between the soles of their shoes, the cool air breathing life back into worn bodies after a game. How warm the calluses on Ilya's hand felt in his. How Shane snuck glances when Ilya was enraptured by the moon, jawline visible even in the near darkness.
Where the beach shore melts into the plush earth of the forest, I would crawl my way back to you. Hitch a ride on the grains of sand lodged between the feet of a child who runs when dinner's called. Fade into the dirt until my particles sustain a network of decomposition fungi who speak to each other. Their job is to pump oxygen into the air, into a breath a couple inhales ragged and nervous before a first kiss. Into the breeze that carries the whispered marriage vow of "I do", wrapping across mountains until it becomes a pounding, a whisper in your heart again to meet me in another life.
Perfect. Signs it off with a heart. Shane shuts it. Places the ribbon gingerly into the first page.