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SPRING 2018
Ilya isn't expecting Shane.
Or, he is, but a full ten hours later.
That morning, Shane's alarm had been set for seven sharp, and he'd woken up to no reply from Ilya, but an email asking to reschedule the Rolex shoot he was meant to film today. So Shane called them, rescheduled to another day off two weeks from now, and waved off all apologies to have wasted his time, to have inconvenienced him taking the trip to New York unnecessarily.
He'd been wide awake then.
So he'd promptly showered, packed and checked out of the hotel, in the Uber conveniently found a flight that was leaving at 10 a.m. rather than 10 p.m., and soon he finds himself sat in a window seat on said flight, hat pulled forward, sunglasses underneath – just in case.
They're going to announce the Irina Foundation soon, and Ilya agrees that it might even make sense to 'soft launch' them spending time together and visiting each other before doing so, because then, their friendship doesn't come out of nowhere. But Shane doesn't want to take pictures with fans right now, nor does he want to find the right answer to questions about why he's on his way to Boston.
Because Ilya still hasn't replied when the automated voice echoing through the plane tells them to switch their phones to flight mode, and Shane can't think of anything else.
Where he was slightly concerned this morning and decided to try and fly earlier simply to have more time with Ilya, the plane now can't take off fast enough.
The night before, they'd spoken on the phone, Shane half-asleep in his hotel bed, Ilya sat on his sofa with a film muted in the background. Even in his drowsy state, Shane had sensed that Ilya was quieter, but he hadn't pressured after being told Ilya was fine.
He'd texted before bed, and not heard from Ilya since.
He tells himself that Ilya fell asleep on the sofa, and that he's sleeping in on his only day off. But Shane hasn't seen Ilya in three weeks and he misses him.
He also has to fight unwelcome images of Ilya texting someone else while leaving Shane's messages unanswered. It's not like he doesn't trust Ilya, but the alternative is much worse, and his mind hasn't let him go that far yet, hasn't allowed the worry to fully materialize that the reason for silence might be that Ilya is not okay.
Shane: You okay?
He sends the text, then turns on flight mode and pockets his phone, chewing on the string of his hoodie while staring out the window as the plane starts rolling. Something twists in his chest at the realization that he'd rather Ilya were cheating on him than suffer any kind of pain.
He inhales sharply, tells himself that Ilya is fine and that he's not cheating on him. He's in bed, he hasn't checked his phone, it's his day off, he's not expecting Shane until late.
But for the entirety of the flight, his mind is racing. Even the possibility of sleep is unthinkable now as his thoughts spiral from Ilya having had an accident in his own home to him having not even been alone the night before.
Shane doesn't know when he became so paranoid, because he knows he knows better than this, but he's exhausted, he's impatient, and this is the longest Ilya and him have been apart since last summer, since Ilya had come to Shane's cottage.
By the time the plane lands, Shane's leg has been bouncing for forty minutes straight.
His phone is on before the doors even open.
Nothing.
Once he's undone his seatbelt, he waits impatiently until the doors open, until the passengers in the rows ahead have made their way down the aisle.
The night before, Shane had asked Ilya what he was going to do today, and Ilya told him he didn't have any plans.
Shane's jaw tightens.
The Uber ride feels longer than the flight. There's traffic where the roads are usually clear, and it seems every light they pass is red. He keeps his head down, continues to check his phone.
It's past twelve now, and while Shane has known Ilya to sleep in into the late afternoon, he can't shake the nervous twist low in his belly.
He lets the driver drop him around the block, then shoulders his bag and walks to Ilya's building.
He hesitates before ringing the doorbell, his fingers tightening around the keys in his pocket.
He presses the button and waits.
Nothing.
He takes out his phone, clicks on his chat with Ilya for what feels like the hundredth time for today, but his texts still haven't been read.
He presses the button next to Ilya's name again, but no buzzer follows, and he's unsure if he's left it long enough to worry.
He rings the doorbell again, this time he looks at the time on his phone, watches two full minutes pass before he decides his arrival isn't going to be a surprise and presses the call button next to Ilya's name on the screen.
Shane lets it ring until it goes to Ilya's voice mail.
Hi, this is Ilya. I will never listen to your voicemail.
With another exhale, and the growing concern that someone is going to see and recognize him outside Ilya Rozanov's building, he types the code in and steps into the hallway.
The building is quiet and he takes two steps at a time, knocking twice when he reaches Ilya's door.
For a moment, he considers leaving, waiting until Ilya calls him back, but he still doesn't want to answer anyone's questions – or be perceived by anyone simply because of the stress he's finding hard to suppress now.
He draws the key from his pocket, then pauses at the last second, paranoia taking hold of him again. Yes, the logical conclusion is that Ilya's not home.
But what if he is?
What if he's ignoring Shane's texts and calls on purpose, what if he's busy with someone in there, so he's not opening the door?
Shane squeezes his eyes shut, well aware that he's close to losing his mind.
Fuck it.
Even if Ilya is in there, with a man less boring than Shane, or a woman as beautiful and as confident as Ilya, Shane should know.
And if he's not there – Shane might still be able to surprise him.
The door clicks open and Shane shuffles inside, stepping into Ilya's studio. Light is flooding the kitchen and living room, the blinds pulled up all the way. But the space is stuffy, the air stale.
Shane closes the door and places his bag on the ground, then slides out of his shoes and makes his way slowly down the hall.
He remembers the first time he entered the space, excited and nervous, the first time he left – desperate, terrified.
He notices a glass on the kitchen counter, half-full. Next to it, two empty bottles of coke. Next to the sink, there's a bottle of vodka, also half-full.
Shane moves further into the space, slower. It's quiet, no sound of the shower, or footsteps, the door to the bedroom ajar.
He stops, brings his phone to his ear again, to tell Ilya he's let himself in, deciding to text if he doesn't pick up this time, but just as he's bracing himself to hear his boyfriend's voice on the voicemail sound again, he notices a faint vibration sound and makes his way towards it.
Hi, this is Ilya. I will never listen to your voicemail.
The buzzing stops and Shane hangs up.
“Ilya?” he hears his own voice call, leaving his phone on the side as he pushes open the door the rest of the way.
The room is dark, the blinds shut almost all the way, Ilya's phone screen the brightest thing in the room, before the screen goes black.
It smells like cigarettes.
The bed is a mess, the sheets tangled.
And then Shane notices the tousled curls sticking out from under the covers on the pillow.
He holds his breath as he steps closer, his pulse rushing in his ears.
No.
“Ilya,” he says again, his heart hammering in his chest.
On the nightstand, there's crushed cans of coke, a full ashtray, and-
The covers shuffle and Shane exhales the breath he realizes he's been holding.
Ilya inhales deeply and his brows pull up slightly as he turns, the covers tightening around him, but Shane can see his face, sees his eyes open slowly, unfocused for a moment before they find him.
For a second, he doesn't react, like he's staring right through Shane.
Then Ilya blinks.
“Hello.” His voice is rough, hoarse.
Shane swallows. “Hi,” he says, moving hesitantly before sitting on the edge of the bed.
Ilya's eyes grow slightly wider. “Blyad,” he mutters under his breath. “What is time?”
“Like half twelve,” Shane says. “Midday. I got here early.”
He sees something resembling relief flickering over Ilya's features before his gaze drifts past Shane again, already losing focus.
“I tried to call, but...” His eyes move to Ilya's phone near the headboard.
Slowly, Shane's relief makes way for confusion. Even when he just calls for five minutes, Ilya is always happy. Shane thought he'd be just as excited as he was himself, to get more time together after they haven't seen each other in weeks, just two days ago Ilya was telling Shane how much he misses him, how badly he wishes he could be there.
But Ilya's eyes are unfocused, his face expressionless, lids heavy, eyes barely open.
“Ilya, are you okay?”
Ilya's eyes close. He grimaces.
The display of discomfort snaps Shane out of it, jolts him into action, his hand moving on top of Ilya's body, unsure where it lands over the blanket. “Are you sick?”
“No,” he says, the world slightly slurred.
“Are you drunk?”
The pause is longer this time, Ilya's voice slower. “No.”
Shane swallows. “Have you been drinking?”
Ilya huffs out a breath. “Yesterday.” The last syllable is merely a whisper, Ilya's voice breaking, and Shane feels like it slices his heart clean in half.
He's seen Ilya cry before. He's seen him get punched in the face, he's seen the impact of his own words hurt Ilya in moments when he was too frustrated, or he couldn't quite phrase something the right way.
This is different. Ilya's face expressionless, his eyes empty, words failing him... he looks small.
Shane's stomach drops. Because Ilya is not small. He's loud and obnoxious, 6'3'', all strength and muscle, he's confident and takes up space unapologetically, and when he wraps his arms around Shane or puts his hands on him – it makes Shane feel small.
The hit of guilt hits Shane low, all the paranoia and jealousy turning into self-loathing.
He exhales, tries to compose himself, but he doesn't even know where to move his hand.
He's out of his depth, he finally admits to himself.
No, worse. He's supposed to take care of his boyfriend and he doesn't know how.
But not knowing for Shane has never meant giving up.
“Should I get you something to eat?”
Ilya's eyes open slowly, halfway, one twitching with the slightest shake of his head.
Shane pushes himself up. “I'm gonna get you some water.”
Ilya doesn't react. His eyes stay open, but unfocused.
Shane exhales, forces himself to move, because as much as seeing Ilya like this makes him want to scream and cry, he has to function right now.
When he steps back into the kitchen, the light seems too bright, harsh against his eyes. He takes a clean glass from the cupboard, fills it with water – and realizes how steady his hands are. On the way back to the bedroom, he picks up his phone, lets it slide into the pocket of his hoodie before placing the glass on the bedside table carefully.
Ilya doesn't react.
Shane walks around the bed and cracks open the window, then sits back down. “Ilya.”
“Mm.”
“Please drink some water.”
“Don't want.”
Shane exhales through his nose. “I know,” he says softly. “But you gotta.”
For a moment, Ilya stays quiet. “Yeah,” he mutters. “So annoying.”
Shane feels the slightest flutter. It's not much, but it's something familiar. “Can I get you anything else?”
Another slight shake of his head against the pillow.
“You don't want to get up?”
Ilya doesn't reply.
Shane nods slowly, to himself, because Ilya's eyes are shut again.
“Can I get in here with you then?”
Ilya hums and the covers shuffle around him, so Shane rises to his feet and pulls his hoodie over his head, folds it, then places his jeans on top, leaving him in his boxers and T-shirt.
When he turns to Ilya holding up the covers for him, he freezes.
Where Shane expected Ilya to be shirtless, maybe fully naked, he sees his boyfriend's torso clad in a familiar shade of blue. The Montreal Voyageurs' blue. Shane's blue.
Shane blinks, and the emptiness in Ilya's eyes makes him physically ache. No defensiveness, no chirp, no nothing that would suggest he's even aware of what Shane is seeing: his boyfriend in Shane's rival jersey.
24.
Hollander.
Fabric tighter across his chest, shorter and ridden up to reveal tanned skin between the white hem and the black boxer briefs clinging high to his large thighs.
Shane bites down on his lip so hard he draws blood, but he doesn't speak.
What would he even say when there's no resistance, no fight, no spark in his boyfriend's eyes?
So he lowers himself to the bed and shuffles under the covers, draping them over his own body as soon as Ilya drops them, feels the instant weight of Ilya's head on his shoulder, his hand sprawled flat against Shane's abdomen underneath his shirt.
Ilya's palm feels warm, the entirety of his body does, heavy as he presses against Shane. He smells like warmth and smoke.
His fingers thread instinctively into Ilya's hair as he feels him settle.
“I'm sorry.”
Shane feels Ilya's breath against his neck as he speaks, his voice quiet.
“No,” Shane says quickly, pressing a kiss to the top of Ilya's head. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
Ilya goes quiet again, and Shane draws back slightly to look down, sees his eyes are closed, but squeezed shut now, his lips pressed together in a thin line.
The tension eases, then his forehead crinkles, his features smoother again.
Shane watches it once, twice, before speaking.
“Ilya.”
Ilya's eyes open. “I am sorry I did not come to airport.”
Shane blinks back at him, the intensity of Ilya's gaze so familiar, yet unexpected now. “You... you didn't know I was coming.”
He moves his hand from Ilya's hair to slip under the fabric of his shirt, his shirt, his jersey, rubbing gentle circles into the back of his neck.
He forgot he left one of his jerseys there, and Ilya wearing it is the last thing he'd expect him to do with it. The panic sits deep in his bones now, that Ilya is so far gone that he's wearing Shane's number and name, for what Shane assumes is the first time – without shame.
Any other time, Shane would feel proud and smug, but his chest feels tight, his grip on Ilya possessive.
Because Ilya is his and he would do anything for him.
***
When Ilya feels Shane's fingers stroking through his hair, he physically feels his body sink against his shoulder. Shane knows exactly how to soothe Ilya like this, smoothing his fingers through the tangles of his curls, pulling occasionally, scratching at the back of his neck, something he usually does when he wants to help Ilya fall asleep.
For a whole second, he comes up for air and the entire world narrows to his boyfriend's fingers in his hair, the warmth of his body, the feeling of his skin against Ilya's.
Then, he drops again, buries his face in Shane's neck and just breathes him in.
He's here.
His boyfriend is here. Almost like he knew Ilya would need him earlier today.
Mornings like this are rare – except when they're not. But he's never let someone see, if he felt like this and didn't wake up alone – he made sure he soon would be.
But Shane is here and Shane loves him.
His heart sinks.
Why?
Today, his mind is particularly ugly, telling him exactly what he usually ignores for the sake of being happy when he's with Shane, because he wants so desperately to be happy, to not let anything take away from the time he's granted with Shane.
But right now, Shane is trying his best, came early and called and he wants to take care of Ilya, saw him in bed in the afternoon smelling like vodka and cigarettes and joined him.
And Ilya... didn't answer his phone, didn't go to the airport. Didn't even know what time it was.
Eto ne dlya tebya.
Ilya presses his lips together.
On ne dlya tebya.
Shane is here and Ilya has barely spoken to him. He knows he has to, because if Shane keeps observing, without distraction, without interference – he might see too much. If he looks for long enough, if Ilya stays quiet-
He's already seen too much. Ilya tries so hard to hide this part of himself, because it has no place in Shane's life. Shane doesn't deserve this.
Ilya's mind is racing.
Don't look, my love.
Don't see.
Don't stay here.
Ilya squeezes his eyes shut.
Don't leave.
“I'm sorry,” he manages, mumbling into Shane's skin, but it's not enough.
He feels a kiss against his hair. “No,” Shane says, his voice soft, and completely unaware that it's the only thing holding Ilya together.
Talk to him.
Ilya shuts his eyes harder, tries to drown out the relentless spiral. He takes a breath, then tenses again.
His head is screaming.
Open your stupid mouth.
“Ilya.”
Perestan’ byt’ takim, blyad’, lenivym. Soberis’, inache on tebya uvidit i uydyot.
He forces his eyes open. “I am sorry I did not come to airport.”
“You... you didn't know I was coming,” Shane says, and his warm hand slips to the back of Ilya's neck, making him sigh with relief as his fingertips circle into the tension in Ilya's muscles.
Shane's lips are pressed to Ilya's forehead again and Ilya lets weakness take over, closes his eyes. He wants to look, wants to see, but he can't bear it.
He's here.
Shane, Shane, Shane.
He has to do something.
“Is this how you felt last night?”
The breath hitches in Ilya's throat, comes out slower. He forces his voice with everything he has. “Yes.”
He feels Shane nod, his fingers still easing the tight knots of Ilya's muscles.
“I'm not sure what to do,” Shane says, and Ilya recognizes it exactly as what it is: Shane's fear of failure.
“But... um... you know, anything you need, Ilya.”
Ilya feels it slowly, then all at once.
Stop.
“Like... we can just stay like this, all day, if that's what you need. Or... or if you want to talk, I'm here.”
Ilya pulls back just enough and his eyes meet Shane's.
There's never been anyone prettier than Shane Hollander. There's never been anyone better, never anyone so pretty inside and out.
“We're going to... make it through. No matter how long it takes.”
And then – Ilya breaks, presses his forehead to Shane's collarbone as a sob tears out of him at the violent release of everything that's built and stormed and longed and hated for the past two days.
“Ilya...”
Shane's arms tighten around him, one hand cupping the back of Ilya's head, the other flat against his back, and Ilya wishes Shane would use all the strength he has, it might just be enough to keep him together.
His voice is shaking. “I'm ruining our time together, you made more time and I am-”
“Shh,” Shane whispers, stroking his hand flat up and down Ilya's back. “Nothing's ruined. I'm glad I'm here. I wouldn't want you to be alone any longer like this.”
Ilya's breath catches, splintering in his chest, then comes out broken. Another sob follows, sharper and shaking in his throat, and he presses himself closer to Shane, fingers curling against his skin. “I can't-”
Shane's grip tightens at the back of his head, steadying him.
Ilya's shoulders shake with another sob, and he feels so weak and so relieved at the same time, his face hidden against Shane's collarbone to muffle his sounds.
He's going to breathe. He's getting there.
His chest is aching and fuck, he just wants it to stop. He's so tired of feeling like this.
“I'm sorry,” he whispers, though he doesn't know what for. Probably everything.
“Hey,” Shane says softly, cutting him off again.
But he has to show him. “I have to be better.”
The world doesn't end.
Shane doesn't move. If anything, he holds Ilya tighter. “You don't have to be anything. Just breathe.”
Shane holds him steady and Ilya's sobs come softer, less violent, shaking through him in uneven waves until they don't, until Shane's shirt is damp against Ilya's face, and his breath is slowly, finally, catching.
Shane's hand is stroking up and down his back the whole time and the tightness starts lifting from his chest.
Ilya swallows, his throat raw and dry.
“I've got you.”
And then it comes through as the fog lifts.
On s toboy, Ilyusha.
Ilya exhales sharply. “Fuck.”
Shane shifts slightly. “Ilya?”
“She would have loved you.”
He's told Shane before, but again, he's overwhelmed by the realization that his mother really would love Shane. And broken once again by the fact that she will never know him. Every time he lets himself think about it, his heart physically aches.
Silent tears roll down his cheeks and he squeezes his eyes shut again.
“Your mother.”
He nods against Shane's shirt. “You have no idea,” he whispers. “How much I wish she could know you.”
“You know me,” Shane whispers. “And she's with you.”
Ilya swallows hard.
“Is this... is this what happened yesterday?” he asked. “You... you were sad about her?”
“I am always sad about her.”
Shane exhales. “I know, but-”
“At first,” Ilya says, because why is he snapping at the love of his life who is holding him through his absolute worst? “It's how it started, but... but then it just...” He shrugs weakly. “Then it is just everything. Everything that is bad. And I cannot get out.”
“You deserve so much better,” Shane whispers.
“And then it is spiral,” Ilya continues quietly, because he doesn't deserve better, but he can't say that again. “I think about her and I get sad and then I think that if she was here, she would take care of me. But if she was here, I wouldn't be sad.”
Shane squeezes him, stays quiet.
Ilya knows there's nothing he can say, and he's glad Shane knows it too. Because people try, and Ilya has always wished they would stop. Nothing in the world that anyone can say will make a difference.
Shane doesn't try, because he's perfect.
“I thought it would get easier,” Ilya says. “But gets worse, the older I get.”
Shane hums understandingly, but doesn't interrupt, waits for him to go on.
“I get older and I understand more, how she felt. That she was person, not just my mama.” He exhales. “I do not blame her,” he clarifies. “Was hard. Being her, being with my father. During that time.” His shoulders drop. “I could have taken her out of Russia with me, could have been her son and her friend. Once I got old enough, I-”
“Ilya,” Shane whispers. “You were young.”
He nods, feels Shane's wet T-shirt rub against his forehead. “I know. But... but is not fair. I didn't get to... be me with her. She didn't get to see-...” He pauses. “Maybe it's better that way.”
Shane's hand still. “No.” Both his hands come up to cup Ilya's face, lifting it slightly and Ilya shifts to look at him.
“Don't say that. She would be so proud of you. Everything you've done. Who you've become.”
Ilya presses his lips together and Shane wipes the tears as soon as they come. “Everything I do now with Yuna,” he says quietly. “You know, talk about recipes and text and talk on phone and plan-” He can't get the words out.
Shane nods, leans down and presses the softest kiss to Ilya's lips.
Ilya looks up at him with wide eyes when he draws back. “And we could all do things together. Your parents and her.”
Shane smiles weakly. “My mum said to me she would have loved to meet her. Have her be part of our family.”
Ilya blows out a puff of air, trying to compose himself, because what is he doing?
“She would have liked that.” He tries to support himself on his elbows, to lift his head over Shane's. “Kiss me. Let me make this up to you, Hollander.”
The small smile on Shane's face fades in an instant. “Ilya-”
“You did not come here to see me cry.”
Shane swallows hard, his eyes. “I came here to be with you. You don't have to-” He shakes his head, his hands moving from Ilya's face.
Vidish’, mama? On ideal’nyy.
He lets himself collapse on top of Shane, shifting the covers from them slightly, the cool air instantly pleasant on his damp skin.
“Don't leave.”
Shane's hand moves down his back, pushing up his shirt slightly, fingertips stroking over Ilya's skin. “I won't.”
“Because I am biggest fan,” he adds, smiling against Shane's collarbone, eternally grateful that Shane hasn't brought up the jersey, but he has to beat him to it just in case.
“Of the Voyageurs?”
Ilya bites Shane's neck, not hard, but Shane still squirms. “No,” he mumbles. “Of Shane Hollander. Talented, beautiful, gorgeous...”
“Ilya-”
“Prettiest freckles I have ever seen,” he continues dramatically. “And amazing ass.”
Shane laughs and god, does it make Ilya's heart feel lighter. He presses a kiss to the base of Shane's throat.
“You were not here,” he says seriously. “It smelled like you. Made me feel like...” He pauses, but the fuck is he kidding? “Like yours.”
He can hear the smile in Shane's voice. “You are. Mine. My Ilya.”
Ilya hums.
And he knows nothing could ever take him away from Shane. He will always be selfish.
“And I'm yours.”
Ilya exhales. “Yes.”
“I forgot I even left it here.”
“What?” he gasps in fake shock, lifting his head and resting his chin carefully against Shane's chest, waiting until Shane brings his head down to meet his eyes.
“What?” he laughs.
“You forgot that I told you to put on jersey before you suck my dick and you gave best performance ever?”
Shane's lips part in a exasperated gasp, his cheeks flushed. “I-”
Ilya grins, licking his lips. “Say I am yours again.”
Shane rolls his eyes playfully, then his face softens, pink highlighting his freckles. “How do I say it in Russian?”
And Ilya swears he thought he already loved Shane more than physically possible. And it's not the first time Shane proves him wrong.