Chapter Text
Ilya Rozanov has spent a significant portion of his life making himself a stranger to fear.
When it approaches him, he turns his back. When it knocks, he buys a new lock. When it breaks in, he builds another wall. When it breaks free and chases him, he disappears. On the rare occasion that it forces his hand, Ilya stares fear in the face and feigns ignorance. When fear takes offense, when it latches into every fiber of his being, demanding that he look it in the face, well.
He is Ilya fucking Rozanov.
Ilya’s father had never been much of a parent, but following the death of his first wife he had taken it upon himself to beat any lingering weakness out of his boys. Shane calls it abuse. Ilya used to call it self-preservation, now he thinks it's something closer to erasure – the burning desire to bury the cultural shame of mental illness publicly plaguing Gregori Rozanov’s reputation.
Shane says Irina deserved better and Ilya agrees.
His beautiful mother, with her bleeding heart, her beautiful soul, and her kind eyes. His mother with her pastel dresses and her lemon trees. His mother with her arms wrapped tight around him, holding his face to her chest against the steady and safe beat of her heart.
Shane says that Ilya and Alexei deserved better too.
Ilya is still working that one through in his mind.
The point being, Ilya Rozanov refuses to recognize fear.
So why is his heart pounding out of his chest as he stares at the message that has just come through his phone at 4:27 in the morning? It cannot, will not be fear. Curiosity, he settles his mind on before glancing back down at the text.
Harris: Come to the rink.
No emojis, no apologies, no follow up texts to reassure the absence of an emergency. Just four urgent words, glaring up at him through the screen. If it were anyone else, Ilya would probably already be back asleep. He loves his teammates, but they are often dramatic and seem to collectively lack an understanding about the importance of a good night’s sleep – okay, ew.
When did Ilya become so boring?
“Ilya?” Shane’s voice is wrecked with sleep. “Are you okay?”
“Moy lyubimiy,” Ilya simpers, rolling onto his side to face the beautiful man beside him. Shane squints back up at him, but instinctively chases his touch. “I did not mean to wake you.”
Shane burrows into the spot right above Ilya’s heart, placing a sleepy kiss to his chin. For a moment, Ilya thinks his boyfriend is back asleep. But then, “You didn’t answer my question.”
Ilya can’t help the chuckle that rumbles in his chest.
“You are harder to distract than you used to be, kotenok.”
“‘Mmm, ‘m not a kitten,” Shane protests, but the way he’s lounging over Ilya suggests otherwise. Ilya chooses not to fight him on it, wondering if Shane will say something a second time. “Who was calling you? Sounded urgent.”
Ilya sighs, remembering exactly why he’d been so brooding.
“Was Harris,” he admits, pressing a gentle kiss to Shane’s hairline.
Shane yawns and curls tighter into Ilya.
Ilya is struck, once again, with the powerful surge of violence that so often accompanies his witnessing Shane’s sweetest moments – not towards Shane, of course. Never towards Shane. He will kill anybody who looks at this man wrong. How could anybody look at Shane and choose to hurt him? How could anybody look at Shane and not want to drown in his sweetness?
Troy has called this cuteness aggression.
Ilya thinks it’s just common sense.
“Harris?” Shane mumbles, eyes still closed. “Your social media guy?
“Yes,” Ilya agrees, glaring up at the ceiling for what has to come out of his mouth next. “He is worried about … someone on the team. I have to go to the rink, probably.”
“Hmm,” Shane murmurs, opening one eye and fixing it on Ilya. “Everyone okay?”
Ilya could swoon about how perfect Shane is.
Shane who always cares about whether people who are perfect strangers to him are alright. Shane who struggles with schedule change and unexpected departures so much that he caves in on himself and dusts his plants to regulate, but who recognizes when Ilya’s love is needed elsewhere.
Shane who trusts that, even though it hasn’t always been this way, Ilya will cross all seven circles of hell to get back to him at the end of each day.
“I don’t know,” Ilya sighs, the admission heavy as it is finally spoken into truth. “It is … complicated situation. Troy has been not so good for a long time. Since the plane went down, probably.”
Shane’s hand tightens where it has been loosely resting over Ilya’s bicep.
Ilya presses a soothing smattering of kisses across Shane’s hairline, a silent apology for something that isn’t his fault but feels like it sometimes. Shane’s hand trails towards Ilya’s necklace and his fingers come to rest on the newest addition to the chain; the physical promise of forever.
“Go to him,” Shane says softly, without hesitation.
Ilya finds himself, very embarrassingly, wanting to cry.
“I love you,” he says quietly, almost without realizing he has spoken out loud.
Shane’s mouth curls upwards into a half-asleep smile and he nuzzles his nose into the cavity of Ilya’s aching chest. “I know. I love you too. Go take care of Barrett.”
There was a time, Ilya thinks while pulling on his sweatpants, that Shane would have had a panic attack over this. Or worse, even, a full system shutdown. They spent over a decade denying the magnetic charge between them, running and hiding, leaving and hurting each other to put off the undeniable force between them. Sometimes when they have to separate, especially unexpectedly and certainly where Troy Barrett is involved, the ghosts of the abandonment anxiety come out to play.
Not so recently, Ilya has noticed.
So much as a mistimed text would have had past-Shane spiraling into oblivion, convinced that Ilya had fallen in love with Troy Barrett overnight. Now, before Ilya has even grabbed for his jacket, Shane is fast asleep in their bed, perfectly content in the knowledge that Ilya will come back.
“Sleep well, solnyshko,” he whispers before closing the door and walking towards his keys.