Work Text:
Shane regretted ever setting foot in Boston. Ever since the start of his career it felt like the city had it out for him. Boston fans obviously hated him, that was something he expected. But the hatred the city held for him felt baked into its DNA. Unavoidable and suffocating if he stuck around long enough.
The road trip started strong, a win against New Jersey added fuel to the fire that always burned especially hot when leading up to a game in Boston. The team was in good spirits and prepared for whatever fight they’d face from the Raiders the following night. However, nothing good in this city ever seemed to last too long for Shane.
In the midst of making casual conversation post morning skate, Hayden, trying to be a good friend, asked Shane about Rose. This led to the unfortunately timed reveal that the pair had split a few days prior. It had been amicable; they were friends still, no big deal. Of course, Shane was leaving out the whole being gay issue of the affair. No matter how many times he relayed this, stressing that he really was fine, Hayden and J.J had insisted on getting drinks that night to “help him get over his breakup”.
That is how Shane had ended up accidentally drunk off his ass, wandering the streets of Boston at one in the morning.
He didn’t mean to get drunk by any means. It had started with just wanting to be nice, appreciating his friends’ care and consideration more than anything. He’d go for an hour or two, and once they got tipsy enough, he’d slip away back to his hotel. It was a routine he had perfected over the years, and a part of him was a bit proud of his ability to blend into the background.
He didn’t account for Hayden and J.J’s intense dedication to helping him through his “heartbreak”. No matter how hard he tried, they refused to drink more than one beer without him joining in.
“This is your night, Hollander, we’re here for you.” Hayden had stressed after Shane tried to dismiss questions about the breakup for the 10th time since they entered the bar. His dedication to his nutritional regime fought against the side of him that desperately wanted to fit in. Here he was with his two best friends while they were trying to support him, and he just kept pushing them out. If they couldn’t know all the details of the breakup, he could at least owe them a beer. What was the harm of one drink anyway?
A single beer had somehow turned into three, plus two shots, plus one more beer, before he got the bright idea to leave and explore the city while Hayden was in the restroom and J.J was otherwise occupied talking to a random girl at the bar. He hastily tugged his jacket over his shoulders, zipping it up with a polite nod to the security at the door before slipping outside.
The freezing chill of the East Coast winter washed over his flushed face, the temperature contrast zapping him awake. The streets had slowed in the early hours, stoplights finishing full cycles without a single car passing through. In this light, he could see some of the appeal of the city. The relative quiet was a calming contrast to the bustle of the city during the day. It allowed him to take in the appreciation of the buildings, the history of one building to the next. In the quiet of the night, he could pretend the city wasn’t filled with an overwhelming suffocation, a bone-deep hatred for his soul that never seemed to disappear. Since his rookie year, the Boston and Montreal rivalry had stuck to him; the rich city of Boston lost behind the overwhelming hatred the city seemed to hold for him. But in the early hours of the morning, he could pretend he was someone else. He could let the expectations the two cities had lofted on his shoulders melt away as he aimlessly wandered.
Shane faintly wondered if the buildings had always been this beautiful. The peace that blanketed the city illuminated it in the dark hours of the morning. Part of him wondered what it would have been like if he hadn’t been forced into the Voyagers. If a history's worth of rivalry and hatred hadn’t been thrown on his plate as a freshly 18-year-old rookie. Some days, if he let himself think long enough, he thought of the Boston rookie he was drafted alongside. Today, the alcohol in his veins focused on the beauty of the historic buildings, the contrast of history with an ever-changing society. He allowed the warm streetlights to lead him from the club, drunkenly wandering from street to street, letting his heart guide him for once in his life.
His blind appreciation and drunken haze sent him further and further from the bar, his feet seeming to move on their own as he stumbled one block, then two, to eight blocks down. After the shortest 10 minutes in his life, he was left staring up at one of the largest billboards in the city, showing off a 16-foot portrait of Ilya Rozanov.
Suddenly, the thoughts of the city melted away in an instant, focusing on the illuminated face of Ilya.
Ilya
The dull ache in Shane's chest, which he had been running from that fateful day in October, was no longer possible to ignore. It was screaming now, his whole chest aching with the memories, the stupid wish to take it all back.
Ilya's moles were even more visible than usual, each feature blown up for the world to pick apart. Jealousy seeped into Shane’s gut. Irrational, sure, but impossible to ignore. Selfishly, Shane thought only he should be able to see Ilya that close. A smug part of him thought of all the things only he knew. The specific map of the moles that spattered on Ilya's back. The slight tan Iine Ilya could get around his mother’s necklace. How his eyes crinkle in the corners, just so, in a way that only came out around Shane. The skin that was slightly picked off on Ilya’s bottom lip from his bad habit of chewing when he focused.
But Shane didn’t own any of those observations. Other random hookups could know all those things. Shane wasn’t special. Maybe he could have been. But instead, he destroyed it all the last time they were in this fucking city. So Shane had no reason to feel jealous or possessive, when it was his own fault it didn’t belong to him.
Emotions never came easily to Shane. It was something he had struggled to understand his whole life. Conversations always felt like an outside joke that he was last to be included in. This wasn’t to say Shane was necessarily socially awkward or couldn’t fit in. Quite the contrary. Shane had spent his entire life perfecting how to fit himself into spaces, regardless of how uncomfortably he had to bend in order to fit. It had become second nature at this point. A new normal that he had begun to predict. All a part of a practiced routine he could expect, a comfortable struggle he knew how to adapt to.
Everything about his relationship with Ilya Rozanov was none of these things. Terrifyingly, Ilya seemed to see him, no bending backwards or shrinking down required. The Russian found his quirks not only entertaining but endearing. The memories flooding back to him at the blown-up portrait caused his stomach to lurch. A pounding reminder of the loss Shane had forced upon himself. One of the few people he may have been able to grow to a true comfort level, a deep understanding inches away, yet Shane had sprinted in the other way. No matter how hard Shane wished, the sudden change and emotions that sprang upon him the moment Ilya said his name were something no amount of press training could whisk away. Now, all Shane felt was a deep ache in his gut, a yearning for something Shane had stupidly pushed away out of fear.
Heat swelled in his eyes, hot tears spilling over before he could think to pinch them away. Once the first few tears rolled down his cheeks, the dam couldn’t be stopped. He’s certain he looked absolutely insane right now, praying no Raiders fans saw him like this. On some random street in downtown Boston, hockey legend Shane Hollander was stuck frozen in place, chest shuddering as his cries threatened to slip past tight lips. He was stuck to the sidewalk, arms useless at his sides, and his watery gaze stuck on his famed rival.
Every feeling he had been suffocating for months, maybe even years if he was honest with himself, was hammering out of his chest. He wanted to apologize. To beg for Ilya's forgiveness.
I’d fix it if I could, he thought. Would he even want to hear from me? What would he say if I apologized?
Fuck I miss him.
As he sank to the curb, legs sticking out into the bike lane, his phone slipped from his pocket and clattered onto the sidewalk. In a split moment, he made a decision that he would probably regret once he was sober, but couldn’t bring himself to stop.
-
The line rang steadily into the night, the shrill buzz of the dial tone piercing his ears.
“Hi, this is Ilya. I will not listen to your voicemail.”
The voicemail box beeped to life, the clock steadily counting up on the screen.
After a few moments of silence, Shane cleared his throat.
“Hey, uhm, it’s me. It’s Shane. I guess you knew that.” He sniffled before continuing.
“I know you won’t ever hear this. Maybe that’s for the best. I just wanted to say I miss you. Even when I’m not in your stupid fucking city, I miss you.” A slightly hysterical laugh ripped from his chest, followed by sniffles and silence that could only be the sound of someone trying to hide that they were crying. “I know I don’t have the right to say that to you. You honestly have every right to hate me. I would too if I were you.”
He paused, taking a deep breath to try to put himself back together. His tears were falling more steadily now; no amount of wiping them away seemed to help the problem.
“I’m so sorry I left Ilya. You didn’t deserve that, and I’m sorry. I was - I was a coward,” he choked out. His words threatened to slur together, alcohol thrumming through his veins, loosening his lips. “I ran away when I shouldn’t have, and now all I can think of every second of every day is that I miss you. I miss the way you hold me. I miss the way your hair gets curlier towards the back of your neck. I miss the smile you do when you’re teasing me. If I could do it again, I promise I wouldn’t run away this time. I’d never leave if you’d let me. Please just forgive me. Please”
His voice sounds so small it’s barely recognizable even to himself.
The voicemail ticked on as Shane fell silent, gaze locked on the illuminated portrait of the man Shane adored.
Shane had often wished he could redo poor conversations, picking apart where he misspoke like a lackluster shift. Nothing had ever eaten away at him like leaving Ilya had. Every second since he left had been filled with a dull ache, a longing to return to the scene of the crime. A frantic plea deep down to fix a heart he knew he had shattered. He’d pick up the pieces this time. He’d mop up the blood and cradle Ilya in his arms with a gentleness he never fully let himself express.
But he can’t redo it. He can never go back. So now he’s stuck in a puddle of self-pity, with the only option to plead to Ilya Rozanov’s voice message box for forgiveness he doesn’t feel he deserves.
“I’m so sorry, Ilya. I’m so sorry.”
His voice was barely above a whisper as he let tears roll down his cheeks, staring at the call screen before ending the call. Silence washed over him once again. This time, he let the aggressive waves crash into him, feeling what he had tried and failed to suppress for months.
—
The sharp ring of his phone pulled Shane out of his spiral of misery. What felt like moments had been almost an hour, the world falling away as Shane let his shortcomings run like a bad film over and over in his mind.
Sniffling, wiping the tears from his cheeks, he picked up, assuming it was Hayden trying to find him.
“What’s up?” His voice slurred against his best efforts, not noting how scratchy his throat felt from crying.
“Hollander, why did you call me?”
Ilya's exasperated voice pierces through him like a shard of glass, a cold shock through his system. Dread mixed with bile threatens to creep up his throat.
What the fuck was he thinking, calling Ilya? Now he’s gone and made everything even worse. Hot tears threatened to spill over his lashes once more against his will, trying and failing to keep his voice level.
“I’m so sorry. I won’t bother you again. Fuck, this is so embarrassing. You can just delete the voicemail I left you. I’m sorry, I just wanted to talk to you again.”
The line goes silent for a moment as Shane attempts to take control of his overwhelming feelings, but desperately loses the battle to the alcohol in his system.
“Hollander, what the hell are you talking about? You left me a voicemail?”
Shane finds himself nodding even though Ilya can’t see him.
“Yeah, but uh, you can just ignore it. Ilya, I’m so sorry, just forget it.”
“Give me a minute to listen. I will call you back once I finish, okay?”
Ilya’s voice had grown less annoyed, a faint echo of concern slipping through the line.
Shane finds himself mumbling in agreement before being faced with the beeping of a dead phone line. The minutes counted on in agony. The skin on his lips was picked raw as his head spun, struggling to sit completely still. After three agonizing minutes, the line rang out again.
Ilya speaks first this time. “Hollander, where are you?”
A whine escapes Shane’s lips, fear that the other will be upset with him washing over. “I don’t want you to be mad at me. I didn’t mean to make it worse. I'm sorry. Ilya, I’m so sorry.”
Ilya shushes him gently, an attempt to soothe the man on the other end.
“Hollander, I am not upset, I’m worried, okay? Now, can you please tell me where you are so I can pick you up?”
Shane stilled, sniffling cries silenced.
“You’re going to pick me up?” He asks, voice small.
“Yes. Now, can you please share your location with me so I can come get you?”
Ilya talked him through the steps slowly until Shane’s location was sent to his phone. If he wasn’t aware of Shane's drunken state before, after struggling to explain how to get to "Settings" for five minutes, he had to be well aware now.
“Okay, дорогой, I will be there in 20 minutes. Can you wait 20 minutes for me?”
“Mhmmm. I’d wait forever for you.” His voice is too soft, and even in his drunkenness, he could realize that. Thankfully, Ilya didn't dwell on it.
“I will be there in 20.”
__
Ilya’s red Ferrari pulled up to the curb in front of him 13 minutes later. The driver's side door opened and shut, and in a moment, Ilya Rozanov was standing in front of him. A part of Shane felt that this was some fucked up dream. A hallucination, the deep part of his mind conjured up to make up for the fact that he was wasted and freezing on the streets of Boston alone, needing some far-fetched fantasy to tie him to reality. As Ilya reached down and clasped his hand around Shane’s wrist, he realized this was all too real.
“You’re here,” he whispered, a dopey smile plastered on his tear-stained face. The warmth from Ilya’s wrist sent shockwaves through his system. After months of dreaming of feeling his touch again, here he was, guiding Shane up and into the passenger side of his car.
“I’m here. Now, can you get into the passenger seat, or do you need me to help you, Hollander?”
Ilya handled him gentler than usual, featherlight touches guiding Shane into the passenger side of his obnoxious car. It was a bit of an uncomfortable squeeze for an over six-foot, large hockey player, but Shane folded himself into the space happily. Ilya's help didn’t stop a frown from appearing on Shane’s face.
“Mmm, that’s not my name. You called me Shane last time. I won’t freak out this time, I promise.” His words slurred together slightly as his head rolled to rest upon his shoulder, a far-off look stuck in his eyes.
Ilya froze momentarily, the brunette far too gone to notice the pause.
“Okay, Shane.” Ilya’s voice was cautious but still fond, hands moving gently as he buckled Shane into his seat. “Are you okay if I shut the door and drive you to my house?”
To say Shane nodded in response would be generous; his head flopped up and down with little control. The door shut with a soft click moments later, and silence followed by the sound of Ilya sliding into the driver's seat.
As the car hummed to life, Shane let out a light laugh. “I never thought I’d be in your Ferrari. Thought I’d be in your Porsche or something first.”
Ilya’s brows crinkle as he pulls onto the road, navigating the Boston streets with practiced ease. “Are you obsessed with me or something, Shane? Know all of my cars like your hockey stats?” His tone was light and teasing, but there was genuine curiosity underneath it.
Shane hummed in agreement, not picking up on Ilya’s clear desire to understand him. “Watched the documentary thing you did last year with ESPN a lot. I watched it more the last few months when I really missed you. Made me feel like I actually knew you.” He was too intoxicated to really sound sad, his voice embarrassingly earnest. His cheek was pressed against the cold glass of the window, his half-lidded eyes missing the way Ilya’s face contorted in something between shock and a deep longing.
“I think you know me more than you think,” Ilya decided after a stretch of silence.
“Hmm, maybe. Not enough, though. Never as much as I want.”
Ilya didn’t know what to do with the sudden vulnerability from Shane after months of no contact, letting the silence settle over them once more.
The stretch of silence allowed the events of the last three months to play in Shane’s mind over and over like a bad film once more. Even in the supposed safety of Ilya’s car, he couldn’t help but feel the need to repent.
“Мне жаль Ilya. I’m so fucking sorry,” He slurred, the words bubbling out of him without his control, a desperate attempt to escape the suffocation of the silence that had blanketed them two. “Мне жаль. Мне жаль.”
He mumbled mostly to himself as he kept his face pressed against the window, trying to stop the feeling of dread from beating him over the head once more.
“When did you learn Russian?” Shane couldn’t pinpoint the emotion in Ilya’s question, but he supposed that wasn’t something entirely new when it came to their conversations.
“Learned that and a few other things a few days ago. Wanted to practice to tell you after the game tomorrow if I could get you to talk to me. I’m really glad you’re talking to me.”
“And what are you sorry for, Shane?” The question sounded like it pained Ilya to ask, almost as much as it hurt Shane to think about.
Shane forced himself to sober up as much as possible before he spoke. He figured there was no better time than being trapped in your ex situationship’s car than to explain why you regretted running away from them.
“I’m sorry I ran away. It all changed so fast, and I couldn’t-I don’t handle change well.” Shane hummed as he grasped for the words to decently explain how he felt, fighting the alcohol clouding his brain.
“I don’t know why it scared me so much. It was so nice, wasn’t it? You were so nice, and I felt so calm. I just - I wasn’t sure you wanted more. I couldn’t feel so much and just have you think I was just a good fuck and nothing more. Was easier to leave. We’ve never been good at talking, have we?” Shane let out a short, self-deprecating laugh.
He let tears well in his eyes once more, the alcohol allowing tears to fall freely before he could pinch them away for once. He pressed the back of his palms to his closed eyes, trying to use the pressure to ground him from the spinning behind his skull.
“But fuck Ilya, I miss you,” He all but whined. “I’d take being nothing to you if I could redo that day again. I hate that you don’t even look at me anymore. I know I hurt you, I’m fucking awful, I know. But I miss you. You don’t have to tell me if you miss me too, but I need you to know that I do.”
Ilya shook his head, white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel as Shane spoke. He let silence blanket the two of them, far too aware of the quiet sniffles coming from Shane’s side of the car as the brunette wiped his eyes.
“Shane, you don’t mean this. You have Rose, yes? You don’t, you can’t miss me.” The words sounded weak to Ilya’s own ears, trying to convince himself as much as Shane as the words fell from his tongue.
Shane whined once more in protest, forcing his eyes open. He stared straight ahead at the blurring passage of the street lights.
“Not together anymore. She told me I was gay earlier this week. Kinda hard to have a girlfriend when you’re thinking about a guy you never dated the whole time.”
Shane’s matter-of-fact tone, coupled with a casual shrug of his shoulders, ripped a bellowing laugh from Ilya's chest.
“Rose Landry told you that you were gay? Fucking me for six years didn’t tell you that already?”
Shane couldn’t help but laugh too, his face scrunching as a smile stretched across his face.
“Fuck you, asshole! I mean, I’m fully gay, I don’t like both like you do.” He tried to sound serious but couldn’t stop himself from laughing along. The whole situation he had gotten himself into was kind of hilarious if he thought about it.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” Ilya huffed, trying to quiet his laughter. The brief stint of lightness filling Shane’s chest slowly dissipated as they pulled up to Ilya’s house, the garage opening to accommodate their arrival.
“For the record, I missed you, too. So much,” Ilya said quietly. His eyes were sad as he unbuckled his seatbelt and exited the car, the words hanging in the space he left.
Ilya missed him
The thought pounded in his head as Ilya opened the passenger door, unbuckling Shane’s seatbelt before helping him out of the car. A large hand gripped his forearm, the other resting on the small of his back as Shane slightly stumbled out of the car.
“Let’s get you to bed, okay?”
Shane nodded weakly, leaning into the warmth of Ilya’s touch. They remained there for a moment, Shane’s forehead pressed into Ilya’s shoulder, gentle circles rubbed into his back as the pounding in Shane’s head slowly melted to a quiet hum. At Shane’s approval, Ilya gently guided the pair inside.
The house was just as beautiful at night as it was during the day. The large windows looked out upon the backyard, lamps and secondary lights turned on in favor of the glaring overhead lights. Shane briefly wondered if Ilya had done that on purpose because of him.
You could have known what his house looked like at night months ago if you hadn’t run away. Maybe you could have carved out a space here. A metros mug in the cupboard, my weighted blanket on the couch, my glasses on my side of the bed.
Now I’m just an unwanted visitor.
“I will show you the guest room. It is right down the hall from my room, so I’ll be close if you need anything.”
The footsteps that had been trailing behind Ilya as he led Shane through the house for the second time had gone quiet. Ilya turned to see Shane frozen in the hallway, hands balled tight at his sides.
Fuck, Shane felt like an idiot. Of course, Ilya wasn’t going to let him anywhere near his space again. He had lost that right the last time he was here, he understood that. It didn't stop the sick feeling from curling in his stomach, a growing pit that wouldn’t stay shoved down. As naive as it was, Shane let himself hope for a moment that maybe Ilya would invite him back to his room. Maybe he’d finally get to sleep a full night in the arms of the man that he loved missed. It was a silly dream to have - he could recognize it now - but that didn’t stop the confirmation falling from Ilya’s lips to crash into him like a 250-pound winger slamming him into the boards.
Ilya stepped towards him like he was approaching a scared dog, not trying to frighten him away once more. “Shane?”
Shane tried to pinch the tears from his eyes once more with no success. If he had known he’d cry this much from being drunk, he would have never had a beer to begin with. Embarrassment wasn’t a new emotion for Shane, yet here, in the middle of Ilya Rozanov’s hallway at god knows when in the morning, crying because he wouldn’t be allowed to share a bed was up there for the most embarrassing moment of his life so far.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying.”
Lie.
It was easier to lie and play it off as a side effect of being drunk than to admit to crying over being relegated to the guest bedroom. Unfortunately, Shane was never a good liar when it came to Ilya.
“Малыш. Shane. What is wrong?”
Ilya was so close he could touch the blonde’s hand, gently reaching out to lightly hold his face, thumb brushing against his cheekbones. A light shake of the head was all Shane could produce, eyes squeezed shut.
“Shane, look at me. Tell me what is wrong, okay? We have made it this far without you upsetting me; you don’t need to worry about that, Shanya.”
Shane wanted to stay stubborn, put up a solid fight like he always did. But Shane was a weak man when it came to Ilya Rozanov - and against his better judgement - he let his eyes flutter open.
Ilya Rozanov was beautiful. This was a fact known to man and as easily accepted as the sun going down and the moon coming up every night without fail. Shane had thought this many times throughout the past seven years, much to his own detriment. Ilya Rozanov had never looked more beautiful than he did now. The dim light of the hallway cast a golden hue on his face, his curls glowing under the soft light. His usually stoic or slightly mocking expressions were all gone; a tenderness Shane was too scared to name was etched on every inch of his face. He could see the reflection of his own brown eyes cast in the deep blue, green sea of Ilya’s irises. While the embarrassment and dread were still gluing his feet to the light hardwood floors, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the man in front of him. Even worse, he couldn’t fight the urge to tell him the terrible and horrifying truth.
Shane’s throat feels dry as he whispers. “You’re beautiful.”
A small, almost imperceivable smile tugs at the corners of Ilya’s lips.
“You’re beautiful,” Shane continues, words still slightly muddled. “And I guess I was just hoping that you’d let me sleep with you.”
Ilya’s eyebrow quirks up, a small smirk replacing the sweet smile he had moments prior. Heat rushed to Shane’s cheeks. Fuck, how does he keep saying the wrong things? It had to be a skill at this point.
“Not like that, you asshole!”
A small laugh fell from Ilya’s lips, raising his free hand in surrender. A gentle truce allowing Shane to try again.
“I just hoped that maybe you'd let me sleep in your bed. With you. Again.” He took a breath before the words started tumbling out without control. “I fucked up my chance last time, but I won’t, I promise I won’t do it again. I just think about it a lot, and it’s okay if you say no. But I just feel like I fucked everything up and it’s all that I want and I can’t fix it.”
Ilya’s thumb brushed away a stray tear that tracked down Shane’s cheek, letting Shane say as much or as little as he needed.
“And I know I’m drunk, and I’m sorry that I dragged you into picking me up, but please, I won’t ask for anything else. I won’t get scared and run away this time. Just think about it. Please?”
God being drunk is humiliating. Thank whatever hockey gods out there that Ilya, in his sudden endless patience, didn’t seem to judge him. Instead, he let Shane slowly catch his breath and allow the tears to slow to a stop before responding.
“If you promise not to run away this time, I guess I can allow it.” His tone was light and teasing, with a small smile glinting back at Shane. Even though the words were laced with humor, clearly trying to diffuse the walking emotional time bomb that was the drunk Shane Hollander, it only landed flat.
Panic set in as Shane jumped once more to apologize. “Ilya, I’m so sorry. I promise, I promise I won’t run again. I’m sorry. I'm so sorry.”
Ilya gently shushed him, cutting off the flow of apologies.
“No more apologies tonight, okay? We can talk more about it in the morning, but I don’t want to hear you apologize anymore. Can you do that for me, дорогой?”
Ever the good listener, Shane nodded and allowed Ilya to walk him back to the master bedroom.
The room looked the same as Shane remembered it, the only noticeable difference being the bedding a mess on the bed. Guilt threatened to creep up his throat once more, remembering that the state of the bed was absolutely his fault for causing Ilya to rush to pick him up, but he was told to stop apologizing, so the apology died in his chest.
“What do you usually wear to bed?”
Ilya’s voice filled the room, slightly muffled as he looked through his closet.
“Uh, usually just my underwear, but maybe some sweatpants cause it’s kinda cold.”
As Ilya rummaged through the closet, he couldn’t help but ruminate on the simple fact that he wanted to know more. I’ve been seeing you for six years, and I don’t know how you sleep. I don’t know what you look like in the morning or what you eat for breakfast. I don’t know the first step of your morning routine or how you get ready for bed. I don’t know what shows you like to watch or if you like to cook. I want to know everything until it feels like our souls are tied together. Please let me know everything.
He was swaying slightly on his feet, not wanting to risk doing something out of place that’d cause Ilya to kick him out. He made it this far somehow, and by God, he wasn’t about to do anything that’d mess that up.
Ilya returned stripped down to his boxers, holding a pair of black sweatpants in his hand. His brows downturned as he walked to Shane, gently guiding him to the bed.
“Sit. I’ll help you.”
“You trying to get me naked, Rozanov?” Shane grinned as Ilya let out a soft chuckle, hands working under his shirt and pulling it over his head.
Ilya shook his head with a smile. “I’m not convinced you wouldn’t fall and break your arm if you tried to change on your own. How do I explain why Shane Hollander was found drunk with a broken arm in my house and now out for the playoffs to the MLH? Much easier to do it myself.”
“And you like to see me naked.”
Ilya nodded, and for the first time that night, a full smile stretched across his face. “And I like to see you naked.” It felt like a win in its own right.
Tender touches grazed Shane’s torso, waist, and legs as Ilya gently guided him out of his clothes and into a fresh pair of sweatpants. His shoulders relaxed as the uncomfortable feeling of his clothes rubbing his skin the slightly wrong way finally disappeared. Ilya lightly smoothed down his tousled hair, Shane unable to fight the urge to lean into his touch.
I want this every day. Please let me have this for more than today.
“Time for bed Котёнок. Will you be okay if I leave for a second to get you some water and a charger for your phone?”
Shane was already snuggling under the covers, taking in the smell of Ilya’s detergent. He hummed in agreement and let his eyes close as Ilya’s footsteps got fainter as he ventured into the kitchen. Here, in Ilya’s bed, he felt a sense of peace he rarely allowed himself in moments other than when he was at the cottage. Suddenly, he was aware of how lonely he was from keeping everyone, especially Ilya, at arm's length. Maybe he could start making small steps to fix it. Maybe he already was.
Ilya returned with a glass of water, some painkillers, and a charger for Shane’s phone as promised. He placed the items on Shane’s nightstand, sitting down by his legs.
“Ah, no falling asleep just yet, Shanya.”
Shane groaned in response, sitting up slowly, cursing the way the room still spun.
“Drink some water, and then you can sleep.” Shane grabbed the glass and gulped down over half the water, not realizing how dehydrated he had been. “You might want to text Hayden too, I think he’s worried you got kidnapped,” Ilya laughed as he handed over Shane’s phone. 25 messages and 10 missed calls from Hayden and 15 messages and 8 calls from J.J glared back at him from his home screen.
Shane groaned as dread washed over him. “Shit, they’re so gonna kill me.”
As Ilya opened his mouth to reply, another call cut through the room, Hayden’s 11th call lighting up Shane’s phone. Against his better judgment, he picked up.
Guilt drenched Shane’s words as he spoke. "Hey, Hayd.”
Hayden's voice echoed from his tinny phone speaker. “Holy shit, dude, you cannot run off like that again! We thought you got kidnapped or died or something. Where the fuck are you? We can come pick you up.”
Shane involuntarily giggled at Hayden's offer, Ilya's watchful gaze not flicking from him for even a moment as he talked.
“Uhm, I’m okay, you don’t need to pick me up. I’m safe, it's all good.”
“Dude, your location says you're at some like mansion in the suburbs, how the fuck did you get there?”
“Don’t worry about it, okay. I’m all good, I promise. But I’m so sorry for running off. I promise it won’t happen again. Scouts honor.”
He mimed a salute that Hayden couldn’t see but still garnered him a small laugh from Ilya, so he’d consider it a success. Hayden, however, only became more concerned.
“Dude, did someone just laugh? Okay, you’re not convincing me that you’re not kidnapped, so unless you tell me who the hell picked you up, we’re gonna come and get you.”
“Noooooo. Please don’t pick me up, Hayd. I just got here, I don’t wanna leave again.” He was whining like a child, but couldn’t be bothered to care. He brought his voice down to a whisper and cupped the phone close to his ear like that’d do anything to stop Ilya from hearing him. “I’m at Boston Lily’s house. He - I mean she, picked me up, and she’s gonna let me stay the night. I really want this to work, so please don’t come pick me up.” He felt like a child begging for a sleepover to their parent, but he supposed that was an experience Hayden was probably used to at this point.
A long sigh came through the other end of the phone. “Okay bud, you can spend the night. Just be here in time for check-in before the game, or coach is going to have your head. Have fun with Lily, okay?”
Shane beamed at the permission. Even though he was a grown adult, it was nice to have his friend’s approval. Especially after he gave them a minor heart attack for thinking he was kidnapped.
“I will, I promise. I’m sorry again for scaring you, Hayd. You and J.J are great friends. I’m really lucky to have you.”
“We’re lucky to have you, too. Now get some rest buddy. See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow.” With that, the line went dead.
Shane plugged his phone back in and drank some more water as Ilya stared at him like he was something to be studied. A mix of awe and curiosity mixed into his grin as Shane turned his attention back to the Russian.
“So they know about Boston Lily?” Ilya was clearly trying and failing to be nonchalant with the question, but thankfully, Shane couldn’t point that out.
“Mhm. Know I see her every time we come to Boston or when she comes to Montreal. They say she’s good for me. I think she is, too.”
Shane tucked himself back under the covers as he spoke, sleep tugging at his bones as exhaustion started to set in.
“Boston Lily thinks her Montreal Jane is good for her, too. She missed her very much.” Ilya placed a gentle kiss on the top of Shane’s head before turning out the light on his nightstand. Wordlessly, he slipped under the covers, turning out the light on his side of the bed before turning over to face Shane. Before he could even ask, Shane’s arms were wrapped around him tight, pulling him close to his chest.
“Thank you for picking me up. I really missed you,” Shane whispered against Ilya’s curls. With Ilya in his arms, it felt like everything he had been missing for months was finally back in place.
“I missed you too. Thank you for staying,” Ilya whispered back, letting himself relax into Shane’s chest. He couldn’t remember the last time he was held, but as sleep called to him while wrapped in Shane’s arms, he felt safer than he had in years.
“Always. I’ll always stay now. I promise.”
As the two drifted off, Shane had one more thought before sleep pulled him under.
I couldn’t be more in love.