Chapter Text
Ilya Rozanov had learned a long time ago how to look like he was fine.
Not “healthy,” exactly. Not “rested” or “bright”, but fine in the way people accepted without any questions. The kind of fine that ended conversations before they could start.
It was easier that way.
So when he stepped off the plane and saw Shane waiting near the terminal exit, leaning casually against a pillar like he had all the time in the world, Ilya adjusted his expression automatically. Smoothed it into something neutral. Tired, yes, he had been traveling, but nothing beyond that.
Shane’s eyes found him immediately.
They always did.
“Hey,” Shane said, like Ilya hadn’t crossed a country after a rough series of away games with the Centaurs to get here, like it was just another afternoon and not something carefully carved out of a season’s break.
Ilya forced a small smile. “Hey.”
Shane took his bag before Ilya could offer it, because he always did that too. No comment, no hesitation. Just a quiet assumption that Ilya would allow it.
Ilya did.
“Traffic’s bad, so, should be a few hours before we get there.” Shane said as they walked. “My mom made too much food. Again. So I’m sure you’ll enjoy.”
That pulled something faintly real from Ilya’s chest. Not quite a laugh. Not quite anything. “That sounds like her.”
“It is her,” Shane corrected, and there was warmth in it, a soft, familiar, grounding in a way Ilya didn’t want to lean on too much right now.
Because leaning meant noticing.
And noticing meant risk.
The drive to Shane and Yuna’s place blurred in and out of awareness. Ilya watched city lines pass through the window. His reflection sat faintly over them, superimposed like a ghost he didn’t quite recognize.
Shane didn’t push conversation. That was another thing about him. He never filled silence just to fill it. He let it exist.
Ilya used to find that comforting.
Now it made it easier to think.
Too much.
At a red light, Shane glanced at him. Not long. Just enough.
“You look tired,” he said.
It wasn’t an accusation. It never was with Shane. That was almost worse.
“I’m fine,” Ilya said automatically.
Shane’s eyes held for a second longer than necessary.
Then he nodded. “Long flight.”
The conversation moved on.
Ilya exhaled quietly.
Fine worked. It always worked.
⸻
The house smelled like food the moment they walked in.
Something warm. Something rich. Something that made Ilya realize, distantly, that he hadn’t eaten in… longer than he should have.
That thought arrived without urgency. Just a fact, floating by. That’s how all his thoughts came when he was like this. Like waves ebbing and flowing. Coming and going without much effort or change.
Yuna appeared from the kitchen almost immediately, wiping her hands on a towel. Her face lit up when she saw him.
“Ilya,” she said, like she hadn’t already texted Shane three times about when they’d arrive. “You made it.”
“I did,” he said, polite.
She stepped forward and hugged him before he could fully prepare for it. It was brief, firm, uncomplicated. Ilya returned it after half a second of hesitation.
Yuna always hugged like she was anchoring something.
“You look exhausted,” she added, pulling back.
There it was again.
Ilya kept his expression steady. “Travel.”
“Mm.” She didn’t argue. Just studied him for a second too long before stepping aside. “Food’s almost ready.”
Shane set Ilya’s bag down by the stairs.
“I can take that up,” Ilya said.
“It’s fine.”
Of course it was.
David appeared a moment later, already talking before he fully entered the room. “Ilya! Good to see you, kid.”
Kid.
Ilya nodded politely. “David.”
“Shane said you’ve been busy,” David continued, clapping him on the shoulder. “Season treating you alright?”
“Yes,” Ilya said.
A pause.
Then, because it was expected: “Just tired.”
David nodded like that explained everything in the universe. “Yeah, yeah. Happens to all of you. Hockey schedules are insane.”
Shane moved slightly closer to Ilya’s side. Not obvious. Just present.
Ilya noticed.
He always noticed Shane.
Dinner happened in pieces after that. Movement, conversation, plates being set down and passed around. The house felt full in a way Ilya couldn’t quite process yet. Warmth without demand. Noise without pressure.
He should have felt better.
He didn’t know if he did.
Food appeared in front of him. Too much. Always too much when David and Yuna cooked.
“I can’t eat all that,” Ilya said lightly, out of character for him.
Shane, beside him, said nothing, but gave him a connected, questioning glance.
Ilya took a small portion anyway.
The conversation flowed around him. David talking about something at work. Yuna asking Shane about travel plans. Shane answering calmly, easily.
Ilya followed it when he could.
When he couldn’t, he just listened.
His appetite didn’t arrive.
It didn’t really matter. He ate anyway. Slow. Careful. Mechanical.
Shane’s hand brushed his wrist once under the table.
Not a squeeze. Not a signal.
Just contact.
Ilya’s fingers twitched slightly in response before he could stop them.
Shane didn’t say anything.
But his eyes shifted to Ilya’s plate for half a second.
Then away.
⸻
Later, when dishes were being cleared, Ilya stood a little too quickly.
The room tilted, black spots dancing around his vision, not dramatically but just enough that he had to steady himself on the chair.
“I’m fine,” he said again, before anyone could ask.
No one had asked.
Yuna looked up briefly. “Long flight really hit you, huh?”
“Yes,” Ilya repeated.
Shane was watching him now.
Not openly. Not in a way anyone else would notice.
But Ilya could feel it.
Always.
“I’ll just—” Ilya gestured vaguely toward the stairs. “Rest a bit.”
“Of course,” Yuna said immediately. “Guest room’s ready.”
“I’ll take him,” Shane added, almost at the same time.
David didn’t comment. Just kept drying a plate.
Too normal. Everything was too normal.
Shane picked up Ilya’s bag again.
“I can—” Ilya started.
“I know,” Shane interrupted gently.
Not sharp. Not firm.
Just certain.
So Ilya stopped talking.
They went upstairs in silence.
⸻
The guest room was already prepared in a way that felt like Yuna had anticipated every possible version of exhaustion. Clean sheets. Dim lighting. Photos of a chubby baby Shane littering the walls. A folded blanket at the foot of the bed.
Shane set the bag down and closed the door behind them.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
This was the part Ilya hated.
The quiet after pretending.
Shane leaned against the dresser, arms loosely crossed.
“You didn’t sleep on the plane,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
“I slept,” Ilya said.
Shane’s expression didn’t change.
A beat passed.
“Ilya,” Shane said, softer now.
That did something unpleasant in Ilya’s chest. Not pain. Not quite. Just pressure.
“I’m fine,” Ilya repeated, slower this time.
Shane didn’t move.
“I know you’re trying to be,” he said.
Silence.
Ilya looked away first.
“I’m just tired,” he said again, but it came out weaker than he wanted.
Shane pushed off the dresser slightly, then stopped. Like he’d decided against closing the distance.
“Okay,” Shane said.
That wasn’t agreement.
It was restraint.
Ilya sat on the edge of the bed because standing suddenly felt like too much effort to justify.
“I don’t want them worrying,” he added, quieter.
“I know,” Shane said again.
And then, after a pause:
“They’re not.”
Ilya frowned slightly. “They were looking at me.”
“They were being polite,” Shane corrected.
That was Shane’s voice now. The one that organized reality into something survivable.
Ilya didn’t answer.
Shane walked closer, then stopped at a distance that felt deliberate.
“I’m not going to tell them anything you don’t want me to,” he said.
Relief flickered in Ilya’s eyes, immediate, automatic.
Then something else followed it.
Because Shane continued.
“But I also need you to stop telling me you’re fine when you’re not.”
Ilya went still.
The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be.
Shane wasn’t accusing him. He never accused. That wasn’t his way.
It made it worse.
“I am fine,” Ilya said anyway, because he didn’t know how not to.
Shane exhaled slowly through his nose.
A controlled sound. Measured.
“Ilya,” he said again.
And this time, it wasn’t a request for truth.
It was a reminder that Shane already had it.
That landed differently.
Ilya stared at the floor.
His hands were steady. That mattered. He focused on that.
“I just need to sleep,” he said.
Shane nodded once.
“Okay,” he said again.
But this time, there was something different underneath it.
A decision not yet spoken aloud.
Shane reached for the door.
“I’ll bring you water,” he added.
“I don’t need—”
“I know,” Shane said softly, and left anyway.
The door clicked shut.
Ilya stayed sitting on the edge of the bed.
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
And for the first time since he arrived, he wasn’t entirely sure he was doing a good job of being fine.