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Ilya sat back in his chair. He was still today, his posture reminiscent of a statue as he watched his other teammates drink and party in front of him. On another day, he'd be up with them, dancing and probably dragging Shane into some shenanigans in the back bathroom.
That was why he wasn't. Shane.
Troy sat next to Ilya in the adjacent seat, joining him at viewing Shane in the corner, who was currently chugging a bottle of vodka straight from the bottle—something that reminded Ilya of his own harsh partying days as a teenager.
"Does he usually drink like this?" Troy said, attempting to mask the worry in his voice. Ilya shook his head. To anyone else, Shane just looked like a typical hockey player having fun and letting loose and having fun. But Ilya knew better.
"He doesn't drink," Ilya replied, "Period."
"Oh," Troy paused, his voice no louder than a whisper, "Ever?"
Ilya shook his head, "Ever."
Shane not only hated the taste of alcohol, but it made him feel terrible afterwards. The few times he'd had more than a sip, he'd wake up the next day with his bones aching and his stomach queasy. Him taking a sip made him feel this way. The mere mention of Ilya talking about the amount of alcohol he'd used to drink would make Shane nauseous. So to see him practically draining a bottle of vodka with no hesitation was incredibly concerning.
That night, Shane was so drunk he couldn't stand. He threw up all over his shoes, Ilya having him to carry him to the car and to their bed. As Ilya reluctantly settled into bed for the night, attempting to mask his concern while mentally preparing for how things were going to go over in the morning, Shane stirred.
"'Lya?" He said, turning over to smile lazily at him.
Ilya froze. He turned over, reaching out to gently touch the side of Shane's face, "What is it, моя любовь? Are you ok?"
"Me?" Shane loosely pointed to himself and laughed loudly, "I'm fine. I'm doing so good actually!"
Ilya frowned at Shane's obvious remaining drunkness, "You cannot stand, sweetheart," He stroked Shane's cheek, "And you do not ever drink."
Shane laughed again and smiled at Ilya once more, "I should be drunk forever."
What hurt Ilya the most was the genuineness in Shane's voice—yet he laughed with him, attempting to play along despite the fact that it was making him just as sick as Shane was inevitably going to feel once the morning came, "Why is that?" He asked, hoping he masked his worry well enough.
"Baby," Shane said, his smile growing wider and wider, "People liked me. Like, actually," Shane paused to do what Ilya assumed was gather his thoughts. He could barely understand Shane through his slurred words as he spoke, "They liked me."
"What do you mean?" Ilya's confusion was real this time, "People love you, my Shane."
"Mmm, but they don't. They don't like me," Shane's smile quickly transformed into a frown, "Online. About us, about me being a faggot," Ilya flinched at Shane's tone, the slur puncturing his skin like a needle did to thread.
"Shane-"
"They think I tripped," Shane said coldly, the joy and laughter drained from his face, "They think I threw the game. They all think we've thrown games. That we," Shane paused to cough, "That we have been lying or whatever," Shane huffed, "You've seen the comments, you know what they say."
"Yes," Ilya's voice grew cold as well, "I have."
"They don't like me there," Shane pulled Ilya in closer, "But they liked me here."
"People like you Shane, here and there."
"No," Shane shook his head, "They don't."
"Shane-"
"I mean," Shane laughed again, loudly this time, "Ilya, baby, mon amour—can I tell you a secret? And you have to promise to keep it a secret. You can't tell anybody."
Ilya nodded shakily. He didn't like the sound of this secret from Shane, "What is your secret, my Shane?"
"My secret is..." he said, "I don't even like me."
Ilya's heart shattered at Shane's revelation. How long had he been holding onto this insecurity? How long had he been made to feel inferior in this way and Ilya had not been able to do anything about it? How long had Shane spent hating himself so much? How long had he spent keeping this secret so close to his chest that the only way for him to reveal it was for him to get drunk?
"You don't like you?" Ilya struggled not to tear up, "What ever do you mean, sweetheart?"
"Well I mean just that!" Shane flopped onto his back, "I don't fucking like myself. I don't know how you do either to be honest."
"Shane. Please."
"It's the truth!" Shane said, "Not just—not just the stupid comments. It's the stupid world. You could get with anyone and you're with poor old Shane Hollander."
"Shane," Ilya reached over to pull Shane's face closer to his, "I love you because you are you and nothing else. I love you and nothing can change that."
"You sure?" Shane's eyes began to droop as Ilya pulled him into his side, "'M boring and I don't go out. Tonight I was fun. Wanna always be fun for you. Don't like holding you back like this.
Ilya nodded, "Absolutely. I am 100% sure. You do not need to be a party animal or go out all the time for me to love you. I love you. I love your boring, I love you for all of you You do not hold me back in the slightest. And anything else is lie," Ilya could feel that his English was starting to slip with the anger that he felt. Whatever—no, whoever—contributed to Shane thinking that he was worthless and hating himself would be dealt with.
But that could wait until morning. For now, Ilya Rozanov had a husband in his arms who needed him more than he needed his anger.