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Until Shane was around four years old, he was obsessed with this stuffed animal. A pale blond-ish yellow star his mom had given him when he’d come home from the hospital. Apparently he would rarely let go of it, grabbing onto it with small grubby hands and holding it close to his heart, pressing the tip of it to his mouth, like he needed it to be as close as possible.
It even made its way with him to the rink for the first time, one hand holding onto his mothers hand, the other clutching the toy in a vice grip as he wobbled along the ice. The few times his parents had played his childhood videos at family events— much to his dismay— they would point with delight, at the ratted pale clump in his hands as he skated shakily on the ice. “There’s Starry,” they would say, because Shane had not been a particularly creative baby when naming the thing, and had chirped out a small “Starry! Starry!” when he had dropped it, scrambling to pick it up from where it fell. The video ended with his fathers shaky laughter as Shane grabbed his toy, zooming in on his satisfied smile, and his mothers warm grin.
Starry had been lost when they moved, in the time when Shane was between three and four, and his Dad had gotten a new job. Shane doesn’t remember it much, but his parents say he was a wreck afterwards, shaking as he sobbed into his mothers arms. His parents had offered to get him a new one, but Shane had stubbornly pouted, claiming that “It wouldn’t be Starry!” before dissolving into another round of tears.
His dad had slid next to him that night, nudging Shane carefully until he was facing the window of their new house. Shane had grumbled, his tears turning to anger rather quickly, but his Dad had opened his curtains and window, making Shane look up onto the clear night and blinking lights ahead of him.
“I know you’re upset about Starry,” he had said, giving Shane’s shoulder a slight squeeze, “but he’s still here, up in the sky twinkling back at you, so don’t ever feel like he’s truly gone. Just look outside and find him.”
It was a silly phrase, the kind of thing Shane would have probably disregarded with a huff if he had been older and more mature, like five or six years old, instead of three and three quarters, but as it was, it had helped. Clearing Shane’s eyes as he stumbled to the windows edge, pointing to a large star in the night and declaring that it had to be his lost stuffed animal, blinking back at him.
Never truly gone, just look outside and find it had become his mantra then, whenever he missed someone, his Dad on a work trip, his parents the first time he traveled for an away game without them, and then, more steadily, Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.
He remembers the first time it happened, wandering a little tipsy out of a club JJ and Hayden had dragged him out to, indulging just a little since the season had ended, seeing the sea of stars as he tilted his head back, and thinking there he is when a particular star caught his eye. It had become the norm then, for him to glance outside of his window— his house, or hotel, or wherever he was staying— and look for the star that reminded him of Rozanov, just like he did when he was four, only this time, the thing he missed felt like a physical ache, one he shouldn’t be having, but did anyway.
And then somewhere along the line Rozanov became Ilya and “Fuck off,” became code for “I love you,” and then, the most unbelievable of all, Ilya loved him too. Relieving the ache from where it lay like a blanket on top of his heart, as Ilya looked at him, blinking groggily in the dull lamp light, teary eyed, as he told Shane he loved him. Shane was sure if someone stripped back his skin, they’d find the shaky cadence and lilt of Ilya’s voice inked onto his bones, wrapping around the make of him, surely, they’d find it. It’s all Shane feels, sometimes, the harsh screech of the ice sounding like nothing at all to the deafening murmur of Ilya telling him he loves him under the steady stream of the morning, his hair still mussed from sleep, voice scratchy and low and Shane’s favorite sound in the world.
There’s a smattering of moles on Ilya’s shoulder that are Shane’s favorite. They aren’t perfect circles, a little wobbly, on his pale skin, the one in the middle almost pointed at the edges, like a star Shane likes to think privately. It matches the speck of light he looks for in the sky. Whenever they can’t call at night Shane will look for Ilya’s star in the sky, Never gone just go outside and look for me ringing in his ears in a familiar Russian accent as he does.
Thankfully, this isn’t one of those nights. It’s not a game day, but there was practice this afternoon, and Shane has been shaking with anticipation on the drive home, clicking on Ilya’s contact as soon as his key is out of the ignition. He stumbles over a package on his porch, nearly tripping, but grabbing it just in time for his screen to load as he punches in the door code to get in.
“Hey baby,” he sighs as he closes the door behind him, “I missed you,”
There is, of course, an ulterior motive Shane has for wanting to call Ilya as soon as possible. Not that he doesn’t want to call him, he always does, but there’s a reason he’s toeing his shoes off hastily in an effort to put his phone down to see Ilya clearly. The weeks apart had felt longer than usual, and Ilya had been distant the past week, not in a bad way, just in the way he sometimes gets, answering Shane’s texts and calls but with a faraway look in his eyes that Shane can’t quite decipher.
It’s worrisome, the frequency in which the days have turned into a week turned into weeks. Shane has been carefully trying to figure out a way to bring it up, the melancholy that clings to Ilya some days, the bags under his eyes that don’t waver no matter how much Ilya claims he’s getting sleep, the way he seems to deflate whenever Shane has to leave or hang up the phone. It hurts a little too, the fact that Shane doesn’t know how to fix it, how to show the love that is seemingly seeping out of his pores in droves, because sometimes it feels like all he can do is speak, and words don’t do justice the way that Shane loves Ilya Rozanov. He doesn’t think there’s ever been someone so cherished, so adored and loved with so much devotion as Ilya. Shane wonders if this is how priests feel kneeling down at the altar. There’s never been a love like the one Shane has for Ilya, except of course, the love that Ilya has for him.
But Shane has never been good with words. With naming things or neatly lining up the jumble of emotions that sit tangled in his chest, tangled up in knots Shane doesn’t even know where to start untangling, let alone string together sentences to describe them. He prefers grazing his thumb over the soft skin of Ilya’s jaw, or tangling his fingers between his curls and pulling, biting down on the pulse between his shoulders and feeling his heartbeat between his teeth, pushing his love onto Ilya’s body and hoping it catches, hooking into his pores and sinking in, catching any of the overflowing adoration that Shane can’t contain, hasn’t been able to contain since he first thought about Rozanov really.
A perk of being a multi-millionaire, is that Shane can also send things to Ilya’s house, if he wants too. Which is the main reason Shane is chomping on the bit to see Ilya’s reaction when he looks at his phone.
Ilya isn’t saying anything, standing outside his house and staring with furrowed brows at something beyond the phone.
“Hollander, it appears that I have a secret admirer,” he says with a small smirk after a moment, flipping the camera around to show a vase of flowers that sits on his porch, right in front of his door.
“Wow, very pretty Ilya,” Shane responds, looking at the vase of lilies and baby’s breath and roses that he had spent three hours debating on getting.
There’s a card in the flowers as well, although Ilya can’t see it yet, stuck in the middle of the bouquet. Shane had mulled over adding one, because part of the reason he was sending flowers in the first place is that he didn’t know what to say, but in the end he had sent a short concise message.
Ilya walks into his house, the flowers deposited in the middle of his kitchen table, and Ilya sits down, propping his phone against the vase.
“You got me flowers?” He asks, tilting his head as he stares at it over the phone. Shane gives him a confused look back.
“How do you know it’s from me? I thought it was a secret admirer?” Shane responds carefully, smiling when the question causes Ilya to look back at him with a raised eyebrow.
Fuck he misses him. He wishes he could climb through the screen of his phone and wrap his arms around Ilya. The distance between them feels longer and longer every day, and Shane feels each mile like a knife, carving a notch into his skin the longer he goes without feeling Ilya’s hands on him. There’s a break in their schedules next week, and Shane has been planning on going to visit for a couple days then, but maybe he could cancel a photo shoot and drive to Ilya sooner, his mother might be mad, but it’s worth it if he gets more time with his boyfriend.
The man in question is looking at him with a smug smile and raised eyebrow still, looking particularly pleased with himself.
“If they really were from a secret admirer, you would be very jealous, I think,” Ilya wonders aloud, although by the knowing glint in his eye, he thinks he’s correct.
Shane isn’t a jealous person, really he’s not, even when he was a kid, he’s never really coveted something that wasn’t his. Except. Except he feels a teeny, tiny, little bit possessive of Ilya. Ilya is his, it’s been confirmed, and so maybe every time in the past an article of Ilya with his arms around a women, or a video of him dancing with a man, had sparked a tiny ember of jealousy Shane had squashed it, because Ilya wasn’t his. But Ilya is his now, so he feels a little vindicated in feeling that everyone who thinks they have even an inkling of a shot should fuck off and die, actually. Ilya Rozanov is his, god dammit he put a lot of time in making sure of that, so maybe Shane gets a little jealous sometimes.
Ilya also gets jealous, and possessive, and Shane feels a sick sense of delight whenever he gets to remind Ilya that he’s his. Ilya loves reminding Shane as well. It’s a mutually beneficial situation, Shane likes to think.
“Fuck off, see if I ever get you flowers again,” he says, delighting in the smile that splits across Ilya’s face. It crinkles the corners of his eyes and Shane would buy him a million more flowers just to see him smile like that.
“Ah, so they are from you,” Ilya purrs, pleased.
He isn’t really looking at the flowers, instead staring softly at Shane from across the phone, his head resting on his hand. Shane nods, hesitating for a second before he can’t help himself.
“There’s a card too,” he says.
Ilya laughs, stretching so he can reach around to grab the piece of paper that Shane had spent an hour debating on what to say.
“Lilies for my Lily. Love you, Jane,” Ilya reads aloud, shaking his head as his nose scrunches up, it’s adorable and Shane kind of wants to bite him. “Thank you Shane, you didn’t have to get me flowers.”
Of course Shane didn’t have to buy Ilya anything. He also doesn’t have to color code his schedule to include all of Ilya’s games and plans, or stay up all night planning out how to get them physically closer to each other. But he does it anyway because he wants to. He wants to buy Ilya things, and know what he’s doing, and plan their future. Of course he doesn’t have to, but he will anyway, because Ilya deserves things that are just as pretty and good as he is.
“I wanted to,” Shane tells him, because it’s the truth, and because Shane tries to be honest with Ilya as much as he can.
Ilya sets the card down and continues to stare at Shane fondly.
“Okay Shane.”
The box that Shane had almost brained himself on is sitting on his counter, and so, after a minute or two of content silence, Shane grabs a scissor from his knife block and starts to open it. Ilya is also mulling around his kitchen, searching around his junk drawer for tape so he can tape the note onto his fridge, Shane can hear him pattering around through the phone, however, the second that Shane rips the cardboard box open, Ilya whirls around, note forgotten on the counter, and slides towards his phone.
“Wait, мой любимый, (my love,) don’t open it yet I’m not ready,” he says, a little out of breath from where his hip had clipped a counter in his haste to rush over.
Shane narrows his eyes and slowly brings his hands off of the top of the box.
“What did you do?” he asks as he turns the box around. When Shane reads the return address, it’s not where Shane expects it to be from, no Ottawa address is listed, and he doesn’t recognize the company name. What the hell had Ilya gotten him?
Ilya settles himself, leaning his elbows against the counter and propping his head in his hands, and gives a little shrug, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Why don’t you open it and find out?” Ilya suggests, not offering any more information, even as Shane waits for more of one.
Shane sighs, “this better not be a sex thing.”
Ilya just laughs, his shoulders shaking with the force of it, but gives nothing else away. Shaking his head fondly and gesturing for Shane to resume opening the box. So Shane does.
Inside there’s a smaller long box, blue and velvety, which gives Shane absolutely no hints on whatever is inside, besides the though that it’s probably not a sex thing. Which is a shame, as much as Shane rags on him, they both have pretty similar sex drives, and trying something new with Ilya is something Shane always likes.
Shane runs his thumb over the stitched lettering on the front, Hollander, it reads, which usually would cause a hum of anxiety to slither under his skin because what if the person knew who Ilya was, and wondered why he was sending something to Shane Hollander, or, or, or. But today—due to the degree in which Shane misses Ilya, or the fact that slowly, Shane was simply starting not to care that much—a thrum of joy just sparks on the inside of his stomach at the thought of his boyfriend thinking of him.
When he props open the box, his first thought it oh pretty and then what the actual fuck.
Nestled inside the box, is a necklace, or Shane hopes it’s a necklace. Silver, simple, long and dangling, and adorned with diamonds and other colorful gems that Shane couldn’t name with a gun to his head. It’s quite possibly the prettiest necklace Shane has ever seen in his life. Which also means it might be one of the most expensive pieces of jewelry he’s ever been gifted.
“Ilya, what the fuck?”
When Shane looks up, his right hand ghosting over the jewelry, afraid to touch and break it, Ilya cracks a shy smile.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
Which, it’s pretty, Shane has never really been a jewelry kind of guy. Especially not something this delicate. Except Ilya had gotten him this necklace, and Shane would do just about anything for Ilya. And it’s not like it was a hardship, imagining the necklace on him, wondering how the metal would feel resting against his neck. If it would be smooth, or if the gems would pick at his skin. It looks like it would feel like almost nothing, smooth and silky as it would trail down his collarbones.
“You can’t just get me expensive jewelry,” Shane sighs, but it comes out a lot less disciplined then he would like, instead it comes out tinged with wonder, his voice high and breathy. It would be embarrassing, the way Ilya’s face smooths to pleased and smug at Shane’s words, if Shane didn’t love him as much as he did, if Shane didn’t love this as much as he did.
“Ah, so you like it.” Ilya nods to himself, probably pleased that he’s deduced the answer without Shane even having to tell him.
“You didn’t have to,” Shane tries, because his mom has always instilled politeness being important, but Ilya just waves him off.
“Just like you didn’t have to get me flowers, and yet,” Ilya trails off, “try it on.”
So Shane does.
It’s as smooth as he thought, sitting nicely on his skin, clipping easily together. It’s a little cold, but other then the slight chill against the back of his neck, Shane can barely feel it. When he looks at Ilya in the camera, his eyes are fixated on it.
“Pretty,” Ilya murmurs, his gaze never leaving Shane’s neck. Shane nods in agreement, although he wishes he could have seen Ilya’s reaction in person, some part of him longs for Ilya to trace the thing. He’d do it carefully, Shane knows, grazing the silvers and blues and yellows with the utmost precision, tugging it just so, so that Shane would stumble closer to him. It becomes less of a necklace, in his minds eye, and more like something Shane doesn’t want to look too closely at, feels less like jewelry and more like ownership. He likes it.
“I like it,” Shane admits, wondering briefly if he could get Ilya something similar, if Ilya would like being owned as much as Shane does. Ilya is his after all. Shane shakes the thought away, that’s probably not why Ilya got him this, he’s like fifty percent sure. Besides, there will be time for this later, after dinner, when he can fully allow himself to indulge in these types of thoughts.
“Thought you didn’t want it to be a sex thing,” Ilya mentions casually, moving to tape the card to his fridge finally, and Shane feels the tips of his ears heat up from where he stands, frozen in his place. He didn’t say any of his thoughts out loud did he? No, he knows he didn’t. What the fuck does Ilya know?
“I don’t,” Shane says, because he did say that, didn’t he. Except, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, now that he’s really thinking about it. Sue him, he misses his boyfriend badly, the break in their schedules seems too long and years away at this point, and so what if he wants to fuck his boyfriend? So what if the thought of wearing the necklace that Ilya got him feels a little like ownership and it makes something molten spread through his stomach. He loves being Ilya’s, loves knowing that his heart is completed, beating in time with someone else, especially because that person is Ilya. No one else knows him as well as Ilya does, no one else could even come close.
“Mhm,” Ilya hums at him, sarcastic and smug, and Shane wonders why he didn’t just drive to see him, game tomorrow and practice beforehand seem like inconsequential casualties to the pull that Ilya has on him. The molten has cooled, instead replaced by a layer of melancholy, the thirst left unquenched by the fact that Ilya isn’t here.
“Not now,” Shane tells him, his voice breaking in the middle like a teenager, and Ilya’s eyes snap to his face faster than he’s ever seen. They soften, they must see the want clear on his face, but they also see the sadness too. Shane should’ve drove over, this long distance thing sucks, how he’s managed this far he has no idea. Maybe he’s gotten too attached, wrapped himself around Ilya to the point that he doesn’t really know if there’s a way to untangle them. Not that he wants to. He doesn’t. Would fight and kick and scream at anyone who tried. Maybe Ilya can see that, the kick that Shane has turned on himself because he’s the reason they’re not together right now, like a fucking idiot, because Ilya clicks his toungue, shaking his head softly as if he can dispel the thought before it takes root in Shane’s mind. Maybe he can, because Shane lets it fade, relaxed against his own counter.
“What are you making for dinner?” Ilya changes the subject, and for that Shane is grateful, as he tilts his head to the side and mentally takes stock of what he has in his fridge.
“Salmon probably? I hadn’t really thought about it.” He kisses his teeth afterwards, because he’s not a hundred percent sure he even has any. He should check.
He can hear Ilya’s grumble under his breath as he checks his fridge, and when he turns around, he does have salmon in the fridge, Ilya is holding his own salmon, although he looks much less pleased about it.
“So boring Hollander.”
“You don’t have to make it too.”
“But I wanna eat with you,” Ilya whines, a pout on his lips, and Shane mourns the fact that he can’t run his thumb over it. For a brief moment, he wonders if there’s a world where he and Ilya could play on the same team. Living together, traveling next to Ilya instead of on a phone with headphones in, playing with him instead of against him. It’s a pipe dream, an unrealistic fantasy he should probably shake, but he doesn’t want to, wants to hand over the idea to Ilya with a line and a hook and see if Ilya will bite, if he wants it as bad as Shane does, if the thought nearly doubles him over with how bad he needs it. Long distance sucks, why did he ever used to think he could give Ilya up? Who would ever want to not have Ilya? What foolish, stupid people.
Shane forcefully shoves the thought down his throat, keeps the want from spilling over his mouth, because he knows it will hurt when it doesn’t happen, and he doesn’t want to dangle hope over Ilya’s head, not when it will just dangle, not until he’s sure he can let it fall into Ilya’s hands.
“Shanya? You’re in your thoughts again.”
Ilya’s voice cuts through the fog, and Shane blinks, once, twice, three times for good measure, and turns to the spice cabinet to start preparing dinner.
They cook together, a little awkward since they’re both narrating what they’re doing as they turn over the stove, but it fans the flames on the empty feeling Shane has been stuck with, it’s almost like they’re cooking together, if Shane closes his eyes and pretends really, really, hard. It’s not as good as Ilya cooking and Shane watching him, his chin hooked over Ilya’s shoulder and his arms around his waist as he mumbles criticisms he doesn’t fully mean and Ilya chops up food, but it’s as good as he’s going to get for now, so Shane forces down the ache that tries to grow.
They sit across from each other, and Shane pretends the fact that he can’t hook his ankle around Ilya’s isn’t killing him, just as he’s sure Ilya is pretending the miles between them doesn’t kill him back. Shane tells Ilya about practice, it’s gotten better, kinda, and he doesn’t even mind the heavy silence that fills the arena, at least his team is listening to him again. Maybe he can turn the season around. Ilya tells him about his own practice, a happier affair, even though they’re on a loosing streak—they’re always on a loosing streak, and Shane wishes there was a closer team that deserved Ilya’s talents, wishes he could be less clingy so Ilya isn’t wasted on a team that isn’t giving him anything in return except proximity to Shane, Shane hopes it’s enough—and mentions a barbecue Bood is throwing tonight. Shane frowns at that, is about to bring up why Ilya isn’t there but Ilya seems to sense it coming and silences him with a look.
By the time Shane starts to trudge up the stairs to his room, his phone is dying, and he hastily plugs it in so he can stay on the phone with Ilya. It’s in this haste that he just misses Ilya grabbing something out of his closet as he stumbles back to the bed, holding it close to his chest. It’s navy blue, and looks soft, and warm, and almost familiar, almost like-
“Is that my hoodie?”
Ilya’s eyes widen, caught, and he pauses for a moment, before he narrows his eyes.
“Would you believe me if I said no?” He asks hesitantly. Shane stares at him, unimpressed.
“No.”
“Maybe,” he admits, bringing it around to his pillow, laying his curls on it while keeping it wrapped in his grip. The fabric bunched around his head, and Shane can just make out the metros logo stitched into the top of the front, yeah that’s definitely his hoodie.
“Didn’t take you for a thief,” he says, but a smile is plastered onto his face, a deep part of him almost purring with delight at the sight of Ilya with his clothes, his mind an endless loop of mine, mine, mine, that he doesn’t actually want to stop.
“What, are you policeman now?” Ilya drawls, his eyes fluttering shut as he nuzzles the fabric, his body relaxing into the bed. Shane can’t help himself but lean over and take a screenshot. He’ll save it in a locked folder later, but fuck, Ilya looks so pretty like this, relaxed and happy, Shane wants to kiss him badly.
Shane scoffs and shakes his head as he returns to rummage around his drawer to find his own pajamas. The thing about his pajamas now is that a good forty percent of them are actually Ilya’s clothes, and he hopes Ilya doesn’t notice when he pulls on a hoodie that is just a little bit big on him, since Ilya’s arms are longer, and climbs into bed, shifting his camera so he can see his boyfriend.
Ilya’s eyebrows furrow at the shirt he’s wearing, and then his features smooth out, and he’s raising an eyebrow at Shane.
“Didn’t take you for a hypocrite,” he says and Shane rolls his eyes, of course Ilya was going to notice that Shane was wearing his hoodie, he doesn’t know why he expected anything less.
“What, are you a cop?” Shane parrots back, a repeat of their earlier conversation, with no heat in his voice and a soft smile on his face as he turns his head to the side, inhaling the faded scent of Ilya that still clings to the fabric.
“Красивые (Beautiful) Shanya,” Ilya murmurs, gently. Shane takes a minute to sleepily try and translate the words; he’s just started learning Russian, and translating the little bouts of pet names that slip out of Ilya’s mouth so easily is good practice.
“How am I beautiful like this?” Shane mumbles, exhausted, taking over his limbs, and if he keeps his eyes half closed like this, he can almost imagine Ilya is next to him, instead of hours away.
“You’re always beautiful,” is Ilya’s natural response, and Shane is sure if he looked, Ilya would’ve shrugged. Shane hums, content and tired.
“You too baby.”
They drift, then, mumbling and bickering about nothing and everything, from the Centuars newest gossip, to the game Shane had played last night, and Shane finds that he doesn’t mind not going to sleep, if it means a little more time until he has to hang up on Ilya.
“Stay on the phone. Like, when we go to sleep, I mean. I don’t want to hang up, please,” Shane finds himself saying when there’s been a lapse of silence for a minute, because he wants to hear Ilya’s breathing, even if it’s through the phone, and he’s going on a roadie soon, so these calls will be less frequent, and Shane just wants his boyfriend.
“Okay, I won’t hang up,” Ilya promises, his features turning soft and warm, the way they always do whenever he lets himself relax with Shane. Shane grins, pleased, and shifts so he can turn his lamp off, so the only light is from his phone, Ilya’s face blinking back at him in the dark.
“I love you,” Shane tells him
“I love you more,” Ilya responds, a tried and true argument they usually have at night, so Shane pretends to think for a moment before he shakes his head, although he isn’t sure that Ilya can see him in the dark.
“Impossible, because I love you most,” he says. Ilya opens his mouth to retort back, but Shane knows his weaknesses, just because he widens his eyes a fraction and lets them become a little shiny, jutting out his bottom lip just a little.
Ilya falls for it, because he always does, just like Shane will fall for it when Ilya does the same thing whenever he wants something, as infatuated with Ilya as he is, and just lets out a little tsk of his tongue and nuzzles Shane’s hoodie, letting his eyes flutter closed.
Shane can feel himself melt deeper into his bed, sleep calling for him, and he lets himself relax, Ilya close by, and dreams of a future where he’ll blink awake in the morning and find Ilya’s weight on top of his. Soon, he promises himself and Ilya silently, soon I’ll have you forever and you’ll never be able to doubt how deeply the love I have for you runs.