Work Text:
Shane collapsed beside him with an exhausted groan, chest heaving as he stared up at the ceiling. For a long moment, neither of them said anything.
Then Ilya laughed. A breathless, satisfied laugh that pulled one from Shane too.
"Wow, Hollander." Shane glanced over. "You must have really missed me."
“Shut up, Rozanov."
"No, really." Ilya nudged him with an elbow. "You were very eager. Enthusiastic."
"Fuck off."
"Again? I think I need a minute." Ilya grinned.
Shane barked out another laugh and shoved him weakly with his shoulder.
"You talk too much."
"You complain, but..." Ilya looked him over with exaggerated consideration. "...I know you like it."
"I do not."
“Still such a bad liar, Hollander.”
Shane rolled his eyes, fighting the grin on his face and losing. They dissolved into another fit of quiet laughter before it slowly faded into comfortable silence.
The room settled around them. Their breathing evened. Outside, somewhere beyond Shane's bedroom window, Montreal carried on without them.
Ilya turned his head.
"But really," his accent thick, which Shane noticed would happen when Ilya was spent, after games on the ice and the ones they played in bedrooms.
Shane hummed sleepily.
"Job well done."
A lazy smile tugged at Shane's mouth.
"You too." A small pause. "Always."
The word barely left his lips. His eyes drifted shut before he'd even finished saying it. Within seconds, he was asleep.
Ilya blinked.
"...Hollander?"
Nothing. Just a quiet snore answered him instead. He couldn't help smiling. "So tired," Ilya whispered.
He lay there for another minute, simply watching. Shane never looked like this on the ice. Never looked this peaceful. Never looked this soft. A strand of dark hair had fallen across his forehead. His freckles stood out against flushed cheeks. His breathing was slow now, steady.
Beautiful.
Still asleep, Shane shifted. He rolled over until an arm settled across Ilya's waist. His head resting against Ilya's shoulder, his body curling instinctively toward the nearest warmth.
Ilya froze. Then, very carefully...he wrapped an arm around him. Shane sighed in his sleep, holding on a little tighter. Ilya's chest felt strangely warm. He let his thumb brush gently across the constellation of freckles scattered over Shane's cheek.
"So beautiful," he murmured softly in Russian.
The words disappeared into the quiet room. Eventually, sleep claimed him too.
---
When Ilya opened his eyes again, sunlight drifted through the windows and across the floor, the overcast clouds having passed now.
He frowned and reached behind him for his phone on the bedside nightstand.
One hour. They'd slept for an hour. Shane was still tucked against him, still fast asleep.
Ilya didn't move, not wanting to wake him yet. He simply watched. Shane's eyes flickered beneath closed lids, and Ilya admired the elegant gentle slope of his eyes.
His lips twitched into the faintest smile. He looked… happy, lost in dream. Ilya waited another moment before gently brushing a hand through Shane's hair.
Brown eyes blinked open. Confused. Sleepy. Still clinging to dreams.
"Oh..."
Shane stretched with a groan before rubbing both hands over his face.
"I really passed out."
"You did."
Shane looked around the room.
"...You too?"
"Yeah, I think so." Ilya smiled faintly. "But I think you were dreaming."
“Yeah,” Shane answered, starting to remember. Then he stilled. His expression softened for just a heartbeat. Then all the color seemed to drain from his face. His eyes turned glassy and he swallowed hard, his breathing changed again.
"Hollander?” Ilya asked, actually concerned. "You okay?"
Shane looked away.
"No.” The word slipped out before he could stop it. He caught himself immediately. "No, yeah." Too fast. "I'm fine,” he said very unconvincingly, the bad liar that he is.
He was already climbing out of bed. "You want something to drink?" He bent to pull on a pair of boxers. "I'm thirsty."
Before Ilya could answer, Shane was halfway down the stairs. Ilya remained sitting up in bed. What... was that?
---
He found Shane standing in front of the open fridge. Popping open the ginger ale already in his hand.
Without a word, Shane slid an unopened Coke across the kitchen island.
Ilya caught it. "You keep Coke?"
"No."
"...For me?"
Shane shrugged without looking at him.
"Just drink it."
Something settled warmly in Ilya's chest. He cracked the can open and sipped first keeping his eyes on Shane, then they drifted to the rest of the kitchen. It was spotless. Almost unnaturally so.
Not a dish in the sink. Not a crumb on the counter.
"So," Ilya said. "Do you have an army of maids or something, Hollander?" Another sip. “Or what is it, that ACDC thing?”
That earned exactly the reaction he'd hoped for. Shane snorted.
"It's OCD. And, no."
"This place is cleaner than a hospital."
"It's called cleaning up after yourself."
"So boring."
Shane laughed.
"Some of us know how. What, they don't teach cleanliness in Russia?"
Ilya looked scandalized.
"Oh no." He took a thoughtful sip of Coke. "Only the wealthiest worried about such things."
Shane frowned. ".. Really?"
"No, I’m joking. It was the Soviet Union, Hollander.”
Another laugh.
"Oh my God. Chirping your own home country?"
"Yes. I am allowed."
A comfortable silence settled again. Neither of them seemed in any hurry to break it. Or to leave.
For a little while, it almost felt...
Eventually, Ilya noticed the time on his phone.
"I should go."
Reality returned all at once, and it carried a whisper of disappointment. When did it start doing that?
Shane nodded. "Yeah."
"We play in four hours."
"You ready to lose, Rozanov?"
Ilya smiled. "Lose what? The game. Not happening, Hollander."
"We'll see."
Ilya stepped closer to Shane as they waited by Shane's front door.
"Let's make a deal."
"I'm listening."
"If you win tonight, I'll come back here. I'll congratulate you as much as you want, any way you want, for as long as you want."
Shane blinked, his breath shallow now. Ilya had that effect. Shane could feel the heat in his cheeks. He swallowed hard.
"And if you win?”
A crooked smile spread across Ilya's face, that fucking gorgeous crooked smile.
"I'll come back here. You'll congratulate me. As much as I want, any way I want, for as long as I want."
Shane laughed, shaking his head.
"That's not really how bets work.”
“I don't care.”
They stood only inches apart now. Neither one moved. Neither one seemed interested in creating any distance, but only in lessening it.
“Deal.” Shane said.
Ilya reached up and cupped Shane's jaw. His thumb traced slowly along the curve of it. He kissed him. Slowly. Deeply. Unhurried. When they finally separated, Ilya noticed Shane had a fist tangled in the hem of his shirt. As though he'd unconsciously held on and pulled him closer. Shane noticed too. His fingers released immediately, a flicker of embarrassment crossed his face.
Ilya only smiled.
"See you on the ice, Hollander.”
The door opened and then clicked shut behind him. Only then did Shane let himself lean back against it. He closed his eyes, trying to find the dream again. Sunlight across rumpled sheets. Ilya stealing pieces of toast from his plate. Fingers laced together on a walk through Montreal. A lazy Saturday with nowhere to be. Falling asleep without worrying about whose city they were in. Waking up in Ilya's arms and knowing he wouldn't have to let go.
Shane opened his eyes. The apartment was quiet. Empty now.
"Get it together," he muttered to himself.
Then he pushed away from the door, buried the dream where it belonged, and started getting ready to play the man he'd spent the last few hours wishing he didn't have to say goodbye to.
Outside, behind Shane's apartment building, the sounds of Montreal buzzed around him. Ilya shoved his hands into his pockets as he walked toward his car.
He was still smiling from what he had last said to Shane. The kiss they had shared. Shane's grip on his shirt. Already looking forward to coming back, whichever outcome it was. But he still wanted Boston to win.
Somewhere between waking up with Shane asleep against his chest and laughing in Shane's kitchen, leaving had become the hardest part. When did it become hard? He unlocked his car but didn't get in immediately. Instead, he looked back once toward the apartment building. A ridiculous thought crossed his mind.
Maybe next time, when Shane is in Boston, I'll have him spend the night at my place. Be sure to have his boring ginger ale.
He smiled to himself.
Not today.
But maybe soon.
Boston won.
Shane had barely showered before his phone buzzed.
Lily: I'm outside. Ready for me, Hollander?
Shane stared at the message for a second before a smile tugged at his mouth.
Of course he came. Shane had hoped so, and was definitely ready. Eager and enthusiastic.