Work Text:
Both phones buzzed with an incoming text. They grabbed their phones from the table between their beds and opened the team chat.
A picture of Ilya in a boot, vodka raised in a toast. The caption read: Best of luck in tomorrow's game! You'll need it without me.
Shane smiled softly, caressing the picture of his husband on the screen. He typed back a private message.
Barrett groaned, then mumbled, "Asshole." If it sounded overly fond, Shane ignored it.
The room fell back into tense silence.
"I'm sorry," Barrett began, the sudden sound too loud. "It's no excuse, but I was angry and scared. I said cruel things. Called you horrible names." He took a heavy breath. "I'm not asking for forgiveness. I don't deserve it."
"Maybe not." Shane sighed. "But you're his friend."
"The man has awful taste."
A beat.
"Fuck. I didn't mean that." Barrett rambled. "Like, in friends." He gestured wildly. "Not you. I mean, you're Shane Hollander. The Shane Hollander. I can't believe he bagged you."
Shane chuckled. "I still don't like you."
Barrett scrubbed a hand across his face. "You shouldn't."
"But you're funny."
The room settled into silence again.
This time, it was comfortable.