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With two of hockey’s biggest legends on the same team, most commentators bet that the Centaurs would win the playoffs within the first 5 years of Shane signing on.
They did it within his first season.
Feeling his teammates crashing into him, the roar of the crowd around him, knowing he’s finally proven them all wrong, every single person who wrote a hit piece on ‘the Fall of Shane Hollander’ shrinking in their seats, he could finally take a full breath. For the first time in three years, he was right where he wanted to be.
The last two years of his and Ilya’s relationship was spent fighting and apologising, a seemingly never-ending cycle of pain that only ended with a public outing and a fall from grace. Ilya had his team to fall back on, Shane wasn’t so lucky.
But his first year with the Centaurs was spent building new connections, playing some good hockey, and cutting down his brand deals to make time to spend with his husband. His Ilya.
And they win the cup, they beat New York in game 6, shocking everyone who ever doubted them. Shane watches Ilya shake hands with Crowell, straight faced, before picking up the cup and allowing a grin to take over his face. A slow lap around the ice before he hands it over to his husband, his alternate. His Shane.
Shane doesn’t remember skating around the rink, he doesn’t remember the team picture they took with the cup, he doesn’t remember changing, or leaving, or getting to the bar, or getting to the next one, or the next. All he knows is that he finally did it, he finally proved himself. He remembers beers being shoved into his hands, and he remembers finally indulging, safe with the security of knowing he’s a four fucking time stanley cup winner.
He also doesn’t remember the come down from his adrenaline high. He doesn’t remember spacing out while Ilya took to the dance floor. He doesn’t remember the conversation around him. He doesn’t even remember being loaded into a car home, stumbling through the front door, lips locked with his husband.
He doesn’t remember much of anything, other than a crushing sense of emptiness.
—---------------
Ilya wakes up slowly the morning after they win the cup. Eyes cracking open in the darkness, blankets laying around his waist and husband laying asleep next to him. He dozes for what feels like hours but was probably minutes before slowly rising and making his way through some semblance of his morning routine.
Shane’s still asleep when he decides on breakfast, so he makes his way to the kitchen alone. Anya was on a trip up north with Yuna and David so Ilya was left to only feed himself. Pouring a glass of water to clear his throat before searching the fridge for his ingredients.
He takes a quick stock of his body and decides on a smoothie, chuckling to himself as he picks out the ingredients, hearing Shane’s voice in his head commenting on how healthy it is and , Ilya you really do need more iron in your diet and- he sends a quiet apology to his hungover husband before switching on the blender.
Pouring out two glasses of the green sludge, he places one on the island and brings the other with him into the lounge. He flicks through TV channels mindlessly before settling on highlights from the game last night, a few minutes later, it switches to highlights from the full Centaurs season.
Ilya notes every clip featuring Shane, and there are a lot. His hat trick against Montreal in round one, his game winning shootout against Toronto a few weeks ago, his assist in San Francisco. Ilya is in awe of his husband.
He barely watched Shane’s games in their final year before they were outed, only allowing himself to look up the live scores. When he did allow himself to watch, he was left with a hole inside of him, something deep and empty, reaching out towards the screen in search of the only thing that could satiate his instinctual hunger. If he watched every game, he knew he wouldn’t be able to pick himself up afterwards, he would be left limp, inhuman, a form on his couch seeping into the floorboards, destroyed by loneliness and heartache.
Being outed was the worst thing to happen to them, undoubtedly. They were so close to finishing their plan, contracts with the Centaurs already drawn up and ready to be signed in July. Shane would maintain friendships in Montreal, and build new ones in Ottawa. He would come out publicly, and slowly, they would both explore the public side of their relationship. That was taken away from them before they could even envision it, fans turning against them and Montreal shutting Shane out entirely after their playoff loss.
Ilya shakes himself out of his thoughts, swallowing down the final dregs of his smoothie and turning off the TV. There’s no use focusing on what went wrong, only what they could do to make the best of it. That’s what Shane told him the last time they were at the cottage. And they did make the best of it.
Ilya flashes back to last night losing himself on the dance floor alongside Svetlana and Rose, both visiting for their final playoff games, turning back every few seconds to catch his husband’s eyes, Shane sitting in a booth with the rest of the team with hungry eyes, always watching.
He vaguely remembers getting a car back home, losing himself in Shane’s lips as they made their way to bed, not fucking, but making love, sloppily, hungrily, devotedly. He remembers quickly wiping themselves down before falling asleep, envisioning years more of this, of bliss, with his husband beside him.
Ilya notices Shane’s smoothie sitting where he left it on the kitchen island, cocking his head in bemused confusion. He’d thought Shane would wake up soon after him, he expected to find him sitting at the counter and scrolling through his phone, always, always focused on game highlights. There wouldn’t be much to watch after last night, their gameplay was near perfect, but he knew Shane would find something to ruminate on before their next practice. He must’ve taken some more time to doze before the day starts.
He brings the smoothie with him up to the bedroom, pushing open the door slowly with his free hand. He smiles at the darkness that greets him.
“Too hungover to open the curtains, moy solnishko?” He says to the unmoving lump on the far side of the bed. He places the smoothie down on their dresser and opens the curtains one side at the time. He turns around with a smile, expecting to see Shane blinking the sleep out of his eyes, squinting at his sunlit husband.
He doesn’t expect Shane to already be awake.
But he is. His eyes are already open, gazing emptily at the wall opposite him, not drifting towards the windows where Ilya is standing. Ilya cocks his head, confused.
“Shanya?” He moves closer, one hand reaching out to caress his bare shoulder, moving up, down, up, drifting towards his head, “Are you awake?”
Slowly, so so slowly, Shane moves his head in a sleepy nod, yes still blank and distant.
Ilya takes a breath, “Do you want breakfast? I made one of your smoothies,”
His husband takes a breath, which comes out more as a deep sigh, shaking his head slowly before going boneless once again. Ilya’s transported to a time before this, before the Centaurs, before he and Shane ever played against each other. He’s stood next to a much grander bed, four posts and curtains at each corner, gold speckled blanket adorning the mattress and the unmoving figure on top of it. His hand reaches out, moving a stray blonde curl from his mother’s pale forehead, falling to her shoulder and attempting to nudge her into reality. Her eyes are open, distant, bright blue and shining with unshed tears. He didn’t know dead people could cry.
“I will leave it here for you, my love,” He moved the smoothie to Shane’s bedside table, “Are you feeling okay?”
Shane’s eyes move, blink, relax back onto the wall again, he nods, quick, and Ilya reaches a hand down slowly to pull the duvet over his husband’s bare torso.
Ilya nods, realities blending together, and leaves, he doesn’t remember pressing call before the phone is already up to his ear, moving swiftly downstairs so his husband is out of earshot.
“Are you calling to gloat? Took you long enough, I thought you’d be calling from the after party,” Pike’s voice greets him, and Ilya lets out a harsh breath.
“I need your help,” Something about his tone, the seriousness of it, maybe, but either way, Pike replies quickly.
“What happened? Are you guys okay?” Long gone were the days of Hayden waiting for Ilya to slip up, for him to finally dole out his ‘I told you so’s to Shane, now, Ilya is happy enough to call him a friend, part of their family, even.
“We’re okay, I think. Maybe. I don’t know, I-” he scrubs a hand down his face, English escaping him momentarily as he’s faced with the reality of what’s happening, “I got up this morning without Shane, I thought- maybe he was still sleeping. I made breakfast, brought some up for him, and he’s-” He stops, searching.
“He’s…” Pike prompts.
“Awake. He’s awake. Not speaking, doesn’t look at me. He’s just in bed staring at the wall. I don’t-” A harsh breath, “Has he ever done this before?”
The call goes quiet, and after a few moments, Ilya can hear Pike exhale deeply, “I don’t think so, man, but it sounds kind of like how he gets after a panic attack,”
“Fuck, what do I do?”
“I don’t think I can tell you, Roz, I mean, it’s usually not this bad, he’s just spacey,” Ilya drops his head between his knees. Somehow he’s found himself sat against the wall of his entryway, arm resting on his knee and propping his phone against his ear.
“I don’t know how to fix this. Don’t even know where to start,” His voice quickly gets clouded with tears, which Pike takes note of as he quickly jumps in.
“Okay, dude, I’m coming over. Just sit with him, yeah? Try to get him talking or moving or- I don’t know, just be there. I’ll let myself in.” Ily’s nodding before he finishes the first sentence, quickly thanking him before hanging up.
He drops his head again, breathing deeply through his nose. He rubs a hand over his face, across each eye despite no tears actually taking form. On his next breath, he hoists himself up onto his knees. Taking the stairs two at a time, but still trying to keep himself quiet, he opens the bedroom door once again.
This time, he’s greeted with early morning light shining through the window. It catches Shane in a halo of gold, contrasting beautifully with his jet black hair as it sticks up on his pillow. Ilya stops in the doorway and takes another breath, grounding himself to this moment. This is his husband, he’s in Ottawa, he’s going to help him in any way he can.
He rounds the bed with a quiet quickness and crouches down by Shane’s torso. Shane’s eyes are still open, still distant, still empty. They’re still as beautiful as the first time he saw them in Saskatchewan, Ilya takes another breath. He leans forward slightly, moving his head into Shane’s line of sight.
“Shane? Solnyshko? Can you move?” Silence, then a few seconds later, Shane makes a low, unhappy sound. Ilya nods, standing back up and moving to settle behind him.
His back against the headboard, he moves his left hand to trace patterns onto Shane’s blanketed shoulder, as his right hand opens his phone, beginning his search for answers.
“I’m here, Shanya. I’m not leaving,”
—------------
Hayden gets there an hour or so later, probably breaking every driving law on his way, but Ilya expects nothing less. He nudges the bedroom door in his way in and gives Ilya a hopeful smile.
“Hey, Buddy,” He announces his presence, pausing for a few seconds in anticipation of some kind of acknowledgement from his best friend. He looks to Ilya again, eyes more serious, before rounding the bed and mirroring Ilys’s earlier pose, crouched down to link eyes with Shane, “Thought you’d still be partying this morning, should’ve known you’d come back for a nap before heading out again,” he chuckles, stopping quickly when he gets no acknowledgement from Shane.
“Shane, buddy, can you look at me?” No movement, “Buddy, we’re worried about you. Can you move?” That gets him a slow shake of the head, eyes still unmoving. Ilya’s left hand stops on Shane’s shoulder, giving a soft squeeze.
Hayden continues, “Shane, you’re scaring us. We need you to get up, okay? We’re both here for you, me and Ilya, or- we could call someone else if you’d prefer that? You just gotta look at me, buddy,” Hayden looks up after a few seconds, linking eyes with Ilya, grave and serious.
“Shanya, we’re both here for you, and we love you. You have to talk to us, please,” Ilya begs, squeezing his shoulder once again.
A few seconds go by, neither one of them moving, and Ilya and Hayden trying to find something, anything to say to get through to Shane. Trying to fine some way for them to do something and escape the helplessness that’s overtaking the room. A few seconds more with them floundering, and then-
“Can you leave?”
Both their eyes snap to the body between them, Ilya’s mouth dropping open and his eyes filling without his consent. He’s stuck between time. One body here, one back there, one alive, one not, one limp, one-
“Shane, buddy, you want me to leave?” Hayden moves his left hand to Shane’s shoulder, landing next to Ilya’s.
“Both of you,”
Ilya remembers finding his mother, he remembers up to this point, trying to shake her awake, calling out to her, holding her limp hand in his own. He remembers calling out for her, louder and louder, waking his brother. He remembers the door flying open and someone dragging him out, the space between them growing and growing. He’s caught there now, Pike saying something, standing up quickly, rounding the bed and taking Ilys by the arm. He’s pulling him away, away, away from Shane, from his husband, from his soul. Who is Ilya without his mother? Who is he without Shane? Is he anything of importance, anything at all? Will he fall to pieces without his husband holding him together? Will he fall like his mother once did, years ago? Is he already too far gone?
—---------------
Shane wakes up slowly.
His eyes wake up first, his body doesn’t follow. His eyes land on the wall in front of him, his brain lags behind.
He reminds himself slowly. His name is Shane. He lives in Ottawa. He just won the stanley cup. He was partying last night but now he’s at home. Sleep is slipping away and with that comes awareness, his body is familiar but not at all grounded. He remembers-
Ilya moves behind him, getting out of bed and making his way to the bathroom.
He remembers the bar, the first one, beer and shots landing on the table in front of him and he’s too happy to refuse. He remembers the taste in his mouth, bitter and unfamiliar and being kissed by Ilya who tastes the same. They’re smiling too much for the kiss to be anything real, anything at all. He remembers-
Ilya comes back into the room, pauses, a door opens, and he’s gone.
He remembers all the bars blurring together with music and people and laughter. He remembers the last bar, or maybe the one before last. He remembers his happiness waning, his drunk mind catching up to it. He remembers conversations carrying on around him as he drifts. He remembers-
“Too hungover to open the curtains, moy solnyshko?” He's in front of him now, glowing with sunlight. He’s out of focus. A figure at the edge of his vision, moving and talking and suddenly everything’s too much for Shane to process.
“Shanya? Are you awake?” A question. Shane should answer. He’s so tired, he can barely move. Can he even nod his head anymore? He thinks he can. He thinks he does. It’s almost too much for him to imagine.
“Do you want breakfast? I made one of your smoothies,” Ilya hates his smoothies. Every day coming back from a late morning run and greeting him with a snappy comment. Shane can’t breathe properly. It’s too slow, not slow enough. Shane can only shake his head. Eating would mean chewing and swallowing and sitting up and how can he sit up when he’s too tired to even move his eyes-
He remembers being sat in the booth at one of the bars, watching Ilya dance and wishing he could join him. His body was too heavy to move. Ilya was so free, moving with the beat of each song, bringing Svetlana in for an embrace as they continue moving, Shane wishes he could be there. He’s always been envious of Ilya, his confidence, his movement. The way he carries himself and enters a room, the way he talks to people, the way they love him. Ilya’s reputation brings words of dislike, his charisma brings an energy to the room that everyone envies.
Shane remembers thinking all of this, and none of this, feeling everything and nothing. His body is too heavy to move and yet his mind is drifting away.
“Shane? Solnyshko? Can you move?” More questions, Shane just wants quiet. He wants nothing and everything. He wants to sleep until September. He wants Ilya to leave and he wants him to stay forever, want him to fuse with his soul, he thinks maybe he already has.
Questions mean answers. Shane can’t move anymore. Can move less than a few minutes, hours, days ago. What time is it? What day is it? He wants to leave. A sound is coming from him, quiet, low, unhappy, and Ilya’s moving. Shane wants to reach out, to grasp him by the neck and pull him closer, to hold him by he shoulder and never let go, please don’t go, Ilya, please-
Ilya settles behind him, touching him, moving.
“I’m here, Shanya. I’m not leaving,”
—------------
Shane drifts in the in-between. He is everything and nothing. He can’t move his body because there is no body to move. He’s remembering more. He remembers the happiness of last night, of the laughter, the smiles, he remembers-
“Hey, Buddy,” He doesn’t remember Hayden being there. Maybe he wasn’t in Ottawa. Maybe he’s in Montreal. Maybe he’s still on the metros. Maybe he’s still in the closet-
“Thought you’d still be partying this morning, should’ve known you’d come back for a nap before heading out again,” No Metros, no Montreal, he’s in Ottawa. He’s with Ilya. He’s so happy, so so happy he could die-
He wants to sleep.
“Shane, buddy, can you look at me? Buddy, we’re worried about you. Can you move?” Questions questions questions. Can’t they just leave? He shakes his head, he can move now. Only barely. Shane thinks about sitting up, about shifting, just the thought of it makes him want to cry out of exhaustion.
“Shane, you’re scaring us. We need you to get up, okay? We’re both here for you, me and Ilya, or- we could call someone else if you’d prefer that? You just gotta look at me, buddy,” Shane wants everyone and no one. The thought of talking makes his bones ache. His head hurts and his throat hurts and-
“Shanya, we’re both here for you, and we love you. You have to talk to us, please,” Tears rise and rise and rise. He’s going to drown in tears. Is that what people mean when they say drown in sorrow? No, that's drowning in sorrow. Shane already tried that in bar number 5. Ilya wants him to talk. Hayden wants him to talk. He’s outvoted.
“Can you leave?” The words leave before Shane can think. His thoughts are too quick and too slow and everything he’s thought for the past five years and nothing of his own at all. He wants quiet, he wants sleep, he wants to-
“Shane, buddy, you want me to leave?” No, no, that’s wrong, and now he has to speak more. He wants-
“Both of you,”
Hayden’s moving, and Ilya’s moving and they’re gone.
Quiet takes over the room, Shane’s the only one who could break it. But he couldn’t really, could he? He barely has the energy to breathe.
—--------------
“What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck-” Ilya’s packing back and forth in front of the kitchen island, hands gripping and pulling his hair at the root.
“You can say that again,”
“What the fuck-”
“Okay, I didn’t mean- okay. Take a breath,” Ilya’s still moving, but looks to where Hayden’s sat at the counter, posture relaxed but defeated, hair up at all angle from his own anxiety, “At least he’s speaking now?”
Ilya stops moving entirely, glance turning into a glare, “He asked us both to leave, his husband,” he points to himself, “and his best friend,” pointing at Hayden, “This is so fucked, what do we do?”
Hayden takes a deep breath, “We do what he asks. He doesn’t want us there, so we don’t go back in. I already called in reinforcements,”
“What? When?” At Hayden’s shrug, Ilya continues, “Who did you call? You know he’ll be so angry if any of the team find out-” Hayden holds up his hands, breathing slowly and waiting for Ilya’s breathing to reflect his own.
“I thought on the way over- well- he starts fucking dissociating randomly, you can’t get through to him, I can’t get through to him, it’s not like it happened randomly, right? You guys just won the cup, Shane’s been killing himself on the ice to prove everyone in the hockey world wrong about who he is and what he can do. It’s probably related, probably goes back to you guys being outed or maybe further back,” He stops to take another breath, dropping his head into his hands, “We need someone here who isn’t from hockey, someone that can get through to him as well as we can but who isn’t related to the cause of whatever the fuck is going on,”
—--------------
Shane goes over last night in his head again, and again. If he doesn’t he things about last week, and last month, and last-
He doesn’t want to think about that, so he doesn’t.
He’s on his fifth run through of the night when a soft knock sounds on the door. He breathes, sighs, a long breath escaping his lungs as he ever so slowly tenses.
“Hi honey,” Someone enters, pauses, rounds the bed to enter his eyeline.
Rose.
Shane can’t move, he doesn’t have energy to do much more than breathe, but somehow, somehow, his eyes focus on his best friend, basked in sunlight.
“There you are. Hayden texted me, then Ilya called me. They’re worried about you, honey. Are you feeling okay?”
Hes tired, more tired now than ever. Focusing on Rose, on reality, has opened a dam of pain. Not really pain, though, but some kind of torture. His energy is seeping out of him, breathing but not enough, warm but not enough, alive but not-
“Oh, babe,” Rose lifts a hand, rubbing the tears from under Shane’s eyes, (when did he start crying?) before resting in his hair. She combs through it slowly, phishing it away from his forehead.
“You know, when you’ve got a big beefy Russian begging you to help him, it can cause quite a bit of worry,” She pauses, looking him over again, “I’m here if you want to talk, or cry, or just lay here. But at some point you need to eat,”
More tears escape, he can’t move, he can’t sit up, the thought makes him feel heavy, something dragging him down deep into the mattress. He doesn’t know what to do, he wants to cry, but he already is, he wants to sleep until-
“Rose,”
She smiles, despite how croaky and tearlogged his voice is. She smiles, because she’s Rose.
“Hi, honey. Do you want some water?” Shane nods, maybe. He moves as much as he can but maybe it’s not enough. Questions, always questions, questions from press, his team, his coach, his parents-
A straw is being pressed to his lips, he finds enough energy to sip slowly.
“Good, honey. That’s so good,” Rose sounds condescending. He’s not a child, he can drink through a fucking straw. But he can’t. His energy is leaving him. He can barely breathe.
Rose takes the straw away after a few seconds, or minutes, or longer, and puts the glass on his bedside table, “Okay, babe. Now, do you want to talk about it, or eat? I love you but my knees can’t take being crouched here forever,”
Shane wants to answer. He wants to tell her he loves her too, that he wants to eat everything and nothing, that he wants to talk and stay quiet. He wants Ilya here and his team and his dog and he just wants to feel loved.
He tries speaking, tries to start, but his energy is draining, he tries to form words but all that escapes is a sad whine, and that brings more tears to his eyes. If he can’t even speak, what is he good for? How did he ever find energy to play hockey, to skate at all, to even get out of bed?
Rose is moving forward, cooing and shushing and pulling him into her arms and suddenly he’s hugging her back. He buries his head in her shoulder, holds her as tight as his body allows and lets himself sob.
—-----------
Rose comes back downstairs three hours after going up. It’s early afternoon, sun bright in the sky and no longer casting the house in gold but rather a bright yellow. Shadows still lurk behind furniture, few and far between thanks to Shane’s contractor insisting on floor to ceiling windows on each floor.
Socked feet bring with them muffled footsteps as she descends to where Ilya and Hayden are sat, neither of them having moved since they let her in, only deigning to turn on the TV to some drama channel far away from the hockey world.
Ilya snaps out of the haze his mind forced him into, turning over the last night, the last week, the last year in his mind, trying to figure out what went wrong, where he failed.
“He’s sleeping,” Hayden and Ilya both exhale, Shane’s slumber bringing some sense of peace, “I managed to get him talking, he’s- uh-” She stops, moving to sit on the other side of the couch to the hockey players, bringing her feat up to rest in front of her.
“He’s…” Hayden prompts, and Ilya’s thrown back to their earlier phone call, he’s been thrown around time a lot today, it seems.
“He’s not doing well, in short. He’s destroyed,” Ilya’s jaw drops, but she continues before he can prompt her to, “He’s- God, I thought he was okay- He’s been struggling since you guys were outed. He called me about it a few weeks after, and asked me when all the hit pieces would stop. I told him they’d all get bored eventually, it doesn’t seem like he listened. He said- he said he was trying to prove them all wrong, wanted to prove that he was still Shane Hollander,”
Ilya drops his head between his shoulders, he can hear Hayden talking, “He’s always been competitive, I thought he just wanted to get another cup, like- like every year since rookies for fuck sake,”
Ilya brings his head back up as Rose nods, “He seemed off but, I don’t know, he seemed to be coping well. But he just kept saying he wanted to prove himself, he could be better than they ever thought he was. And then last night-” She cuts herself off, rubbing her eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, “He was so happy, he kept saying, ‘I was so happy, Rose, I don’t know what happened’, but it seems like- uh- he realised winning a cup wasn’t enough. Like, he was happy to win it but he thought it would fix everything,”
“And when it didn’t he spiralled,” Ilya cuts in. Rose nods while Hayden looks over with wide eyes.
“Has this happened before?”
Ilya shakes his head, “Nothing like this, but, uh, after we were outed, he was freaking out for so long, and he just didn’t talk to me, threw himself into hockey. He thought if he played good, everyone would forgive him, fucking ‘forgive’ him for loving someone,” he scoffs to himself, taking another breath, “After you guys lost to the Centaurs, he realised it wasn’t enough to try his best, he went to his parents for a few days and- uh- they told me he had a pretty bad week, wouldn’t really do much other than sleeping and eating. But he got better, signed with the Centaurs, we went to the cottage over summer and he seemed-”
Rose moved to sit next to him, resting her hand on his, “He seemed happy. We all thought he did,”
—------------------
Shane wakes slowly. His eyes wake first but his body refuses to follow. His name is Shane. He lives in Ottawa. He just won a stanley cup. His friends are here. Dreamland drifts away from him as reality comes crashing back down.
The sun is setting outside. Shane doesn’t know what day it is. At the very least, he’s stayed in bed all day. He thinks it’s only been a day, surely Ilya would call a professional if he was like this for longer.
As if the mere thought summoned him, Shane hears a knock at the bedroom door. He’s laying on his other side now, having turned to burrow himself into Rose as she stationed herself in Ilya’s side of the bed. His head is facing Ilya, eyes crusted with sleep and dried tears. He must look awful. Good job, Shane.
Ilya pokes his head around the door, face breaking out into a smile when he sees Shane awake, and with enough energy to actually look at him this time. At this rate, he’ll be walking by the end of the year.
“Shanya, how are you feeling?”
Shane’s energy escapes him. God, he’s so sick of that. He breathes deeply, letting out a low whine, trying and failing to form words.
Ilya comes closer, sitting on the side of the bed and resting a hand in Shane’s hair. It feels better than when Rose did the same.
“So sleepy, baby. Do you want to eat?” Shane shakes his head slowly, “Okay, how about shower? You must be feeling gross after last night, not just inside,”
Shane takes stock of his body, he feels disgusting inside and out. His energy is more than before but still not enough for much of anything. Once again, the thought of moving makes tears spring into his eyes.
“Can’t m’ve,” He mumbles, eyes looking up at his husband wide and vulnerable. This is it, the moment Ilya realises he’s too far gone. What good is a husband who can’t do more than speak?
Ilya nods, “Okay, solnyshko, how about bath, hm? You can sit in the warmth and let me take care of you,” His hand is still moving, still combing through Shane’s hair. Shane should nod, he should say yes, yes, Ilya I want that. Will you still have me like this? When I’m no use to you? He should thank him, he should just fucking get up-
He crumbles.
All at once, Ilya’s scooping him up into his arms, turning his body so they’re intertwined. His arms guiding Shane’s around his neck. Shane rests his face in the crook of Ilya’s neck and, for the second time that day, he sobs. There shouldn’t be any tears left in him, but there are. Ilya’s got one arm around his waist and one hand in his hair, stil combing through. He’s cooing, whispering, mumbling I love you’s among other things Shane’s too tired to discern.
Shane cries until he can’t anymore. And when he can’t, he lets himself go limp, he lets his mind drift as Ilya carries him to the bath, drifts while he lets the water rise, until Ilya’s leaving the room and letting Shane sink into the warm water surrounding him.
Later, Ilya comes back in. Eyes landing on Shane’s as his head lays on the side of the bathtub. Ilya comes closer, sitting on the floor next to him without breaking eye contact. Shane doesn’t think he’s seen anything as beautiful as Ilya’s eyes in his life, nothing as beautiful as Ilya. Ilya brings a hand up to Shane’s hair, (he must know what he’s doing by now), and gives him a sweet smile.
“Feeling better?” Shane nods slowly, “Rose told us what happened. Shanya, I will say this again tonight and tomorrow and every day until I can make it right. I am so sorry for not noticing how hurt you were. I let my own issues cloud my view. I should’ve been better, and I will be, for as long as you’ll have me.”
Shane shakes his head, doesn’t stop until Ilys stops talking, tears still streaming down his face. Ilya brings him closer once again, cradling Shane’s head in his neck as he cries and cries and cries.
Seconds, minutes, hours later, he pulls away, “Now, is there anything else bothering you I need to apologise for?”
Ilya lets Shane’s head drop back to the side of the tub, letting his eyes go distant once again. He lets him sift through his memories, what he remembers and what he doesn’t. He lets him do this until the water goes cold, then drains it and refills the tub, giving Shane more warmth to soak up. He knows there’s a lot they haven’t talked about, there’s a lot that should probably be brought up in therapy, but this isn’t the day to talk about that. This is the day for apologies and promises and atonement.
“Would you love me without hockey?” Shane says, eventually.
Ilya doesn’t hesitate, “Shanya, I would love you in every universe we exist in. I could find you in the dark, in my dreams,” He holds him by the cheek, bringing him closer, “I would love you in every reality, and if I ever say anything different, I want you to put me out of my misery, because that’s what my life would be without you,”
Tears stream down his face, his mouth opens, closes, opens again, but no words need to be spoken. He can physically feel the love falling from Ilya’s lips, he can feel the warmth in his eyes, his hands, his heart, his soul.
No more words need to be spoken between them, Ilya lathers Shane with lavender soap in slow, dedicated movements, then rinsing. He drains the tub, then lifts Shane into his arms as if he’s a bundle of blankets instead of a 6 foot tall hockey player. Shane only feels love and devotion and then soft, clean sheets around his body as he’s laid out on their bed. Ilya’s washed the sheets.
Pillows are placed around him so he can sit against the headboard with no real effort made to stay upright and Shane almost cries with relief. He lets himself sink into it, not noticing Ilya rummaging around until hes sitting down next to him, holding something up to his mouth. He opens his mouth and takes a bite. A strawberry.
“Now, Shanya. I am going to feed you all of your favourite foods and you are going to relax, and we are going to talk,” Ilya says slowly but firmly. Shane nods as he chews and swallows, already getting ready for the next bite of sweetness, which Ilya delivers quickly.
“Solnyshko, why would you ever think I wouldn’t love you?” He says finally, heartbreak evident in his tone. Shane takes a breath after swallowing the fruit down, grasping onto all the energy he has.
“The last year of us being long distance was bad,” He says simply.
Ilya waits a second before prompting, “So bad you thought I didn’t love you?”
“Sometimes, yeah,” Shane shrugs. Maybe it’s the bone deep exhaustion that he’s been carrying all day, maybe it’s his walls falling after being built up for so long, maybe it’s him finally realising that if he is undeserving of Ilya’s love, it wasn’t worth having in the first place, “That last year. You barely ever told me you loved me. You joked around whenever I tried to start an honest conversation, you were so far away I thought I’d never get you back”
Ilya’s face crumples, “Solnyshko. Shane. I’m so sorry. I never thought- I never noticed- I-” His head falls into his hands, shoulders hunching as he tries to take a breath, “I’m- I’m so sorry Shane. I was so caught up in Ottawa, in my own issues, I was so selfish, I-”
“No, you-”
“Shane, please, let me try to- I was awful. I thought I knew how awful I was but clearly I didn’t. I didn’t tell you how much I loved you, so now I will. I love you so much, Shane. I did then and I do now, and I was so so hurt back then that I thought that if I pushed and pushed, you would finally realise you didn’t feel the same, you would leave me and find someone better. I know now that was wrong but I never apologised for doing it. All the fights and the distance and the- the- the fucking comments about troy- I was horrible to you,” He stops, finally, to take a breath. And, honestly, Shane doesn’t know what to say in the silence, there is so much and so little left unsaid between them.
“Shane. I have tried to spend every day making this up to you and failed. I will do better, I swear, but maybe, I think there has been so much going on we might do well with couples therapy to help us talk, we obviously haven’t been doing enough on our own,”
Shane shakes his head, eyes dry of tears for the first time that day, but nonetheless devastated by Ilya’s words, “Ilya, baby, I love you, I don’t need-”
“Is not what you need, is what we need, I have not been doing well, you have not been doing well, we need someone to help us organise thoughts between us, yes? That is what couples therapy is for,” Shane takes a breath, hesitantly nodding and allowing Ilya to bring a straw to his mouth, satisfying his parched throat.
“But,” Ilya begins again, “I think you are also not doing well personally. You might do better with a personal therapist to help. I don’t- I can’t do another day lie today where you are so far away from me.”
“Okay, okay, baby. I know I haven’t- I don’t know what’s been happening but I don’t want to do it again either,” Ilya lets out a deep breath, shoulders relaxing at last. He pulls Shane in by the neck to deliver a sweet, loving, but short kiss, before pulling him in for another embrace.
They stay like that for a long while, neither of them are keeping track of the time, before pulling away slowly. Ilya kisses Shane again and they slowly settle further into the bed, pulling the duvet up to cover both of them. Ilya turns on their barely-used TV opposite the bed and switches to a mild nature documentary, putting down the remote so he can continue feeding Shane from the food he brought up with him.
Shane settles into his side, eventually allowing his eyes to close in contentment, occasionally opening his mouth to accept Ilya’s gifts, and eventually drifting off to sleep.