Chapter Text
In Shane’s rookie season, everything had seemed so…loud during games. The crowd was a eardrum-splitting roar, there was a constant barrage of skates frantically slicing across the ice, slicing through the trembling air. Now, with time and careful dedication, he can effectively drown out the whirlwind and narrow his focus down to the puck, to keeping track of himself, his team, and his opposing team. Ilya still somehow manages to be loud, though. To cut through all the noise. His fleeting glances towards Shane hold enough weight to seem like a scream across the ice, his murmured quips somehow drowning out the titanic drumbeat of Shane’s own heartbeat in his ears, just for a moment.
Ottawa is lagging behind. Not catastrophically, but Montreal definitely has the point lead. Just when Ottawa is pressing into the offensive zone, Shane’s defensemen manage to wrestle the puck back across the line, forcing the Ottawa team along with it. Shane’s line functions like a well-oiled machine, pressing and pressing and pressing until the puck smashes past the Ottawa goalie’s torso, into the net.
As players are being benched and new ones are climbing over the barrier, Shane glides over to Ilya, who’s silently fuming near the penalty box.
Shane claps him on the shoulder, an unabashed grin splitting his face. “Don’t take it so hard, buddy, it’s only the pre-season,” he says easily, the same way he’d try to reassure a wide-eyed rookie, but tinged with playfulness.
He expects a quip and maybe a shove from Ilya, but instead, Ilya’s expression loosens, surprise flickering in his eyes. He seems…far away, all of a sudden. But the sharpness returns in almost an instant, making Shane wonder if he’d imagined it. The expected shove comes, causing Shane’s grin to creep back.
“I am not your buddy, Hollander,” says Ilya.
Shane watches as Ilya pushes off the wall and glides back across the rink, towards his teammates. His movements almost seem stiff for a few strides, but he quickly falls into his natural rhythm again.
I am not your buddy, Hollander.
Despite their ongoing feud (if it can be called that anymore), Shane had never really spoken to Ilya the way he typically would to a fellow hockey player. But he’s sure he’s called Ilya buddy before, hasn’t he? Hell, Ilya has definitely mockingly used the term with Shane before.
“Shane!” Hayden shouts across the rink.
Shane snaps back into his usual focus, the crowd’s roar fading into a dull hum as he races over.
He files the moment away for later examination.
—
Once the actual season kicks off, everything becomes a blur. Now that they can make trips more frequently between Montreal and Ottawa, Ilya’s company becomes a harbour in the storm.
A month into the season, Shane and Ilya are fumbling their way through the doorway of Ilya’s apartment in Ottawa, breathy huffs of laughter exchanged between them as Shane nearly trips over the shoe rack in his haste to drag Ilya further inside. The swathes of city lights outside produce a faint blue glow that pours in through the parted curtains, interspersed with warm lamps that gleam in the reflection. Shane catches a glimpse in the window of their darkened forms pressed against the wall, his hands buried in Ilya’s hair and Ilya’s hands tugging impatiently at Shane’s shirt, flashes of hurried motion.
“Missed me?” Ilya questions, voice low.
“Is that even a question?” Shane returns.
It had only been a month. They’d gone without seeing one another for much, much longer before, but now that Shane has some certainty about what they mean to each other, it seems like he can’t get enough. He almost feels crazed.
Shane lifts his arms, allowing Ilya just a few moments to shove his shirt up over his head and cast it aside. His eyes immediately trail over the newly exposed expanse of Shane’s chest, as though he hasn’t already seen it countless times. Shane feels his gaze like a phantom heat over his skin.
“Ottawa is on a winning streak,” Ilya murmurs, as he crowds into Shane’s space, his lips the barest brush against Shane’s.
“So is Montreal,” Shane breathes, as he begins to reach for the hem of Ilya’s tank top, fingers briefly sliding up underneath it to press against skin.
“This will change for one of us next week,” says Ilya, a hand trailing upward to cup Shane’s jaw, coaxing Shane’s focus back to Ilya’s face.
Shane huffs. “No doubt who that’ll be.”
Ilya leans in and presses a lingering kiss to Shane’s mouth, lips parting just slightly. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” he whispers, sending a shiver through Shane.
As they slowly begin to make their way to the couch, Shane is so caught up that he almost doesn’t notice it. It’s only when they’re just a few metres away that he suddenly comes to a screeching, stuttering halt. He draws away from Ilya, who makes a soft noise of complaint and tries to chase his lips, lashes fluttering open.
There, tucked up against the couch cushions, is a stuffed bear wearing his montreal jersey. There’s no doubt that it’s supposed to be him — it’s his number on the jersey, and it’s even his tape wound around the bear’s small hockey stick.
“What is it?” Ilya questions, confused and somewhat disgruntled.
When Shane just continues to stare, Ilya turns around, pauses for a moment, then proceeds to curse quietly in Russian. A grin immediately comes to Shane’s lips.
“What is that?” Shane questions, teasing.
“Is nothing,” Ilya insists, but Shane is already moving, shoving Ilya out of the way as he races toward the couch.
Ilya lunges after him and misses by a hair's breadth, allowing Shane to dive low and scoop up the plushie from the couch, letting out a triumphant noise as he holds it up above his head.
“You have a teddy bear me!” Shane exclaims, still grinning madly.
Ilya scowls, folding his arms across his chest. Are his cheeks redder than usual, or is Shane seeing things? “Was going to throw it away, but I was in a rush this morning. Svetlana gave it to me, she called it “gag gift.” Means—“
“I know what it means,” Shane says, affection and amusement clenching tight inside his chest. He can’t wipe the smile off his face, even if he tries. He slowly brings the plushie down to his chest, burying his nose in the soft fur atop its head. Shane inhales slowly, and then his brain promptly comes to another screeching halt.
Smoky, slightly woody cologne, and…something distinctly Ilya.
“It smells like you,” Shane says, peering up at Ilya from the couch.
Something flashes in Ilya’s expression, there one moment and gone the next.
“No it doesn’t,” Ilya dismisses, reaching out to grab the bear, but Shane quickly pulls it away, out of reach.
“It definitely does,” Shane teases, his smile gentling slightly.
Whatever the reason, Ilya must’ve held this thing a few times, at least enough that his scent still lingers on it.
Ilya levels Shane with an unimpressed look. They remain there for a long moment, gazing at one another in a silent battle of wills. Then, Ilya pounces, clambering onto Shane and prying the stuffed bear from his grasp. Laughter bubbles from Shane, and he watches as Ilya carelessly tosses the bear over his shoulder.
“If I hear one more word about this stupid bear when I could be fucking you, I will kill someone, Hollander,” Ilya threatens.
“Hey, you threw me away.” Shane protests, feigning a frown.
“That was not you. That was a stupid bear,” Ilya grumbles. “You are much more interesting.”
Then, Ilya forces his thigh between Shane’s legs, and Shane forgets about the bear embarrassingly fast.
—
Despite Shane’s (admittedly half-hearted) insistence, they don’t make it to the bedroom. In the aftermath, they’re both left sprawled across the couch, chests heaving in the low light. As Shane slowly regains his senses, he catches sight of the teddy bear, still lying abandoned on the floor. He flicks his gaze towards Ilya, who has his arm propped up behind his head, a flush still clinging to his cheeks. His necklace rises and falls, shifting slightly with each breath he takes.
“You’re not actually going to throw it out are you?” Shane questions.
Ilya appears mortally offended. “I make you come so hard that you almost black out and you are still asking me about that stupid bear?” He demands.
Shane laughs, which makes the tight lines of Ilya’s expression ease slightly.
“It’s not stupid.” Shane hesitates. He’s not sure what possesses him to say it. “…It’s, I mean, it’s cute, isn’t it?”
Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Ego,” he says.
After hearing Shane use the word ‘ego’ a few weeks ago and learning what it means, Ilya has been chirping the word nonstop.
“Not ‘cause it’s me…just. You know. It’s a stuffed bear. It’s got those big eyes and stuff,” Shane says, floundering slightly. He doesn’t even know why he’s pressing the point.
“I am not a child, Hollander,” Ilya says flatly.
It’s subtle, but Shane can see that Ilya has stiffened slightly, his arms twitching with the clear urge to fold across his chest. His jaw is clenched, and there’s a tendon in his neck that always comes into sharp relief when he’s wound up tight. He shouldn’t be wound up, not after they’d just had sex.
For some reason, Shane finds himself wanting to argue that he doesn’t have to be a child to find a teddy bear cute.
“At least let me have it, if you’re just going to throw it out,” he insists instead.
Ilya snorts. “Ego,” he says again, but Shane feels the intensity of Ilya’s stare as he stands up from the couch and wanders over to the teddy bear, scooping him up off the floor.
Shane plonks back down on the couch with the bear in his arms, holding him up in front of his face. He moves the bear’s arm, giving Ilya a little wave. Shane lowers the bear again just in time to catch the tiniest smile on Ilya’s lips, schooled away in an instant.
—
The following morning finds both of them rising with the first glow of sun on the horizon. Shane runs his hand absently along Ilya’s arm, his eyes following the motion of his hand. Up and down, up and down. Ilya’s skin is warm, red creases lingering from where he’d had his arm wedged beneath his pillow. They’ve murmured back and forth a few times now, each time along the lines of “I should go”, but neither of them have made good on their words. Not just yet. Maybe once the sun is just a fraction higher in the sky.
“Do you remember what you said to me, during that pre-season game?” Shane questions suddenly, voice still slightly rough with sleep.
Ilya hums, clearly aiming for disgruntled but falling somewhere short. “Hollander. Too early for questions.”
A smile tugs at Shane’s mouth. His gaze flits up towards Ilya’s face, half buried in the pillow, his eyes soft with sleep.
“Do you?” Shane presses.
A soft groan escapes Ilya’s parted lips. He turns his head further into the pillow. “You will have to be more specific,” he mumbles after a long moment, acquiescing.
“You said, ‘I am not your buddy, Hollander.’”
Ilya clearly takes a moment to process the words, squinting slightly. Once he does, recognition flashes in his eyes, his mouth tightening slightly at the corners.
“So? Is true,” Ilya says. “Once a guy has fucked you, you cannot call him buddy.”
Shane’s cheeks redden slightly despite himself, even after all these years. Ilya must notice, because a slight smile twitches on his lips. Asshole.
“There’s another term for that, you know,” Shane says.
“What? Fuckbuddies?” Ilya questions, entirely deadpan.
Shane splutters, rearing up and propping himself up on his elbow. “Who taught you that?” he demands.
Ilya shrugs, sluggishly lifting his head a bit from the pillow. “Internet. And is not accurate. We are boyfriends, not fuckbuddies.”
Something softens in Shane at the words. He lowers himself back down, resuming his gentle strokes up and down Ilya’s arm.
“Okay, well, anyway,” Shane says, trying to steer this conversation back on course. “You seemed to have a problem with it. I don’t know.”
Shane feels Ilya slowly, painstakingly deflating, in that very specific way he does whenever he’s trying not to tense up.
“I just told you my problem,” Ilya mumbles, his gaze falling to Shane’s hand where it continues its steady rhythm up and down. “You think too much.”
Shane hums, his gaze returning to Ilya’s face. “Fair enough…buddy.”
Ilya’s eyebrows raise.
“Oh, come on, what’s wrong, buddy?” Shane continues seriously. The effect is slightly ruined by the grin threatening to tug at his mouth.
Ilya doesn’t say anything for a long moment, brows furrowing as though he’s considering something deeply.
Then, he says, “you must die now.” His expression is deathly still, his tone filled with faux regret.
Shane only has a split second to brace himself before Ilya raises himself up and dives down to tackle Shane. A burst of surprised laughter escapes Shane as he fights to wrest control, limbs flying outward gracelessly.
By the time they finish wrestling, neither of them comes out a clear winner, and they’re both slightly winded as they sprawl out across the bed, Shane’s head butting up against Ilya’s torso. Ilya peers down at him and catches his eye, causing both of them to tumble into laughter again.
Shane decides not to press the point further for now.
—
Shane: [image attached]
Shane: My son and I
Shane can’t help but smile down at the photo. It’s him and the kitted-up teddy bear in the bathroom mirror, the bear sitting up on the counter.
He’s at a hotel in Boston, and naturally, he’d taken to sending Ilya photos of him and the bear together around the hotel room. Ilya’s initial disbelief (‘you took it with you???’) slowly gives way to a series of eyeroll emojis.
Shane watches Ilya type for a long while, curiosity gripping him. Is he writing a whole essay, or is he just writing and then deleting?
Then, a message comes through.
Lily: Wish you were both here right n
Lily: FUCK
Shane’s eyebrows raise. Clearly, Ilya hadn’t meant to send that.
Shane: You do like him!!!
Lily: No I don’t. Stupid bear
Shane: You said ‘both.’
Shane is officially grinning like an idiot.
Lily: No I didn’t.
Lily: Typo.
He can almost hear the pout in Ilya’s tone, even if Ilya insists that he doesn’t pout. Shane exits out of messages momentarily so he can take a new photo with the bear, this time a close-up of both their faces, Shane’s face smushed against the bear’s.
Shane: [image attached]
Shane: We both miss you too
Ilya types, then stops, then types, then stops again. Eventually, he just reacts to the image with a heart.
Shane can’t help but feel amused and more than a little endeared.
In the quiet of the hotel room, his mind races.
—
Shane makes an effort to watch most of Ilya’s games when he can, even putting them on in the background while he’s cooking or reading sometimes. Today, Ottawa has a home game against Detroit, but Shane can’t watch because his team has a training session. He sneaks surreptitious glances at his phone every now and again, though, and he quickly gets a sense of which way the wind is blowing.
Ottawa is losing. Brutally.
As the guys wind down from training in the gym, a few on bikes and a few on treadmills, JJ lets out a loud whistle.
“Rozanov is getting fucked. I repeat — fucked, like fucked next way to Sunday.”
Hayden snorts through pants, face flushed with exertion. “I think we got it, JJ.”
“You do not got it. 5-1, Hayden. 5-to-fucking-1.”
Shane sucks in a quick breath, itching to lean down and grab his phone from his bag.
“Well put it on the fucking TV, then. Let the class see,” Hayden says.
JJ does so with relish, and Shane’s eyes snap to the screen immediately.
“Wow, that’s time, folks. It seems that even Russia’s star centre Ilya Rozanov couldn’t pull that game from the brink of catastrophe, on Ottawa’s own home turf.”
Shane drowns out the commentary, his eyes scanning for any video of Ilya. As he waits, he caves to instinct, leaning over and scooping his bag up from the floor so he can root around for his phone. He’s just debating what snarky text to send to Ilya when the camera finally finds Ilya, and the look on his face slams into Shane like a physical blow.
It’s a slightly grainy zoomed shot — Ilya is standing around the corner from the barriers like he’s trying to avoid the cameras. His expression isn’t angry or even frustrated, it’s just…devastated. Shane’s only seen that expression on Ilya’s face twice after a lost game, both times he’d found out later were due to Ilya being terrified of his father’s impending reaction.
Shane’s fast pedalling starts to wane, his eyes intently following glimpses of Ilya on the screen over the next few minutes. He’s starting to retreat, seemingly heading towards the Ottawa locker rooms. Shane glances at the time elapsed on his watch — 45 minutes. Usually, he doesn’t like to break his routine of an hour-long ride after training, but he’s getting an impending sense that Ilya might call him, and he wants to be alone when he does.
“I’m gonna wrap it up, guys. Nice work today,” Shane says, as he stops the bike and starts getting his things together. His heart is pounding in his ears, Ilya’s expression imprinted on the backs of his eyelids.
He’s met with a sea of bewildered faces at his early departure — usually Shane is the last one to leave.
“Lily texted, huh?” Hayden teases.
Something clenches inside Shane’s chest and holds tight, despite his best efforts.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Pike,” Shane returns, as he slings his gym bag over his shoulder.
“Pike? Ouch, that’s cold. Whatever, go sext your girl, man.”
There’s a chorus of whoops and ‘oooo’s’ as Shane leaves to go to the changerooms, rolling his eyes.
Shane’s instincts are right — virtually two seconds after stepping into the changerooms, his phone begins to vibrate with a call from Ilya. Shane picks up immediately, glancing around anxiously as he presses the phone to his ear.
“Shane,” Ilya breathes, sounding almost wounded.
His voice is thick with suppressed tears, Shane realises with a pang. It’s soft too. He lets out a breath.
“Hey. Tough game,” he says, keeping his voice gentle.
“Was not tough. Should’ve been easy win for us,” Ilya mumbles. There’s shuffling on the other end of the line, and Shane swears he hears a sniffle. “Does not matter now. Is fine.”
“Is it fine?” Shane questions, pressing the phone closer to his ear. As though it would bring Ilya closer to him.
Ilya hesitates. He briefly holds his phone away from himself again, and Shane hears another barely suppressed sniffle.
“Maybe. Probably not,” Ilya admits. His accent is thicker than usual, Shane realises, his words sounding as though they’re dragging along his throat on the way out. “Everything is very…loud, right now. Like, how you say sometimes. I can’t stop thinking.”
“About the game?” Shane questions, as he slides down onto the bench.
“Not just that. Was a stupid loss, but happens all the time. I just…I…” A tinge of frustration enters his tone. “Чёрт возьми! I don’t know.”
“Even if…” Shane hesitates, before deciding to use Ilya’s words. “Even if it’s a stupid loss, you can still be upset about it.”
There’s silence from Ilya’s end for a long few moments, seemingly stretching out into eternity. Then, Shane hears a choked-off sob, barely caught before it can escape.
“Want you here,” Ilya shudders out, the words so thin that his voice cracks. There’s another choked-off sound that reaches into Shane’s chest and squeezes painfully tight.
Shane doesn’t know what god possesses him to say it.
“Oh, buddy…” his voice sounds nauseatingly soft in his own ears, like…fuck, like he’s sympathising with a kid who just lost their first baseball game, or something. Fuck. Why would he say that?
He hears Ilya suck in a surprised breath, and Shane is about to rush out an apology, because Ilya hates that, he doesn’t need that right now, what the fuck — but his words crawl halfway up his throat and then die when Ilya starts to cry, his rapid shuddering breaths pressed right to Shane’s ear.
“Shane,” Ilya gasps out.
He doesn’t sound scolding, or pissed off, or even mildly annoyed. He just sounds like he wants to crawl through the phone and be there, with Shane.
“It’s, it’s okay,” Shane assures, suddenly feeling very off-kilter. “It’s alright. I’m here, okay? I’m here, buddy.”
Fuck, what is he even doing?
Ilya lets out a shaky breath on the other end. “Wan…want you here,” he chokes out between quiet sobs.
Shane leans his head back against the wall, that painful tension inside of him growing in severity.
“I know…I wanna be there too,” he says.
Shane doesn’t know exactly how long he continues to murmur like that, a tangle of assurances and “buddy’s” and who knows what else leaving his mouth as he listens to Ilya cry wordlessly. But eventually, he starts to hear Ilya’s breaths evening out, his sobs reducing in frequency, and something settles inside of him, at least for a moment.
“How are you feeling?” Shane asks.
“Like shit,” Ilya mumbles, before pausing, actually thinking about it. “…Little bit better.”
“Crying can help, sometimes,” Shane notes.
“Mm.”
Shane hesitates for a moment. “I’m coming down,” he says.
Ilya makes a noise of protest, but Shane rushes on before he can say anything. “Training is in the afternoon tomorrow. I can make it back. It’s only a two-hour trip.”
“You do not have to do this for me,” Ilya insists. “I am fine.”
“Bullshit,” Shane returns, without heat. “It’s been two months now, and I…I miss you.”
Ilya falls silent for a beat. “…If I say no, you will just turn up on my doorstep anyway.”
“Pretty much,” Shane agrees.
“Stubborn,” Ilya remarks.
“I’m taking that as a yes,” Shane informs him. “I’m just gonna shower, then I’ll head off. Get someone to tell the press you’ve been injured, if you need to.”
“Mm…sorry everybody, Doctor Hollander says I am unwell. No questions today,” Ilya mumbles.
There’s still a note of…something, wound through Ilya’s tone, that Shane can’t quite pinpoint.
“Just hold out, and I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay?” Shane says.
“Okay. Bye Shane,” Ilya says, and his voice is so unexpectedly small that Shane wants to call him right back when he hangs up.
Bye Shane.
The words tangle through his thoughts as he showers, steam fogging up the glass. His mind is in a seemingly endless tailspin, trying to determine why Ilya had sounded that way, so uniquely soft and ungaurded and…
Shane shuts the water off, standing stock still.
He’d sounded like a kid. Like how Shane imagined Ilya would’ve spoken when he was young, but in English. And Shane had been unconsciously comforting him like a kid, too, murmuring mindless assurances, his voice taking on a coaxing timbre.
He’d never heard Ilya sound like that. He’d heard similar, sure — the week that Ilya’s dad died, and Shane had found his way to that stairwell, phone pressed to his ear like someone was going to come by and take it away from him. No, it wasn’t entirely new territory. But it was still…different.
After realising that he had been standing there, soaking wet, for probably far too long, Shane snaps back to himself and grabs for his towel.
—
Shane definitely breaks a few speeding laws in his haste to get to Ottawa.
By the time he pulls up to Ilya’s apartment complex, the sun has nearly completed its descent towards the horizon, one last riot of reds and oranges left that’ll soon be swallowed up by the night’s black.
Shane tugs impatiently at the sleeves of his jacket as he steps into the elevator, casting anxious glances towards the glowing level numbers. 12, then 13, then 14, then…15. Finally.
Shane adjusts his bag over his shoulder, heading towards Ilya’s door. Shane is just raising his hand to knock when the door swings open.
Ilya’s curls are still damp from the shower, and he’s wrapped up in one of Shane’s fluffy jumpers. He’d called it ugly at the time, but then Shane lost track of it between one visit and the next, and assumed he’d accidentally left it. The warm light in Ilya’s apartment is reflected in his gaze. He looks wary, as though unsure what to do with himself.
Shane makes the first move. He steps into the apartment, closing the door behind him, and then proceeds to wrap Ilya up in a hug, his arms winding around Ilya’s back and squeezing. Ilya’s hesitance melts out of him, his form sagging into Shane’s as he clutches at Shane’s shirt, his face burrowing into Shane’s neck. Shane can feel the warm metal of Ilya’s necklace pressed between them. He breathes in the scent of Ilya’s shampoo, eyes fluttering closed as contentment seeps into his bones, settling there. This is where he’s meant to be, he thinks.
They linger there in the hallway of Ilya’s apartment, neither in a rush to let go. Ilya sags even further into Shane, fingers clenching into the back of Shane’s shirt. Shane loses track of the minutes that pass. Eventually, he begins to nudge his face into Ilya’s forehead, coaxing him to look up. Ilya does so a touch reluctantly, his tired gaze dragging upwards to meet Shane’s. After a moment, his brows furrow, and he draws away from Shane entirely, standing upright.
“Don’t,” says Ilya.
Shane tilts his head slightly. “Don’t what?”
“You have this look on your face,” Ilya says, gesturing about. “This look that says you are about to ask me too many questions.”
A smile starts to form on Shane’s mouth. “How many questions would be too many questions?”
“One,” Ilya says flatly, looking past Shane’s shoulder towards the front door.
“Okay, so I won’t ask questions, then,” Shane says.
Ilya eyes Shane warily as Shane takes his hands, starting to tug Ilya in the direction of the couch. Ilya’s shoulders draw upwards slightly, defensive.
“I’m not going to bite, you know,” Shane huffs, amused, walking backwards towards the couch as he slowly draws Ilya along with him.
“I think that I would rather you bite me,” Ilya remarks.
Still, Ilya allows Shane to guide him towards the couch, looking only mildly suspicious.
Shane sits down on the couch and pulls Ilya down with him, so that their thighs press against each other. The Ottawa cityscape sprawls out behind them through the window, its twinkling lights glowing faintly across the tight lines of Ilya’s expression. Shane’s gaze is fixed on Ilya’s, which flickers between Shane and the couch, undecided on where to settle.
After a moment, Shane speaks.
“You worried me, over the phone,” he says, gently.
Ilya grimaces slightly. “I did not mean to,” he says.
“That’s not what I meant,” Shane says, his head tipping slightly to the side. “You just sounded…upset. Really upset.”
Ilya turns his head away from Shane, tensing as though he’s tempted to get up and walk away. Shane places a hand on Ilya’s knee, leaning over until he can see at least the side of Ilya’s face.
“This is worse than questions,” Ilya mumbles, but he doesn’t draw further away from Shane’s touch.
Shane smiles slightly. “Sorry,” he says.
Ilya sighs, deflating slightly. “Is okay.” He pauses for a moment, gaze darting towards Shane. “Everything was loud today. And it was very loud, after game. I…had a dream about my mother last night. It was like what you say, about sides of bed.”
Shane huffs a soft laugh. “Woke up on the wrong side of the bed. But that’s more for when you’re annoyed or just in a bad mood for some reason. Nightmares are different,” Shane says.
Ilya shrugs, looking away again. “Well. Something like that.”
Shane softens, his smile fading. “Do you wanna talk about the dream? In Russian, maybe?”
Ilya thinks for a moment, before quickly shaking his head. “Maybe later,” he whispers. His voice sounds small.
Shane nods, and lets the silence settle for a moment, their quiet breaths filling the stillness. There’s something bubbling up under Shane’s skin, months of quiet observations and disjointed patterns flickering through his head.
“Um…” Shane feels uncertain all of a sudden. He gazes at the profile of Ilya’s face, sucking in a breath. “I’m sorry I…called you buddy. And, how I was…I don’t know.” He flounders for a moment, trying to find the words. “I hope I didn’t make you feel more upset, or—“
“You didn’t,” Ilya cuts in suddenly, surprising Shane with its intensity. “I mean…it didn’t make me upset.”
Shane takes a moment to process the words, mind reeling. Ilya’s gaze is restless, flitting across the space to his left. Landing anywhere but Shane.
“Okay. I just need you to know I wasn’t, like, making fun of you.”
“I know that,” Ilya says.
Shane nods, feeling a tinge of relief. He swipes his thumb in small motions against Ilya’s knee.
“Did it, um. I don’t know. Did it make you feel better?” Shane blurts. He hadn’t realised just how long this question had been brewing inside him until he asked it.
Ilya visibly tenses, chewing at the inside of his lip.
Shane stumbles on. “You said it didn’t make you upset, so—“
“Yes,” says Ilya, his tone carefully neutral. “It did.” He hesitates, gesturing about. “Made things less…loud. I don’t know.”
Shane nods slowly. The words seem to give clarity to all of his tangled thoughts, the threads tugging at his subconscious over the last few months finally coming together.
Ilya glances in his direction, his head still turned away from Shane. “I do not like the look on your face,” he says, defensively.
Shane smiles slightly. “Ilya,” he says, leaning in a bit further.
“Shane,” Ilya bites back.
“Ilya,” Shane says again, softer now. More coaxing. He slowly winds an arm around Ilya’s shoulders, pulling gently until Ilya’s head turns to face him.
Shane patiently waits for Ilya to meet his gaze.
Then—
“It’s okay,” Shane says quietly, pouring every ounce of assurance he possibly can into the words.
A string seems to snap inside Ilya, because all of a sudden, he’s collapsing against Shane’s side, turning his face into the crook of Shane’s neck. He wraps his arm around Shane’s shoulder.
Affection seizes Shane like something fierce. He presses a kiss to Ilya’s cheek, then his forehead, then his hair. He draws Ilya in until there are no spaces left between them, letting out a quiet sigh.
“You’ve had a rough day, huh, bud?” Shane murmurs, less hesitant now.
Ilya makes a soft, almost wounded noise, muffled against Shane’s skin. He burrows further into Shane’s side. Shane runs his fingers gently through Ilya’s curls, still slightly damp. He presses another kiss to Ilya’s forehead.
In all honesty, he’s still not one hundred per cent sure what he’s doing. He’s not sure what he’s found here, what exactly is going on inside Ilya’s mind. But he’s had enough experience to figure out what Ilya needs, even if he has to fumble his way to it. And if Ilya needs this, then Shane is sure as hell going to oblige. It’s still Ilya, after all. His Ilya.
Shane gently pats Ilya’s back, nudging his nose into Ilya’s forehead.
“My baby,” he murmurs, affectionate.
When Ilya peeks up from Shane’s shoulder, Shane worries that he’s taken it too far. But Ilya just lets out a tiny huff. His eyes have that same faraway quality that they did on the ice during pre-season, but this time it lingers, soft around the edges.
“My baby,” Shane says again, dragging out the word slightly.
When Ilya tucks his face back against Shane’s shoulder, his cheeks suspiciously pink, Shane lets out a soft laugh.
“I brought something for you, you know,” Shane murmurs, gently smoothing his fingers through Ilya’s hair.
Ilya peeks up again, clearly curious.
“You’re gonna have to let go of me for a sec if you want me to get it though,” Shane continues.
Instinctively, his tone takes on a soft, almost indulgent edge, the same way it does when he’s playing with Hayden’s kids.
Ilya promptly shakes his head, looking distinctly like a disgruntled cat.
Shane laughs. “Or not, huh? You wanna cuddle forever?”
Ilya’s brows furrow further. He stubbornly tucks his face back against Shane’s shoulder.
Shane considers this for a moment, debating as he presses another kiss to Ilya’s head.
“Hm…well, I kinda wanted it to be a surprise but…I guess I can tell you. I brought teddy bear me,” Shane says, grinning when Ilya’s gaze shoots back up in an instant.
Shane watches as Ilya pulls away from him, sitting upright on the couch with impressive speed.
“Whoa, alright, buddy,” Shane chuckles, as he gets up from the couch and walks over to the bag he must’ve dumped unceremoniously near the front door as he’d gone to hug Ilya.
Shane brings the bag back over to the couch, sitting down beside Ilya. He turns away from Ilya, hiding away as he rifles through it. Then, when he finds the bear, he slowly draws it out without letting Ilya see.
Shane frowns playfully. “Oh my goodness. I think he really missed you,” he says.
When he peeks behind him, Ilya has a tiny smile on his lips. Shane pauses momentarily for suspense, then whirls around, holding out the bear’s arms as he springs it toward Ilya.
Ilya laughs, happily accepting the bear into his arms and wrapping his arms around it tightly.
Shane watches as Ilya cuddles the toy, his wide smile fading ever so slightly. He’d recognised that the toy smelled like Ilya, but he hadn’t realised that Ilya might’ve actually been drawing comfort from it.
“I’m sorry I took him away,” Shane says, reaching out to cup Ilya’s cheek.
Ilya takes a moment to process the words.
“Is okay. I got pictures,” he mumbles, which brings Shane’s smile back slightly.
“Did you cuddle him sometimes?” Shane asks, his thumb swiping gently along Ilya’s cheek.
Ilya hesitates for a moment before nodding.
Shane hums. “I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t want you to know,” Ilya says quietly.
Shane nods, drawing his hand away. There are so many questions prickling at his mind, but he knows now isn’t the time.
“Can I join?” Shane asks gently.
Ilya nods eagerly, holding an arm out towards Shane and making a grabby hand. Shane smiles and draws Ilya in for another hug, shifting them both so that they’re leaning comfortably against the couch cushions. He presses a kiss to the bear’s head, then to Ilya’s head.
“Should I put cartoons on?” Shane suggests.
“Okay,” Ilya agrees, face smushed against the teddy bear’s fur.
Shane reaches for the remote and flicks through the kids’ channels, eventually settling on a marathon of ‘Pingu.’
For the next hour, they remain tucked up on the couch, Ilya’s attention captured by the antics on the screen. Shane’s attention flits between Ilya and the screen, occasionally pressing a kiss to his head. He breathes, and he listens to the rain start to fall outside.