Chapter Text
Ilya realized he messed up too late. He should have seen it. Well, he did see it, but he didn’t care. He saw how anxious Shane had been the week leading up to his first practice with the Ottawa Centaurs. He watched every one of Shane’s nervous tics take over their life. Shane had spent so much time working out or cleaning the house so spotless that Ilya felt like they didn’t really live there. Shane had even started brushing Anya.
He knew Shane was scared, but he reassured him so many times that there was nothing to fear. He tried to convince Shane what he knew himself, the Centuars were different than other hockey teams. They were kind, they really were a family. The Russian knew these things, so he ignored Shane’s anxiety because he knew once they got the first practice over with, it would be okay. Well, he thought.
Ilya realized after they got to the locker room after practice that he was fucked and not even fucked in the fun way. Not in the way that Shane was annoyed, so he would play harder to get once they got home. Where Shane would pretend he wasn’t desperate to get on his knees for Ilya. He was fucked in the way Shane wouldn’t even look at him. While the rest of the team joked around in the locker room, Shane’s silence was deafening to Ilya.
He managed to catch his husband’s eye once, as Shane tore off his skates. Ilya had been smiling at him, picking fun at Luca in a way he hoped Shane would join in. But Shane just met his eyes, then looked down. No smile, no anger, just nothing. Ilya’s heart sank.
He ignored his teammates the rest of the time it took for them to change. He heard vaguely someone organizing the team to go to Monks. He then heard someone else, probably Troy, make a joke about how Shane and Ilya would be too busy testing their mattress to join them. It was funny, Ilya wanted to crack a joke back about Harris’ spending more time videoing Troy’s ass than his skating skills. But the Russian just gave his best a small smile, before turning to continue to pack his gear bag.
Ilya and Shane’s stalls were on opposite sides of the locker room from each other. As much as Ilya loved to flirt, he never wanted to make his teammates uncomfortable with being in a locker room with him husbands. Ilya knew he would definitely be getting hard a few times this season from Shane in this room without being close to each other, so it was for the best that they stayed separate.
After a few minutes, most of the team had cleared out of the locker room. Ilya sat on the bench, his elbows resting on his knees. He stared at the tile in front of him, preparing himself for what he knew would be happening at the house.
Coach Wiebe poked his head into the room, “Hollander!”
Shane’s head shot up from where he had been too engrossed in folding his jersey just so, “Yes, sir.”
Coach Wiebe scoffed, “Again, Hollander, don’t call me sir. You played amazingly today. I am happy to have you join us.”
“Thank you,” Shane said with a small nod, but the anxiety in his chest didn’t calm.
“Are you guys coming to Monks?” Coach Weibe asked, glancing between Ilya and Shane, “My wife and I will be there, I think Harris wants to take some pictures of the team celebrating the start of the season, too, just be aware.”
Shane hazard a glance at Ilya, who still kept his eyes trained on the floor, “Uh.. No. I am not at least… I don’t know about..” he trailed off, gesturing towards Ilya lightly.
“Roz?” Coach Wiebe said hesitantly.
Ilya took a deep breath, he sat up and rolled out his shoulders, “нет. No coach. Busy today.”
Wiebe seemed to sense the tension. He gave them both a small nod, “Next time then, have a good day.” he shut the door before hearing either of their answers.
The drive home was silent, other than Shane's music playing softly from the radio. They never fought in the car. Shane was hyper aware that all it took was one picture of them arguing at a stoplight to taint their reputation as a couple forever. The picture would be on every news site with probably some cringe header like, “Trouble in Paradise.” Shane was fiercely protective of their image together; he knew every step they took was being watched by the commissioner and every other player.
Ilya drove; he always did, mostly because they were typically taking one of Ilya’s cars. They each had their own standard cars, but Ilya had two other “fancier” cars. It was a habit he couldn’t shake.
The Canadian didn’t try to start a conversation. They hadn’t said a word to each other since practice. Instead, he stared out the window, trying to collect himself before they pulled into the driveway.
The drive lasted forever, minutes dragging on and on every turn they made. Once they reached the house, Ilya felt like he wasn’t ready, so he pulled his own and Shane’s gear bag from the backseat. Shane didn’t even look back before going into the house; he trusted the routine. Ilya always liked to be the charming gentleman for his husband, so he would always carry Shane’s bags.
The chirp of the security system made Ilya shiver. He dropped their bags by the door, accepting that he would deal with them after they finished whatever fight they were going to have. He reached the end of the entrance way before Anya came barreling around the corner, no doubt just finished greeting Shane.
Ilya grinned and crouched down to pet her as she practically vibrated with excitement, “Hello, солнышко. How was your day? Come, let's go outside.” He led Anya to the back door and put her outside. He looked over to see Shane standing in the kitchen watching him, “Parents should not fight in front of their kids,” he said with a fake smile and shrug.
Shane scoffed and rolled his eyes. He turned towards the fridge and pulled out a plastic waterbottle. “So you’re so sure we are fighting then?” he kept his back to Ilya.
Ilya carefully walked past the dining room to the edge of the kitchen. Their Ottawa home had an open floor plan, one Shane had loved and picked the house specifically for, “Well, you are mad, yes?”
“Obviously, I am fucking mad Ilya.” Shane said, glaring at the bottle in his hand.
“Then yes, I am sure.” The kitchen island sat between Shane and Ilya. The Russian rested his hands on it, “Go ahead.”
“Could you not be an asshole for five fucking minutes?” Shane said with a bite to his words that wasn’t usually there. He turned to look at Ilya, his face was scrunched angrily. There was no fondness to the insult like there usually was.
Ilya only shrugged. He knew he was deflecting, guarding himself, but he did not care in this moment.
“Of course, I should have known.” Shane opened his bottle, staring at that rather than trying to force himself to make eye contact with his husband, “We need to put some rules in place for practice and games.”
“What?” Ilya’s voice faltered a little
Shane scoffed again, “Don’t you dare fucking act surprised. I can not believe how you treated me today. I can not believe that you would- fucking embarrass me like that.” He glared at the bottle in his hand, “You knew- “ he took a breath, “you knew I was fucking terrified, and you decide today was the day you wanted to fuck with me? Are you serious?!”
A sting tingled down Ilya’s spine at his words. Embarrassed. He walked around the island to Shane’s side, but before he was able to get close, Shane put out his hand to stop him a few feet away. Ilya stopped, “I did not mean-”
“You didn’t mean to what? Fucking bully me in front of our teammates? Make me the goddam butt of the joke to a bunch of guys I have barely met? Or was it checking me into the boards every chance you got!” Shane yelled, meeting Ilya’s eyes now, “You can't just-” he tried to take another breath to steady himself. The Canadian turned back to face the island. He didn’t like yelling at Ilya, “You can’t just treat me like some doll you throw around. All the guys are staring at us as you're kissing me in the middle of a drill! Picking me up during warm-ups! I am not your toy to flaunt in front of your friends.”
“Flaunt?” Ilya stuttered out. A part of his mind would swear Shane used words and metaphors he didn’t know on purpose during arguments, but he pushed that part away, “I don’t understand.”
Shane rolled his eyes, “выпендриваться” he snapped out the translation, “can you understand that?” he leaned against his hands on the island.
“Oh”
“The thing that I fucking hate,” Shane barreled on, “You knew how important this first impression was for me. You knew! And you still decided to fucking embarrass me. Why? Can you seriously not think of anyone but your fucking self for long enough to think about me? Or were you so intimidated that I was on the team, you just had to belittle me?”
Ilya chest tightened. He didn’t bother to clarify words anymore; he understood well enough. His ears rang from Shane’s yelling. It has been a while since they fought like this. Ilya didn’t even know if this counted as a fight; he had barely gotten a word in, “I’m sorry…”
Shane slammed his hand onto the counter. Ilya flinched at the noise. Shane didn’t notice, “Sorry? It’s too late for sorry. Now, all the guys have their thoughts on me because of your ridiculous behavior. I need you to start being serious. You might not fucking care about hockey, obviously, but I DO! So sure spend all your time fucking around at practice with the guys, you all can wonder by Ottawa in the worst team in the league. But I am going to actually care- And I would appreciate it if you tried to at least give a fuck about that Rozanov.”
Ilya opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Anxiety and shame stirred in him. He closed his mouth and looked down. He had no energy to defend himself. He felt the edge of the kitchen fading at the edge of his eyes. Memories of his father saying similar things to him flashed in his mind.
“You are so lazy, Ilya.”
“You need to be serious, Ilya.”
“You are useless.”
“You’re so fucking irradic. This is serious. If we fuck this up- what happens to the next couple…” Shane groaned and ran his hands through his hair with frustration, “Do you understand?”
“Да, сэр.…” Ilya mumbled before he could stop himself.
Anger flared in Shane again. He whipped around to face his husband, his water bottle long forgotten on the counter, “Are you fucking serious right now! You can’t go five minutes without some fucking joke.” He stomped over until he was just in front of Ilya. Ilya stepped back until his legs hit the cabinet behind him with a thud. “I am trying to protect us, and you treat me like a fucking fool.”
Ilya refused to break his eye contact. He saw Shane’s anger, the fire behind his eyes; it was all too familiar. He learned long ago to face what would happen with enough false confidence to convince anyone. Shane continued talking, “I need you-” He pointed at Ilya, his hand just inches from Ilya’s face. Ilya flinched aggressively but refused to break eye contact.
“Do it,” Ilya said through his teeth, cutting Shane off.
Shane faltered, “What are…” his eyes scanned Ilyas face. Realization hit him like a truck. He quickly stumbled back away from his husband.
Do it…
Hit me
Shane felt frozen. Every ounce of anger drained from his mind. He stared at Ilya, his husband, the man he loved more than anything. The horror of what he had done disgusted him, “Ilya… “
Ilya took a deep breath and shook his arms out, “You are angry. I understand. I will go.” he felt like the house around them was warping. He smelled vodka, and yet he knew there was none around. He couldn’t stay; the kitchen felt suffocating, his skin tingled from touch he knew wasn’t there.
The Russian turned and walked quickly out of the kitchen. He could hear Shane trying to say something, but he couldn’t understand him. He grabbed a pair of keys, not caring which. The door slammed behind him, not on purpose; he felt like he wasn’t in control anymore. The only thing he could do was continue to move his feet forward, to escape.
Ilya pulled his car out of the driveway, and he grabbed his —--- keys, it turns out. He didn’t spare a glance at the house again. He pulled his phone and wallet out of his pocket and tossed them into the passenger seat.
“Ебать.” He rubbed his hand down his face, pinching his nose.
His gaze followed the line on the road. A memory forced itself into his mind. It was years ago after the draft when he was back in Russia. He had spent the night celebrating with his friends at a club. All things considered, it was a great night. But he came home to his father furry. This father's word had the bite of Moscow's freezing winter. His father's fists bruised, but hockey is a dangerous sport; no one would know better where the black of his cheek came from.
Ilya did his best to take deep, calming breaths, his foot pressing harder on the gas each time he failed to collect himself until he was speeding down the road. He didn’t know where he was going, but he didn’t care.