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Shane Hollander is doing is very best to stay calm. He might be freaking out inside, but he doesn’t think anyone has noticed. Yet.
His husband who knows him so well should have noticed, but he hasn’t. Something has been different lately, and this is exactly why Shane is panicking right now, even though he keeps telling himself that he’s handling it well.
They haven’t had sex in a couple of days. Sort of. In itself, it isn’t that big of a deal. Sure, they used to go for several rounds every time they saw each other for the entirety of their relationship, but that’s when they had to go weeks, sometimes months without seeing each other. Now, they live together, they play on the same team and they are married. Finally.
Shane expected it to impact their sex life, somehow. He knew that they might be a little less desperate to touch each other all the time, that things would slow down a little. The problem is, Shane still wants it, as much as before, multiple times a day. Sometimes, he feels like he wants Ilya more than ever, and that drives him absolutely crazy.
Because Ilya has barely touched him these past few weeks.
Actually, that’s not entirely true. Ilya is there. Always there. Wrapped around him on the couch, pressed against his back in the kitchen, stealing his hoodies, kissing his jaw absentmindedly like it’s second nature. They’ve been cuddling a lot. He holds him tight and has this adorable, content smile that Shane could die for. If anything, he’s more affectionate than ever.
Just not like that. Every time Shane tries to escalate things, Ilya pulls away with some ridiculous excuses.
Which brings Shane back to his initial thought. Ilya hasn’t touched him the way he wants to be touched in several days. Even then, it was only a blowjob. A spectacular one, Shane may say, but once it was over, Ilya hadn’t let him reciprocate. Shane had flipped them over and crawled onto him and he hadn’t even been hard. He had gently kissed Shane and pushed him away with an excuse that Shane hadn’t even heard, because the fact that his husband hadn’t even been turned on by him had shattered him.
Especially because he suspects that the same thing had happened a couple of days before, when Ilya had used some of their toys to get Shane off, had cuddled a little bit until Shane had come down from his orgasm, and then had left to take Anya on a walk.
Worse, he hasn’t actually fucked him in almost two weeks, and Shane wants to whine every time he thinks about it. He is feeling a little desperate and he is so pent up he is starting to wonder if something is wrong with him, if he is addicted. But who wouldn’t be, he thinks, picturing his husband perfect body, and his even more perfect face. He feels his heart clench. Ilya definitely wasn’t the problem, anyone who got the chance to be with him would be equally as obsessed.
Shane was the problem. He was boring, Ilya had been saying for years, but he probably hadn’t realized how true it had been until they actually lived together.
They just spent their first year living together full-time, had been married for almost nine months, and Ilya was already getting tired of him. Shane feels his eyes burn at the thought. He presses the heel of his hand into his eyes until the sting settles into something duller, more manageable. The thought feels ridiculous even as it grips him. Ilya, bored of him? Ilya, who still looks at him like he hung the goddamn moon half the time? And yet.
He glances toward the living room where Ilya is sprawled across the couch, one arm thrown over his head, the other lazily scratching behind Anya’s ears. He looks comfortable, soft. Happy, even. There’s no tension in his shoulders, no distance in the way he exists in their space. If anything, he seems better than ever. There’s something quieter about him now. Lighter, maybe. That’s what doesn’t add up.
“Hey,” Shane says, trying to keep his voice casual.
Ilya tilts his head back to look at him, slow smile spreading across his face like it always does. “Hi.”
There it is. That look. Warm, fond, unmistakably in love. It hits Shane square in the chest and makes everything more confusing.
Shane crosses the room, dropping onto the couch beside him. Ilya immediately shifts, like it’s instinct, curling into him, tucking his face against Shane’s shoulder. Shane’s body reacts on autopilot. His arm comes up, hand sliding over Ilya’s shoulder, holding him close. It would be perfect if it didn’t feel incomplete.
“You’re clingy today,” Shane mutters.
“Always,” Ilya says easily, voice muffled against his shirt.
Shane huffs out a quiet breath. This is what he means. Ilya wants him. Just not in the way Shane can’t stop thinking about.
He hesitates, then lets his hand drift lower, fingers brushing just under the hem of Ilya’s shirt. It’s subtle at first, testing. Ilya stills. Not dramatically, not enough that anyone else would notice. But Shane does, he always does.
Gently, Ilya catches Shane’s wrist. “Shane…” That’s all he says, but it’s enough.
Something in Shane tightens. “Right. Yeah. Sorry.”
He tries to pull his hand back quickly, like he’s been burned. Ilya exhales, still holding his wrist for a second longer before letting go. “You don’t have to apologize. We have to leave for practise in an hour.”
“That has never stopped you before.” Shane snaps and it comes out sharper than he meant it to.
Ilya shifts, sitting up a little straighter now, studying him. “What is wrong?”
Shane laughs under his breath, but it’s thin. “Nothing.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“This.” Ilya gestures between them. “Pretend everything is fine when you are clearly upset.”
“It’s not a big deal.” Shane says, but inside he’s spiraling again. “I just need to go clear my head.” He adds, scrambling to get up, eager to put some distance between them.
“Shane.” Ilya calls out. “Talk to me.”
“If you don’t have anything to say, then there is nothing to talk about,” Shane retorts.
The house feels too small, too quiet, too full of everything he doesn’t want to think about. Ilya’s jacket still thrown over the back of a chair, his skates by the door, the faint smell of his cologne lingering in the air, it’s all too much. Shane grabs his keys, his gear that is thankfully ready by the door and leaves before he can talk himself out of it.
Driving usually helps. It gives him something to focus on, somewhere to put the nervous energy buzzing through him. But right now, even that feels off. His hands grip the steering wheel a little too tight, jaw clenched as his thoughts loop endlessly as he drives around without a destination. His phone rings several times and he ignores it because he doesn't want to say something he'll regret. He will have to head out to the rink soon if he doesn't want to be late for practice, but he needs to calm down first.
He tells himself he’s overreacting. Then, he tells himself he’s not. By the time he pulls into the rink’s parking lot, he hasn’t decided which one is true.
When Shane steps onto the ice, everything looks exactly the same, and completely wrong at the same time. The rink is loud in the familiar way: blades carving into ice, pucks clattering against boards, the voices of their teammates chirping each other. It should ground him, usually, it does. Today, it doesn’t. Ilya is already out there, circling lazily near center ice, tapping his stick against the surface like he always does when he’s waiting. He looks up the second Shane steps onto the ice, like he can feel him there without even trying.
Their eyes meet. There’s a pause that shouldn’t be there, a hesitation that doesn’t usually exists between them. Ilya gives him a small nod, something neutral, something safe. Shane nods back, professional. That’s what they are out here, teammates first.
“Alright, let’s go!” Ilya shouts at everyone.
They fall into line for drills, muscle memory taking over. Shane pushes off, legs burning in that good, familiar way, focusing on the rhythm. It should be enough to drown everything else out and it almost works, until he’s paired with Ilya. Of course he is.
They’ve done this a thousand times, quick passes back and forth, building speed, reading each other without thinking. Normally it’s effortless, almost unfair how in sync they are. Today, it’s just fine. The passes connect, but they’re a fraction off. A little too hard, a little too late. Shane fumbles one he normally wouldn’t even have to look at. Ilya adjusts, covers for it smoothly, like he always does. Neither of them says a word. Their teammates don’t say anything either, but most have noticed the tension by now.
Ilya doesn’t linger near him between reps like he usually would. No casual bump of shoulders, no muttered comment in his ear. When they line up, there’s always just enough space between them to feel intentional. And Shane hates that he notices every inch of it.
At one point, they collide lightly going for the same puck. It’s nothing, barely more than a brush, but Shane’s breath catches anyway.
“Sorry,” he says automatically.
Ilya shakes his head. “My fault.”
Their eyes meet again, their linger a little too long this time. Dykstra whistles. “You two gonna kiss or you finally going to play some good hockey?” A couple of guys laugh.
Ilya forces a smirk, elbowing him. “In your dreams.”
Shane huffs out something that might be a laugh, but it's too stiff.
They don’t look at each other after that and the rest of practice drags. Shane throws himself into it like he can outrun his own thoughts. His lungs burn, legs ache, sweat dripping down his spine. Good. He deserves that. By the time they’re done, he’s exhausted in that hollow, unsatisfying way.
After practice, Ilya tries to corner him but Shane is faster, and now, their entire team is definitely watching them. Shane is done showering before Ilya has even finished taking off his gear and calls out his teammates, “Bye everyone, have a good night,” before heading out of the locker room. “See you at home,” he tells Ilya because his husband looks like a kicked puppy, and he feels a little bad about it. But they drove in separately, so there’s no point waiting for him, right?
He gets to his car and starts driving right away, because he’s worried someone will catch up with him if he hovers. He pulls into a random store’s parking lot 10 minutes later, because he does need to talk to someone. He considers heading to his parents for a bit, but he’s not sure he could survive the embarrassment of having to explain to his mom that not having sex with his husband multiple times a day is making him think that Ilya isn’t into him anymore. So he calls Jackie.
“What’s up Shane? If you’re trying to reach Hayden, he’s giving a bath to Arthur right now so this may have to wait until they’re done flooding our entire bathroom,” Jackie laughs.
“No, this is great. I, uh… need to talk to someone about something and I think it’s better if Hayden isn’t part of this conversation.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” he pauses, because he can’t bring himself to continue.
“Talk to me, Shane,” Jackie says in a soothing voice.
“Fuck. I don’t know how to say this, Jackie, it’s pretty embarrassing. I hate talking about this kind of stuff but you and Hayden have been married for a while and I may need some advice on our sex life? I’m sorry if that’s too much information, maybe I shouldn’t…” He’s rambling until Jackie interrupts him, eagerly.
“No! Please do tell!”
“Wow. You sound way too excited about this,” Shane mumbles.
“I’m sorry but this is typical WAG conversation and I never expected to have this with you." Jackie laughs. "I’m happy to listen Shane, and I’m glad you’re decided to trust me with this,” she adds, more serious.
“Things have been off with Ilya. We used to be all over each other all the time, and now it feels like he’s not that into me anymore. He used to have sex with a shit ton of people before we were officially together, then it was multiple times in a row when we’d see each other and now he doesn’t want to anymore?”
“Okay, hold on,” Jackie cuts in, not unkindly but firmly enough to stop Shane’s spiral. “You’re telling me your husband, who is obsessed with you by the way, went from sex machine to married man, and your conclusion is that he’s not into you anymore?”
Shane groans, dropping his forehead against the steering wheel. “When you say it like that, I sound insane.”
“A little,” Jackie admits, amused. “But mostly you sound like someone who’s overthinking and not actually talking to his partner.”
“He used to want me all the time,” Shane insists, quieter now. “And now it’s… I don’t know. Less. Different.”
“Or,” Jackie counters, “it’s not about quantity anymore. You guys aren’t sneaking around or trying to make up for all your time apart. You live together. You’re married. Sometimes that means things settle into something steadier, not worse.”
Shane doesn’t answer. She has a point, but he still thinks there's something else going on.
“And also,” Jackie adds, tone softening, “has it occurred to you that maybe he’s trying to give you space? Or that he’s working through some stuff and his head isn’t into it because of that?”
Shane exhales slowly.
“I just… I don’t feel wanted the same way,” he admits.
“Then that’s what you say to him,” Jackie replies simply. “Not this whole ‘he slept with a lot of people before and used to jump me every time we saw each other so something must be wrong now’ narrative you’ve built. Talk to your husband, Shane. He can’t fix what he doesn’t know is broken.”
There’s a pause.
“Yeah,” Shane mutters. “Yeah, I know. Thanks Jackie.”
“Anytime, Shane. Having one man in a relationship is making communication difficult enough so I can’t imagine what it’s like with two. Happy to be your marriage counsellor. And I can keep this between us if you don’t want me to tell Hayden.”
“You’re amazing Jackie. Seriously. We’re all so lucky to have you.”
“Remember that next time I need you and Ilya to babysit,” she jokes.
Shane feels a little lighter when he hangs up, but he doesn’t go home right away. He sits in his car for a while after the call ends, engine off, hands still resting on the steering wheel like he forgot what he’s supposed to do next. The parking lot is mostly empty now, the soft sound of traffic in the background filling the silence. Jackie’s words keep replaying in his head, annoyingly reasonable.
Talk to your husband.
Yeah. Great. Easy in theory. He exhales sharply and finally starts the car again.
The drive back feels shorter than it should. Or maybe he just doesn’t remember most of it, too caught up in his own head. By the time he pulls into their driveway, there’s a dull kind of dread settling in his stomach.
Shane sits there for a second longer, staring at the front door, like it might give him a sign. Go in, don’t go in, turn around and keep driving. It doesn’t. It just sits there, normal and familiar. Eventually, he grabs his bag and forces himself out of the car.
The house is quiet when he steps in. There’s a pair of Ilya’s shoes kicked off near the door, his hockey bag on the floor, in a way that feel purposeful, to piss off Shane. Shane drops his keys in the bowl a little harder than necessary. Anya runs to him when she realizes he's back, and he crouches down to pet her.
“Ilya?” he calls out, voice even, controlled.
“In here.”
Bedroom. Of course.
Shane’s grip tightens slightly around the strap of his bag before he lets it slide off his shoulder. He takes a second to steady himself, then heads up the stairs, making sure Anya isn't following him.
Ilya’s sitting on the bed when Shane walks in, already changed into his loungewear, hair still damp from a quick shower. He looks up immediately, like he’s been waiting. Which he probably has, since practice ended over an hour ago.
“Hey,” Ilya says carefully.
“Hey,” Shane breathes out.
The door clicks shut behind him, louder than it should be. He doesn’t move further into the room right away, just stands there for a beat, suddenly very aware of the space between them.
Ilya shifts, like he’s about to stand, then seems to think better of it. “You left fast.”
“Yeah.” Shane shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. “Didn’t feel like sticking around.”
“You okay?” Ilya asks. It’s a simple question and his tone is normal. Concerned, even. And somehow, it makes something in Shane twist.
“Sure,” he says automatically. Ilya doesn’t look convinced.
Another silence stretches between them, heavier this time. Shane can feel it pressing in, the weight of everything unsaid building with every second. He drops his gaze, then drags a hand through his hair, restless. This is stupid.
He hears Jackie’s voice again, uninvited. Talk to him.
“Can we…” Shane starts, then stops, jaw tightening. He tries again. “Can we talk?”
Ilya stills completely. “Yeah. Of course.”
Shane nods, but doesn’t move closer yet. He’s not sure he trusts himself to, not when everything feels like it’s sitting just under the surface, ready to spill out wrong. He takes a breath, slow and deliberate.
“Something’s been off,” he says finally, staring somewhere just past Ilya’s shoulder. “Between us.”
Ilya’s expression shifts. Tension creeps in, subtle, but there. Ilya’s mind immediately goes somewhere dark, the kind of place he’s been trying hard to keep a lid on for weeks. Of course this is it. Of course Shane is finally saying it out loud. He’s seen it coming in all the small shifts: the distance, the frustration, the way Shane hasn’t been playing like himself recently and won’t let Ilya in about it. This is Shane realizing he made a mistake. Realizing he tied himself to someone heavier than he expected, someone who isn’t fun all the time, who has days where getting out of bed feels like skating through cement. Someone complicated. Someone who is too much.
Ilya’s chest tightens as the thought settles in, sharp and familiar: Shane deserves easier, brighter, better. Someone who doesn’t come with quiet moods and bad days and all the things Ilya doesn’t know how to fix. And now Shane is here, standing in front of him, about to say it. About to tell him he’s done trying. He's probably going to divorce him, and Ilya feels like drowning at the thought.
“What do you mean?” Ilya still has to asks, even if the answer might kill him.
Shane lets out a quiet, humorless huff. “You really don’t feel it?”
“I feel that you’ve been distant,” Ilya says carefully. “And that you’ve been avoiding me all day.”
“That’s not…” Shane cuts himself off, frustration flashing across his face. “That’s not what I mean.”
Ilya shifts again, fully sitting up now, his expression tightening just slightly. “Then say what you mean, Shane.”
Shane swallows. His chest feels tight, his earlier thoughts clawing their way back up now that he’s actually voicing any of this. But he’s already halfway there.
“You don’t want me anymore,” he whispers.
Ilya’s face goes completely blank for a second, he feels like he’s been slapped. “What?”
“You don’t,” Shane pushes on, because if he stops now, he won’t start again. “You don’t touch me like you used to, you don’t… you always stop things before they go anywhere, and I just…” He laughs weakly, but there’s no humor in it. “I don’t know what I did to make you not want to have sex with me anymore, but clearly something…”
“Stop.” Ilya stands and his hands are on him immediately, firm, grounding. Shane’s breath stutters, but he stops talking.
Ilya stares at him like he’s trying to piece something together that shouldn’t be broken in the first place. “You think I don’t want you?”
Shane looks away. “I don’t know what else I’m supposed to think.”
There’s another pause. Longer this time. Then, unexpectedly, Ilya groans and drops his forehead against Shane’s shoulder.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You’re so stupid.”
Shane stiffens. “Wow, thanks…”
“Come on, Shane,” Ilya cuts in, lifting his head just enough to look at him again. There’s something softer there now. Something almost… exasperated, like he just realized something. “You think this is about you being boring?”
Shane freezes. “I didn’t say that.”
“I know you.”
“Seriously,” Shane says, voice tightening. “Just tell me. If you’re bored, or if I’m… if I’m too much.” Shane looks away. His jaw tightens, and for a second, he considers brushing it off again.
“Hey.” Ilya’s voice is firmer now. “No.” There’s a long pause. Ilya runs a hand over his face, then looks back at him, something complicated sitting behind his eyes.
Sex was never just sex for him. It was something he understood, something he could do right without overthinking it. It used to be easy: instinctive, effortless, a place where he didn’t have to second-guess himself or worry about saying the wrong thing. People wanted him for it. He was good at it. Reliable, even. And now… now there are moments where the desire just isn’t there, or it fades too quickly, or he catches himself thinking instead of feeling, and suddenly it’s work. Something to perform instead of something that just happens. He hates that shift more than he can explain. Every time it happens, there’s this flicker of panic, like he’s failing at the one thing he never used to fail at, like he’s losing a part of himself that made him desirable, made him worth keeping around. And with Shane, it feels worse, heavier, because this actually matters. Because it’s not just about being good anymore, it’s about being enough, about being what Shane deserves.
Ilya exhales, shoulders dropping slightly, like he’s been holding something in.
“It’s not that I don’t want you,” he says. “It’s that… it’s difficult right now.”
Shane frowns. “Why?”
Ilya hesitates, then huffs out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Wow. Great timing. Really love that this is how this conversation is happening.”
“Ilya.”
“I started new meds a few weeks ago,” he says, finally. “For the depression. The previous ones made me dizzy, tired and my brain was foggy more and more often. I was worried it would affect games so close to playoffs, so the doctor suggested trying something else, that had less side effects.”
Shane stills. “Oh.” He instantly feel terrible, because this is a perfectly valid explanation and something they should have talked about weeks ago, but also because he should have noticed. He's been trying so hard to give Ilya space with his therapy sessions and medication, because he didn't want to smother him, wanted to show him that he trusted him to take care of himself because he knew Ilya felt self-conscious about the whole thing and didn't want to be coddled. But what if he had given him so much space that Ilya now thought he shouldn't even talk to Shane about any of it?
“I told you I might have to adjust things,” Ilya continues, a little more guarded now. “I just didn’t think… sex would be part of it.”
Shane opens his mouth, then closes it again.
“I still want you,” Ilya adds quickly, like he can see exactly where Shane’s brain is going. “My body just has a harder time getting there. It’s not… you’re not the problem.”
Shane exhales shakily, running a hand through his hair. “You could’ve told me.”
“I know.” Ilya’s voice softens. “I realize now that you’ve been spiralling this whole time and I should have said something earlier. I just… didn’t know how to say it without it sounding exactly like what you thought it was.”
“Like you don’t want me,” Shane confirms.
“Yeah. Maybe a little ashamed too. Feels like my dick is broken.” Ilya smiles, but it looks sad.
Silence settles between them, but it feels different now.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of," Shane says before looking down at his hands. "I thought you were getting tired of me,” he adds in a small voice.
Ilya’s expression shifts immediately. “Never. Not even a little.” He reaches out, pulling Shane’s hands into his. “Next time,” Ilya adds, pulling back just enough to look at him, “you talk to me before deciding I don’t love you anymore.”
“I didn’t say that,” Shane mutters.
“You implied it very dramatically.”
Shane lets out a quiet breath, tension easing just slightly. “It just changed so fast.”
“I know. I'm sorry” Ilya squeezes his hands gently. “It’s weird for me too, yes? It’s not like I am enjoying this.”
That earns a small, reluctant huff from Shane. “Yeah. Fair.”
“I fucking miss it,” Ilya admits. “Just not enough for my brain to agree right now.”
Shane glances up at him with concern. “Are you okay otherwise?”
Ilya nods, more certain this time. “Yeah, it’s working, I think. I don’t enjoy this particular side effect so we’ll probably try to lower the dosage, or something completely different. But I am scared to switch before the end of the season, I don’t know how other meds could make me feel. Adapting to new ones is hard. Summer break is probably best for that.”
Shane studies him. The softer edges, the steadier gaze, the way he seems more here than he used to be. And yeah. He is better.
“Okay,” Shane says quietly. “And you don’t have to change medication if this one makes you feel good. I can’t ask you…”
“You are not asking me. I told the doctor he better figure something else out as soon as I understood what was happening because I was very upset. Trust me, I want to try something else. Just not right now, but in a few weeks” Ilya searches his face. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” Shane exhales, then shifts closer again, resting his forehead briefly against Ilya’s. “I can work with that.”
“You sure?” Ilya asks, smirking. “Because I think you miss my dick. A lot.”
Shane huffs a quiet laugh. “You are making me sounds like a pervert.” Ilya raises his eyebrow and they both laugh a little harder. “I can always take care of myself,” Shane adds.
That makes something in Ilya’s expression soften completely.
“As long as you let me watch,” he murmurs in Shane’s ear. “And I can still take care of you. I like that I can still do that, and do it well based on the orgasms I have given you this week, even when I don’t feel like receiving anything in return." Ilya beams as Shane flushes. "And when this get better," he adds, his voice low enough to make Shane shiver, "we are going to catch up on all the sex we have missed out on these past few weeks.”
Shane nudges him lightly. “I expect nothing less.”
“I am sorry I made you feel like you are not the sexiest person in the world.” Ilya apologizes before kissing is forehead.
“Ilya...”
“Is true,” he promises.
There’s a pause, then Ilya leans in, brushing a slow, deliberate kiss against Shane’s mouth. It’s not heated, not urgent, but it’s there, and it’s real. When they pull back, Ilya stays close, forehead resting against his.
“I still want you. All of you, forever." he says softly.
Shane nods, this time without that sharp twist of doubt in his chest.
“I know,” he answers. And this time, he actually believes it.