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Shane couldn't sleep.
It wasn't surprising. He was out of town, booked in for some ad in New York during a bye week before he flew to Nashville to meet the team. Ilya had his own duties back in Ottawa, otherwise he would have come along.
So here Shane was, laying on one side of a king sized bed. Alone. Sleepless. Trying to ignore the aching sense of familiarity that came with laying alone in a hotel bed, missing Ilya.
It felt a bit silly. He'd spent years sleeping alone, years drifting between hotel rooms with only the briefest stints of being in a bed with Ilya. But it had been a couple of years since they'd gotten married and he couldn't even remember the last time he slept alone. If he fell asleep by himself, he always woke up with arms wrapped around him and a burly Russian snoring in his ear. Even on roadies when they were given the same double queen suite as the rest of the team, they usually crowded into one bed together. He liked sleeping with Ilya. He was just as clingy as Shane was.
It was nights like this that made him wonder how they'd gone so long without getting their combined shit together. And sometimes, he liked to think about what if.
What if things had been different? What if they'd both addressed their feelings sooner? He was 33, still a young man by most accounts. He was living out his dreams with his soulmate by his side. His life was, in many ways, perfect. Still, he mourned for the years he missed out on. Years when he could have been pressing every bit of his adoration into Ilya’s skin and bringing tears to his eyes with the force of his love for him.
The endless chains of what if, what if, what if trailed through his mind like sheep.
This was well trodden ground for Shane. He’d told Ilya so many times how much he regretted leaving that day in Boston. How much the hurt look on Ilya’s face pulsed in his memory, pain and heartache and helpless resignation. The soft, pleading way he’d said Hollander. Like an offering, like he could take it back. Like that wouldn’t hurt them both even worse.
And Ilya had told him in no uncertain terms that he forgave him, he understood, he was happy with where they were now. And Shane believed him, even if it didn’t full soothe the sting. Even if it was still a bruise he liked to press on when his mind started circling.
But that was far from his only regret.
I shouldn't have left him at the Olympics, he decided. Ilya had seemed so defeated. Even as he was telling Shane to go, he looked like he wanted him to stay. Shane should have stayed. He should have walked up to the railing Ilya was leaning against and said, “I'm not here for that. You look like you could use a friend.”
“Since when are we friends?” Ilya would have asked. He could hear it so clearly. Voice deep and rough, accent thicker then than it was now. Would he sound hopeful? In Shane’s imagination, he did.
And Shane would have said, “I'd like to be.” And that would have been it. An actual amicable relationship based on more than just fucking all the way back in 2014. Who knows how much longer it would have taken for them to fall in love properly, to look past their bullshit and see their relationship for what it desperately needed to be, but at least he could have talked to him. Called him to catch up, laughed and told a story about him in mixed company without worrying about the questions he’d have to field. Instead, he spent another 2 years wishing he could text him about anything besides hooking up and then not doing that.
That was it, Shane decided. The point in their story that he would go back and change if given the chance. A chance to skip so much stress and heartache. Except…
His brain conjured another image for him. A rooftop bar, a plume of cigarette smoke against night, the outline of a slumped figure looking so much smaller than his tall, broad frame should have been able to. Warm curls and sad hazel eyes illuminated by the neon lights of the city.
He hadn't been looking for Ilya that night, but he'd found him nonetheless. He’d wandered and his feet had led him to him. Inevitable. And Ilya had seemed…Shane wasn't sure. Like he'd expected Shane to find him. Like he was relieved to turn and see him. Like he'd wanted Shane to show up and tell him it was going to be okay. Like he wanted more than anything for a reason not to go. Why didn’t he tell him not to go? Why had that request taken another six goddamn years to pass his lips. Don’t go to Russia. Stay here with me.
Shane still remembered the kiss Ilya had given him. The heat, the desperation, the wild edge betraying something he wasn't yet ready to see. It was all encompassing. It was the best kiss of his life, at least up until that point. He still remembered kissing him back. And then…he'd pushed Ilya away. All of the openness, all of the vulnerability. He'd caught a glimpse of it that early on. It had been beautiful, breathtaking. It had been terrifying. Like they were both standing on the edge of something important, something sharp and necessary and more terrifying than either could fathom.
And he'd pushed him away and seen the way his eyes immediately became guarded again. Ilya had plastered that crooked fucking smile on his face but it hadn't reached his eyes. He'd offered Shane something that night and he'd rejected it without even knowing what it was.
So there it was. Shane's biggest regret. He'd been 20, he'd been kissing the love of his life, and he'd let him slip out of his arms for another 6 fucking years. All the firsts they’d shared, he cherished them. But he still mourned the time and experiences they’d lost. How could he not?
Traitorously, his brain dragged forth one more memory. Another first. The first. First time they hooked up, first time he'd known the taste of Ilya on his tongue, first time he'd ever seen Ilya's easy smile go shuttered and guarded behind his sharp eyes. For that moment, Shane thought it really might have been that simple.
His mind had been reeling from the entire experience. The disconnect between his image of himself and how badly he wanted Ilya. The burning sense of need that had only grown stronger the moment Ilya's mouth was on his. The way he couldn't help but want more.
Ilya hadn't seemed so bothered, laughing easily as he lounged on the hotel bed. It had been Shane who sat up, Shane who insisted no one could know. And it had been Ilya who had let his smile fall and assured Shane he wouldn't tell and left his room minutes later.
All the angst of the Olympics. All the drama of that first MLH Awards. All of it tied back to that one moment. Shane, all of 19 and freaking the hell out, had set the terms. Had pushed Ilya to arm's length where he'd stayed and orbited for half a decade. God, he was a fucking idiot.
Shane brought his hands up to his eyes and rubbed at them, realizing he was on the verge of tears. It was so stupid! He had Ilya now, didn't he? They loved each other. The proof was wrapped around his ring finger and glinting in the light from the gap in the curtains. They'd fought like hell to have the love and trust between them, and for the careers they both had. He couldn't imagine his life being any more perfect than it already was. So why was he so fixated on this? Why was he so desperate to get those lost years back?
He wished Ilya was here. He wished he could just fall the fuck asleep.
They hadn't been ready for each other. He knew that. They'd met when they were 17, for fuck’s sake. He still had to grow and learn so much. Maybe sometimes, he mused, you just meet the right person at the wrong time. You meet and you aren't ready for what you're going to be to each other. They'd hurt each other a lot over those years. They'd caused each other so much stress and frustration. As much as he wished he could go back, he knew it wouldn't have made any difference. The Shane and Ilya on that rooftop weren't ready. The Shane and Ilya giggling through their CCM shoot certainly hadn’t been ready. He was just glad they had eventually gotten there.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. His phone only alerted for messages from three people this late. He grabbed it immediately and checked the text.
Ilya: Are you still awake, too?
A wave of love and longing crashed over him. He didn't even answer the text, just hit the button for a video call. It was picked up immediately and then there was Ilya, illuminated in the dim light of the bedside lamp in their home in Ottawa. His face was half hidden by the pillow but he sat up a bit more when the video started.
“I can't see you,” he said and Shane realized he was in the dark, only illuminated by his phone.
“Shit, sorry.” He slapped randomly at the lamp until he found the switch to turn it on.
“There you are.” Ilya settled back into the pillow and gave him a sleepy smile. “You're not allowed to leave me at home when you go places anymore.”
“You're not allowed to stay home when I go on trips,” Shane countered. It was amazing how all of the complicated feelings, all of the regret, all of the grief disappeared as soon as he saw that crooked grin and heard the deep, accented voice of the man he loved.
“How's New York?” Ilya asked.
“Fine. Good.” Ilya rolled onto his side, the same position Shane was in. Almost like they were laying in bed together, chatting about the day. “Scott invited me out to his bar tomorrow.”
Ilya grinned at that. “You should go. Tell him the food is terrible, though. He will not listen to me.”
Shane smiled and huffed out a laugh. “And yet you go there every time you're in town.”
“Is gay MLH bar. Would be wrong not to go.” Ilya yawned. “How was your day?”
“Alright. Shoot went long but was pretty boring. Had a late dinner with Scott and Kip.” They were opening a new camp the next summer and in the early days of getting all the details sorted. If everything worked out, Game Changers New York would be launching the following summer with Scott as director.
“Boring,” Ilya grumbled, but there was always a fondness to his voice when he said it. Shane loved it. “What were you doing before?”
“Trying to sleep. Thinking of things.” He wasn't sure if he wanted to tell Ilya about his musings. Not tonight, at least. He didn't want to see the worried crease between his brows or hear the reassurances that Ilya didn't blame Shane for any of it. They both knew. “Thinking of you.”
“Me? Sexy things, I hope.” His voice sounded far too sleepy for there to be any intention behind it. Shane loved him so much.
“Something like that,” Shane hummed. He closed his eyes. Even just this, the dim glow of his screen through his eyelids assuring him that Ilya was there, was enough to ease the heartache lapping at his feet.
“What time are you back tomorrow?” Ilya asked. As if he didn't know. As if he hadn't grumpily corrected Shane at the airport when Shane said it was only two days. 52 hours, Hollander.
“Six o'clock,” Shane confirmed anyway. “Enough time for you to clean the dog hair off the bed.”
Ilya grinned, not even bothering to protest. They were quiet like that for a while, Shane with his eyes closed and Ilya silent on the other end. “I should let you go,” Ilya said. “Get some sleep.”
Shane cracked an eye open and shook his head. “Or you could stay.”
“Stay?” He could hear the fondness in Ilya's voice at the old retort, their old game. It welled up in Shane's throat, choking him like a sob. It was a struggle to swallow around it, to find his voice.
“Just a bit longer. It's hard to fall asleep without you.” His eyes were closed again but he could imagine Ilya's face. The dumb dopey look that only Shane ever got to see. Oh, he could be annoying and over the top in his public affections, sure. The Centaurs had chirped them both enough about it over the past couple seasons. Still, there was a look that only Shane got to witness. An expression so open and adoring that it hurt to look at some days. Shane had dutifully memorized it, holding it close to his heart as the gift that it was.
“Okay,” Ilya said, after a silent moment that told Shane he was absolutely right about what he would see if he opened his eyes. Then, so quiet the phone mic barely picked it up, Ilya said, “Good night, lyubimyy.”
Shane was already half asleep as he echoed it back. “Night.”