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The silence that lingers after Shane leaves is loud. Did Ilya reveal too much? What was it about what he said, exactly? He plays their conversation back in his mind, looping to Shane’s expressions and how his face had gone from soft, tentative, to stuttered and strained, warbled in his excuses to leave.
What changed?
It had been going well– he was just trying to check whether Shane was like him, maybe, liking girls and guys. Shane’s answer had been noncommittal; Ilya figured maybe it was not both, just guys. His father had called shortly after, and when he came back, Shane had guessed who the call had been with. When Ilya joked about him speaking Russian now, what he had seen in Shane’s expression quieted the part of him that always wanted to hide. Shane’s gaze looked like a promise, something safe, and he had thought, yes. He was right. Shane was different.
Then they were kissing, grinding against each other, and– it was around here, maybe, where things went bad. Ilya, in the heat of the moment, thinking they had all the time in the world, had called him Shane, the way he did in his head. He thought the distance was closing. But clearly, he was wrong. He misread things, misread Shane.
And now he sits alone, heavy on the couch, mind quieting down. In the distance, the buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the game on television. He mechanically shuts it off, then closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to think; doesn’t know what to think. A part of him wonders whether Shane would come back, if he waited long enough. He shuts down that thought, too, though he can’t bring himself to move.
He stays on the couch long after the late afternoon light finishes its transition from deep orange to blue. He’s not sure what blinks him back into motion; all he knows is that, when he opens his eyes again, the house is too quiet. The two plates are still on the coffee table, littered with crumbs. Beside them, a ginger ale can, outlined in the dark. A reminder of Shane’s eagerness to leave.
He’s just shocked at his own disappointment, is all. This is just as he’s always known, what he’s forgotten to expect.
He is not the one people choose to build a life with.
There’s an unease that settles under his skin over the next few days, one he can’t seem to shake. He thinks that he pulls himself through it well enough, plays the role of captain and chirps opponents in a way that is second nature to him.
There are moments when he wants to reach into his pockets and text Jane, and it’s a mindful effort to stop. Ilya doesn’t know when Shane grew to be so important to him, or why he feels so lost. He opens his chat log with Jane, zones back in to find himself scrolled all the way back to their first text exchange, thumb stuck on the screen.
One time, he almost doesn’t catch himself. He goes so far as to type out, Is better than Canada Dry, over some root beer-flavored soft drink one of the WAGS brought to team practice, before he remembers that Shane doesn’t want this. And, as much as Ilya enjoys being a nuisance, he doesn’t want to actually bother Shane. He closes the chat and throws his phone.
It lands on the couch with a less than satisfying thud.
After a while, it’s easy enough to push the whole situation to the back of his mind, to an extent. It’s a careful suppression, one that awakens like a well-practiced muscle. Don’t want what you can’t have. Don’t look for what isn’t there. He grew up his father’s son, after all.
Only when he’s alone, when it’s dark and he’s a few cigarettes in, does he let himself wonder: if he waits long enough, will Shane text him first?
He knows there’s no point. Shane is silent on the other end, probably to create distance. And Ilya is letting him, because, well. It’s only fun when the other person actually wants you.
He doesn’t text him when he’s won a game, doesn’t text him when he sees that Shane’s gotten his second hat trick of the season, doesn’t even text him when it’s late at night, and that familiar, low-simmering heat is building in his gut.
He barely even thinks of him.
He’s doing well. Maybe it's good that this thing with Jane is over. He can throw everything into practice. Marlow doesn’t tease him about blushes or staying stuck on his phone. He spends more time at the rink. His pre-game speeches are a little more vulgar, maybe even poetic, and rouse louder yells from his teammates.
It’s going so well that he asks Svetlana to hang out with him twice during one of his home games. They usually just hang out once, a running joke about how more time will make them sick of each other. But Ilya is working so hard, and he kind of misses her. Asking once should be okay.
And Svetlana’s great. When Ilya suggests that they hang out again after the game, she raises an eyebrow but agrees without comment.
Post-game, they are back from the rink, and Svetlana asks if he wants to go out, let loose, but Ilya is tired. He just wants to watch a movie. It’s not unusual for them to lounge shoulder to shoulder, shuffling their feet together while the television plays. He lets himself ask. She smiles and tells him he’s getting old, but she’s already sinking herself into the couch.
This time, they choose a classic, one they’ve watched a million times, about a student who sleeps with her teacher. Ilya likes it because it’s vulgar, reckless. Svetlana likes it because the acting is outlandish and she likes to poke fun.
During the film, he laughs at the right moments, makes the same jokes he always does. He glances over sometimes to catch Svetlana’s smirks, her eye rolls. Grin at her jabs. It’s easy, comfortable. Ilya thinks this may be the happiest he’s felt in months.
When the movie is over, he tells her she should just stay the night. This is also rare but not unheard of. Again, Svetlana shrugs and agrees. They get ready for sleep, flicking tap water at each other over the sink, and then they are in bed, lazily passing a cigarette back and forth. He feels settled, the satisfaction of getting away with something making his thoughts grow lazy and slow.
Svetlana chooses this moment to turn towards him. She considers him for a moment, then says, “You are acting strange.”
Ilya’s stomach drops. He gives her a scoff, tries to keep himself still. “I am not, Sveta.”
She gives him a long look, but two can play at this game. Ilya looks solidly back.
“Is it that girl, Jane?”
“There is no–” Ilya stops himself before he says more. He’s already said too much. “No, it is not about Jane.”
“Ah.” Svetlana hooks a leg over his, rests her head on his shoulder. The closeness with her is comforting, as it always is. “I am here for you, if you want to talk.”
His ears burn. He feels his heart rate picking up even as the warmth from her body sinks into his. He takes a drag of his cigarette, blows the steam away from her face.
There is nothing to talk about.
The day comes like any other, except that he has been dreading. Today is the first game he faces Shane again. It’s weird that the steady ritual they’ve built over the years, of making bets with each other in the days before, is gone now. It affects him more than he’d like to admit.
The game starts off shaky, the puck connecting less than usual. He can’t help it; it takes energy to keep his eyes away from Shane, to ignore the instinctive pull. The few times he looks over, Shane is never looking back, and Ilya pushes down the sting, lets it sink down like everything else. He wants for nothing.
Like he does best, Ilya pushes on, maybe putting a bit more force into his chirps than usual.
Cliff Marlow notices something’s up. He catches him mid-way through the first period, when they’re knee to knee on the bench. “Aye, Rozanov. She leave you or something? Get your head in the game, or Hollander’s gonna get your ass.” This is accompanied by a punch to the shoulder.
The punch jostles him a bit, throws his head to the side, where he catches Shane watching him with an indiscernible look. Ilya feels thrown, unable to think of a quick retort for Cliff. He shoots up a middle finger and a glare in response, but even he can tell it’s weak. Judging by Cliff’s smirk, he thinks so too.
They enter second period and it’s much the same, but at least Ilya can get the puck to cooperate. Shane looks anywhere but him, and Ilya does his level best to not let it affect him, to give back as good as he gets.
He doesn't know what he did wrong. Shane likes to be guided a little, to then figure things out and take the first step on his own. Ilya tried to show him his cards, wrestling the instinctive hackles raised, hoping against hope that Shane would open up in response. Instead, Shane had bolted.
What was he meant to think, other than Shane rejecting his advances?
It’s animal instinct that drives his game play, keeps him within Shane’s orbit whenever they share the ice. There’s something urging him to poke at Shane. He just needs to check that something’s still there, that he hasn’t lost him completely.
Shane’s expression from earlier eats at him. He just wants to see if he’ll pay attention to him. If he doesn’t, he’ll give up, he swears.
He knows when to quit.
The chance comes when the puck is on the left, just past the center line. Shane is going for it, and Ilya shoots towards him, stick angled around his ankles. Ilya pushes Shane into the boards, close to drawing a penalty, his eyes stuck to the side of Shane’s visor, teeth drawn. Shane’s weight is warm and solid against his side. Look at me, look at me, look at me.
He does not.
Shane keeps his face forward, instead, the only reaction a sharp exhale of breath. He continues to move as if Ilya isn’t there. As if he may as well be a gust of air.
It feels distinct, to be ignored this way. He’d thought this was something he was already used to, having lived in the shadows of his brother and father much of his life.
But this is new, from Shane.
He decidedly does not feel disappointed.
He’d just been confirming things, after all. And, well, they’ve been confirmed. He knows…
He knows when to quit.
The momentum shifts. Ilya finds himself fueled by a different energy. He wants to prove something, he doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter. He’s a hockey player. It’s just his usual desire to win. The team matches his momentum, and it carries through the rest of the game.
Towards the end of the third period, he scores a backhanded goal that flies beautifully over the pads of the goalie. Cliff grins at him in approval, is the first to jump into the circle and envelop him in a shoulder hug, but as more guys join in to celebrate, Ilya doesn’t feel good at all. He glances to the other side of the rink, where Shane is encouraging his team, looking unfazed and as strong of a captain as ever. It must be nice to not care at all.
After the buzzer sounds, ending the game and cementing the Raiders’ victory, Ilya’s skin crawls with the need to keep going. The gnawing emptiness that he had managed to subdue the past few months is back in full force, and he is determined to fill it.
It’s quick work to convince Cliff and a few of the guys to go out with him. It hasn’t been uncommon, either, especially not recently. No one seems to notice that Ilya’s about to jump out of his skin as they wait for the cab. Ilya is managing it well. His mind is focused resolutely on everything that doesn’t resemble particular habits and soft brown eyes.
When they get to the club, the wash of purple lights and pulsing bass envelop him like a second skin. It’s a single-minded mission that drives him to the dance floor: he is going to get laid tonight. It will not matter with who.
He sways beside people, among people, orders a few shots of vodka in between. With his mind pleasantly weighted, he joins a girl who’s been meeting his eyes for a few songs before moving on to the next. There’s a girl with metallic eye shadow, at one point, grinding against him and mouthing at his neck. It’s pleasant, but just in the way that such things feel good.
They separate after a bit, and then he finds himself with a guy that has a butterfly tattoo on his collarbone. They dance together for a while, handsy, before Ilya realizes that the guy is eyefucking someone across the floor while kissing the corners of his mouth. Ilya winks at the target and removes himself. They can figure it out.
He tries to focus, to choose the person that will let him forget, at least until the buzzing in his skin subsides. There’s another girl, then another, but it doesn’t feel right. None of it feels right.
Ilya glances around and sees that his teammates are having fun, Cliff with his hands on a girl’s waist and Victor involved in what looks like a drinking contest with a stranger at the bar. Some of the guys are cheering him on.
He weaves his way through the crowd and tells Cliff he’s leaving. Cliff grins and nods, a knowing glint in his eye. Ilya doesn’t correct him; he can hardly believe himself.
In his hotel room, he turns the shower handle as far into the red as it goes. He wants it to hurt. He needs it to reach the itch under his skin. Only when it’s scalding does he step under the spray, gritting his teeth, feeling each drop pelt and trace an angry, burning line down his skin. He jerks himself off like that, not even turned on, just looking for release.
It’s unsatisfying, but at least the pain and the heat cut out the noise.
Ilya is sitting in bed, staring at nothing, when he hears a faint buzzing. He reaches over and picks up his phone, and when he sees the name, he doesn’t feel much of anything at all.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Rozanov. Hi.” Shane’s voice sounds slightly out of breath. What does he want? Ilya doesn’t care.
“Hollander. You need something?” He asks, only to be met with silence.
It’s like the line has gone dead. There's nothing on the other side. Ilya draws the phone away from his ear to check that it’s still connected.
It is.
A sharp annoyance ticks in his chest. Is Shane messing with him? “Hollander? Is this fake call?”
There’s a quiet intake of breath. “Sorry. Are you– are you busy? I can go.”
“No,” he bites. “What? If I pick up, why would I be busy? Your brain is just for decoration?”
Maybe it comes out harsher than Ilya intends, but he’s starting to feel a bit wild again, out of his skin. What is Shane doing, calling him so late? Usually, it can only mean one thing. But Shane… something about his voice sounds off.
“Yeah, maybe.”
Alarm bells sound in his head. When has Shane ever just taken an insult from him? “Is… something wrong?”
“No, no.” Shane pauses. “Just. I did it.”
He’s so confused. “Did what?”
“What you wanted. You know.” What could Ilya possibly have wanted? He doesn’t even get to ask, before Shane rushes out, “I slept with another guy.”
Ilya’s brain halts. Shane… slept with someone else. When? Why is he telling him this? Ilya already knows that Shane doesn’t want him in a more serious way. He doesn’t– Shane didn't have to call. He grits his teeth, tries to keep his voice calm. “So?”
“So… you don’t have to worry.”
Ilya stands up abruptly. Takes a breath. In, out. What is Shane trying to tell him? “What do you mean?”
“I can… I slept with someone. See? I can sleep with other people, too.” Ilya tries to listen carefully, he does, but there’s a rushing in his ears. It’s as if he were plucked up and placed in an alternate timeline, one where most people are left-handed and the furniture has moved two inches to the right. Shane is still talking, something about keeping their arrangement, and then he says, “You told me you like girls, and you have that girl in New York.”
It takes a second for Ilya to realize Shane is talking about Svetlana. By the time he tunes back in, Shane has already moved on to talking about fixing things, going back to how they were, and Ilya is lost. It’s clear that Shane’s mind is elsewhere; they aren’t seeing things the same. But how?
Shane calls what they have casual, and Ilya can barely hear him. He needs to fix this. That’s the only thing he can focus on. That, and the pulsating feeling he’s done something wrong.
“Can you say something, please?”
Ilya jolts into motion. He needs to see him. “Hollander, you are alone?”
“Yes.”
Ilya feels a bit stupid, running out on a phone call when it’s been silent for months, but he has never heard Shane like this. He sounds shaky. Ilya doesn’t want him to be alone.
“Where are you?”
“Some hotel room. He left. Why?”
Ilya bites back a curse. So it was today, then, and the bastard left Shane like this.
“I will come to you.” He’s already grabbing his wallet, his key card, pulling his jacket on. Shane protests, and Ilya pushes back, bringing a fist to his forehead when his words come out too harsh. Again. Eventually, he gets Shane’s location, and he’s outside, hanging up with the promise to be there soon.
The ride to Shane’s hotel is a blur. He’s replaying the past few months, their last conversation, every interaction they had on ice tonight. Everything churns in his head, disconfigured, jagged puzzle pieces that he tries to fit together in a new light.
Shane going quiet, leaving. Not coming back. Staying silent. His refusal to look at him during the game, that weird expression he had.
Shane, tonight, just now, sleeping with another man, calling Ilya close to tears. Describing what they have as casual. Fuck.
When he arrives at the hotel, he rushes out when the car has barely rolled to a stop. He hurries into the elevator, doesn’t even think, before he realizes that he doesn’t have a key card to get to Shane’s floor. Fuck. Slow down, Ilya.
It’s then that he realizes the elevator has been moving, currently stopped and opening on the first floor. Shane’s floor.
There’s people that move to get off. Ilya lets them leave first, then steps out, scanning the doors for Shane’s number.
His heart is racing. He doesn’t know what to expect. He just needs to see him.
When he finally finds Shane’s door, he takes a breath and knocks. There’s no reply, so he says, “Hollander, it is me. Let me come in?”
This gets a quiet shuffling on the other end and then the door clicks open. At first, Ilya isn’t sure where to look. His eyes track to the lamp, illuminating a mess of blankets on the bed, and then he sees Shane’s clothes thrown messily over the console. It shakes him, momentarily, the image so unlike Shane. He hears a sniffle and his eyes follow the noise down.
And oh, Ilya just wants the ground to swallow him whole.
Shane is staring up at him, his eyes distant and bloodshot, face wet. He’s taken one of the undersheets from the bed with him, and it’s wrapped loosely around his shoulders now. One hand curls around the end of the sheet. His fingers– no, his whole body is shaking. His hair is wild, standing in different directions, and Ilya just wants to protect.
“Oh, solnyshko,” he says without thinking, “you are mess.” Shane flinches, curling in on himself. Shit. “Ah– no, I did not mean like that. Here, can I touch you, please?”
He waits a moment, and Shane gives a nod. It’s small, but there. Ilya drops to his knees, grateful. He pulls Shane closer, sits with his legs out so that he can nudge Shane’s thighs over his and gather him close to his chest. Shane rests his nose into the crook of his neck.
Ilya’s heart is pounding. He just needs to feel Shane in his arms, for a moment. Shane’s breathing is weird, a bit shallow, so Ilya guides him to breathe deeper. In, out. Shane follows his words, matches his breaths, and it settles a part of him.
This is something he caused. This is something he will fix.
Slowly, Shane’s breaths lengthen into something calmer, and Ilya starts devising a plan in his mind. First, he will get Shane clean, dress him in something warm. Then they will lie down; Ilya will give him something to drink, and he will fix things.
Suddenly, there’s a tongue on his neck. Ilya makes an undignified noise and looks down. Shane is looking back, a small smile on his lips.
Ilya smiles in return. “Feeling better?”
Shane shrugs, quiet. He seems present, but still a bit distant, so Ilya asks him if he can speak. Ilya can see him trying, the words forming and disappearing.
He waits for a bit longer, but then Shane’s expression begins to shutter, eyebrows drawing in. No, no. Ilya quickly hushes him.
“Then,” he says, “my turn to speak. I think… there is some misunderstanding here. We are not on same page, and it is my fault.” He wants to say more, but Shane is squeezing his eyes shut, and there are tear tracks tracing his cheeks. Ilya realizes how tired Shane looks, suddenly, how he does not seem to be able to hold up his own spine.
Bath, then.
“Okay,” he murmurs, “we will clean now.” Ilya draws away to get some leverage, freezes when Shane whines. He feels his own heart splintering. Everything he’s doing is wrong. Ilya blinks hard, shakes his head. “Sorry, solnyshko. I say we go together.”
He gets his hands under Shane’s hips and picks him up, blankets and all, moving quickly to the bathroom. He places Shane on the closed toilet lid and turns on the lights, making sure to keep a hand on his knee the entire time. His thumb strokes side to side, an echo of the past and how his mother used to calm him. He hopes it helps Shane, too.
He studies Shane’s face for a bit. His eyelashes are dark and clumped together, freckles standing out against his reddened cheeks. Shane is watching Ilya’s thumb, gaze unblinking, more attentive than before. A good sign.
Ilya turns back to the bath, turning the tap and waiting for the water to reach a comfortable temperature before plugging the tub. As the water fills, he uses the time to center himself, to steady his own breathing.
When the tub is around three-quarters full, he turns back to Shane, stutters again when he sees Shane with a focused look in his eyes. In the corners, there are tears gathered. It’s stubbornness, Ilya realizes. He doesn’t want them to fall.
Ilya wets a towel and brushes his face. It relieves him when Shane leans into the touch. He feels useful, like maybe he’s finally doing something right.
At first, cleaning Shane is difficult. He insists on trying himself, without Ilya there, and who is Ilya to refuse, when he’s the reason they’re here? But then there’s a scary moment where he’s listening through the door and Shane suddenly goes quiet, followed by quick sloshing noises that don’t sound right, and Ilya opens the door to Shane scratching angry red lines into his shoulders.
Luckily, he’s able to stop him before he gets to his thighs, but it shakes him. Another failure. His first time caring so deeply, and this is what happens. He is awful. Just awful. He doesn’t deserve–
He snaps out of this line of thinking only when he realizes that Shane is looking at him, eyes rimmed red and still leaking steadily. A strong sense of responsibility settles into him, then. He will focus on helping Shane. Falling apart can happen later, when he is alone.
“I will take it from here,” he says, echoing a line his mother came up with years ago, a way to circumvent Ilya’s childhood stubbornness. “You started the job, I finish. Like tag team. Is okay?”
He watches Shane think it over. His hand draws closer to the soap bar in Shane’s grip, hoping he says yes.
“I c’n do it.”
It bruises Ilya, a little, to see how adamantly Shane still refuses his help, but he puts his arm back down and holds himself still. He knows how important it is, sometimes, for Shane to do things a certain way. This seems like one of those times.
But it hurts. Shane drops the soap bar a few times. Each time, a small, choked sound falls from his lips. Each time, Ilya twitches forward, trying not to move. It’s only when Shane starts shaking, eyes clouding, that Ilya brings his hand to Shane’s shoulder, trying to soothe him.
It’s magnetic, he can’t help it. “Please, solnyshko, let me.”
He’s not prepared for the way Shane rips his hand away. The grip is tight, bruising.
Does Shane despise his help this much?
His heart squeezes. Ilya shakes his head, trying to clear his mind. Shane is not thinking right now. It’s not personal.
It’s not personal, Ilya repeats in his head. He’s seen outbursts like this before. He knows how to handle them.
But then Shane says, “W’na be good,” and Ilya is thrown all over again.
His tongue trips over itself. “You are. Good at hockey, good in bed. I do not see how you can be more good.”
He sees before he finishes that this was the wrong thing to say. Shane is drawing inward again, pulling his elbows towards his chest, like he’s trying to make himself small. He doesn’t look at Ilya when he says, “Y’don want me.”
Ilya’s mind halts. The final jagged puzzle piece slots into place, completing the picture of how horribly misaligned they’d been. So Shane had thought…. Shane had thought this whole time that Ilya didn’t want him. That Ilya didn’t want Shane.
He sinks fully onto his knees, bringing Shane’s knuckles to his lips and placing a kiss while he thinks about what to say. Shane is still looking down, his jaw tight.
“Sweetheart,” he sits back up. “Can you look at me?”
At first, Shane doesn’t move. Then his head starts to the side a few times. Ilya waits, keeping his gaze soft. He can see that Shane is trying. Finally, he turns, and Ilya places his hand under his chin to hold him there.
It’s quiet for a moment, Ilya’s mind racing to think of all the ways he can convince Shane it’s not true, flitting through all the ways he’s acted to make Shane feel this way. The silence. Their last conversation. Shane pulling away.
In the end, it’s Shane that speaks up again. “Was I no good?”
It’s like Ilya has been placed in front of the press with no briefing, and he’s naked. Shane keeps saying things he’s not prepared for. “You are,” he chokes out. “Shane, I am sorry. I… I did not realize I hurt you this way. I thought– no, it does not matter. Of course I want you, sweetheart. I want you so much it scares me.”
It spills out of him, more than he ever thought he’d say. He hopes it’s enough to reach Shane.
Shane shakes his head. It pushes his chin deeper into Ilya’s hold. “But… but y’like girls. You said.”
Ilya clicks his tongue, winces when it makes Shane flinch. He lets out a breath. What a stupid thing for him to say, to phrase it like that. He sees it now. “Yes,” he admits. “Was stupid of me. Very stupid. I thought you would get it. Is my bad, solnyshko, and I am sorry for that.”
Shane’s nose scrunches in the way Ilya loves. He blinks. “So… you don’t like girls?”
Ilya chuckles. Ah, here’s the Shane he knows. “I do, but you are the one I think about. Even when I am with them. Is big problem, Shane.” He’ll never know how much he’s taken up his mind. “You are the one in my thoughts, all the time.”
“Really?”
Ilya can’t help it. He gives Shane a kiss to the tip of his nose, basking in the grin it receives. “Yes.” Time to try again. “So can I clean you?”
“And it won’t bother you? Cleaning me?”
Ilya cannot imagine a world where this is the case, where he could ever tire of the way Shane melts against him, skin turning glowy and hair going soft thanks to Ilya. He says as much, and after a few more assurances Ilya is more than happy to give, Shane lets him take care of him.
He’s careful, even more careful then he usually is when cleaning Shane. He’s already messed up too much. As Ilya works the shampoo into his hair, gently unknotting the kinks, Shane leans further and further into his hands, until Ilya is bearing most of his weight.
Ilya cannot help the fondness that grows in his chest, does not try to stop it as it spreads warmth through his limbs. He’s let himself forget too much, these few months, how good it feels to have Shane in his arms. How important it feels to hold Shane’s trust.
He supports Shane’s weight with one arm around his shoulders. The other hand scrubs gently at Shane’s skin, cups water over his hair. He hardly feels the rim of the tub digging into his hips as he gentles the bruises growing around Shane’s waist. He’s always bruised easily.
Occasionally, he just watches him. He’ll never get tired of this version of Shane, face flushed, eyes hazy, mind finally quiet. He loves that Shane still trusts him enough. It gives Ilya all the time in the world to study him, to trace the constellation of freckles on his face, to count the dots along his collarbone.
Having Shane like this again quiets the restlessness under his skin, the one that laid in refuge for so long.
When Shane starts to shift on his own, Ilya plants a kiss to both eyelids, an effort to ground him. He plays a game with Shane, gets him to say nice things about himself. It isn’t too hard– Shane is loose and easy like this, and Ilya will never tire of hearing compliments about Shane. Even better that they are given in Shane’s voice.
Back in bed, he holds Shane close, murmuring everything that comes to his mind. It might be in English or Russian, he’s not sure. It doesn’t matter. He just feels the need to make up for the months of silence. He needs Shane to know he’s wanted. He knows what it’s like not to be, and Shane should have better, the world, everything.
Shane is peaceful throughout, making small, happy noises each time Ilya’s hand in his hair scratches a good spot. He moves wherever Ilya puts him, presses into him without prompting. It makes Ilya feel bigger than life. It’s more than he deserves.
Before they relax completely, there’s one thing he needs to check. He gives Shane’s hair a tug, brings his mouth to his ear. “Okay,” he says, gut twisting at the way Shane shivers against him, “so now you have my hugs, my kisses. Are we good?”
Shane shifts. “I’m not too greedy? Too much?”
“No,” Ilya says. It’s Ilya that’s greedy, Shane who gives. “Never. You can never be too much. We are rivals, I will match you.”
A sigh, and Shane slumps further into him. “This is the first time I don’t want to beat you.”
Ilya smiles into Shane’s neck, tells him he’s funny, tells him he loves it. Later, as they drift off to sleep, Shane asks him to stay. Ilya cannot imagine refusing something Shane wants; not now, not ever.
Peace, however, does not last long for Ilya. The sleep he drifts into is heavy and sudden, then plagued with visions that feel like memories. Flashes of his father’s face, younger then aged, his brother with a hand raised. A limp arm, thrown over the edge of the bed. Voices echoing, harsh, you are worthless, more, Ilya, more. The brief solace of his mother’s embrace, the smell of lavender, his father’s grasp jerking him away.
Ilya jolts awake, finding himself sitting in the dark. He doesn’t know where he is at first, mind spinning. There’s clothes on the console, the red power light on the television. Then he registers a firm line of heat beside him, looks to the side and sees Shane.
Shane.
He catches his breath, the events from last night filtering back: the phone call, Shane’s tearful declaration of being unwanted, You like girls. Ilya’s failure of Shane. How deeply and easily he hurt him.
His chest aches with the vague soreness of loss, of a time he cannot return to. It’s moments like these where he misses his mother most, misses how he used to be able to ask her things. Get her guidance when he feels less like a person, more like skin pulled over barbed wire.
He looks down at Shane and feels small. Shane trusts too easily. Ilya does not deserve it at all. He doesn’t know what to do.
He thinks back to their conversation on the couch, how he started it, how he’d interpreted Shane’s reactions, how easy it was to get it wrong.
Shane is so bright, the best. He shines everywhere he goes. Ilya is more jagged, harder to like among hockey fans, among the people in his life. He knows that they seem like an unlikely pair. How they are together would need to be carved themselves.
What happens, then, if he is not good for Shane? If he cannot get it right?
The thoughts pummel within him. Ilya feels rooted to the spot, flooded with uncertainty, hot and sharp through his veins. The feeling ebbs and flows; everything then nothing, everything then nothing. Eventually, it’s like his body grows tired of feeling, and he is left sitting, staring at nothing.
At some point, he reaches for his phone. It’s on the bed beside him now, and he’s fiddling with it absentmindedly, clicking it on and off.
His thumb swipes along the home button and it unlocks into his messaging app. Ilya glances down absently. The light in the hotel room makes the phone glow brighter. He didn’t realize the sun had come out.
At the top, there’s a message from Svetlana. It’s a link to a video, his goal last night, above a green text bubble. Bastard, nice goal.
Ilya feels his chest lighten a bit.
He glances at the time. 7 am. She should be up, then, back from her morning run. He thumbs over the top of the chat log and clicks the phone icon.
It rings a few times, then connects.
“Hey hey,” just her voice is a comfort. “You’re up early.”
“Sveta.” He bites his lip. The words rush out regardless. “I messed up.”
“Oh, Ilya. What’s happened?”
“I– You’re right. It’s Jane. I got things wrong.” His throat clicks, voice going quiet. His heart thuds in his chest. “I hurt him.”
Svetlana hums in the way that makes it feel like she sees everything. “You want to talk about it?”
“Da. Maybe. I do not know.” He runs a hand through his hair, looks at Shane sleeping peacefully next to him. “I do not know where to begin.”
“Take your time. I am listening.” He hears the sound of a door opening and closing, the clinking of utensils.
It feels easier for the words to come out when he imagines that she is still going about her day as usual, making breakfast.
“It came out wrong. He thought I did not want him. That I did not even like him,” he starts, speaking to his knees. “He could not be more wrong. I– I love him, Sveta. I have never felt this way with anyone before. I tried to be so careful, and I have already messed up. I think I will mess up again.” He pauses, taking a breath to keep his voice steady.
“I grew up watching my father, Sveta. What if I keep messing up? What if I do not realize until it is too late?”
On the other end, Svetlana is quiet, like she has sat down and stopped moving. “I think, Ilya, you are worried about the wrong things.”
“But I–”
“Yes, messed up. And of course you will mess up again. Unfortunately, that is life. But you are not your father, and you were raised by your mother first. I know you, Ilya, you do not hurt people on purpose.”
“But it does not make a difference, if I am hurting people regardless.”
Svetlana clicks her tongue. “Ilya, no. Look at yourself, now. You are thinking about your mistake. You do your best to understand what went wrong. It matters.”
Ilya does not feel like it matters.
Svetlana probably knows. “I am your friend for a reason. It hurts me that you cannot see yourself the way I do.”
He gives a wet laugh, breathes out the soreness in his chest.
“You’re an asshole, make no mistake. But not to the people you love.”
Ilya snorts. There’s a few ticks of silence, then Svetlana asks, “Does he make you happy?”
“More than anything.”
“Then, I think you deserve to try.” Her voice leaves no room for debate. “You deserve to be happy, Ilya.”
He doesn’t know how to respond to this, can’t. Ilya sits for a moment, silent, then asks her to tell him about her run. Svetlana switches into it smoothly, and they laugh about an orange cat that took its owner on a walk at 5 am.
He loves her. He wants to believe her.
When Shane begins to stir, the sun is already high in the sky. Ilya opened the curtains earlier, so the room is bright, sun casting a triangular glow at the foot of the bed. Ilya has been staring at Shane for the better part of the last hour, tracing the lines of his face and counting his freckles.
As Shane starts to open his eyes, Ilya stands himself up, then pretends he was just sitting down to join him.
“Hi,” he says, planting a kiss on Shane's lips.
Shane smiles into it, eyes scrunching up briefly before smoothing out again. “Hey,” he says. “You stayed.”
Ilya’s heart does a complicated thing. “Yes, solnyshko. Of course.”
They’re still for a beat, just looking at each other. The silence is broken by a low grumble. Shane’s stomach.
“Come on, Shane. Breakfast.”
“Pretty sure that was you.”
Ilya smacks him on the shoulder and helps him to the dining area, a rectangular table before a couch. They sit side by side, and Ilya unpacks the room service he ordered earlier.
He slumps onto the table, resting his head on his arm, watching Shane eat for a bit: the precise way he cuts his breakfast sandwich into four pieces before eating them with a fork.
“Listen, Shane,” he says as Shane is working through the last piece. “I wanted to say I am sorry. That day, I thought I knew what I was saying, but I did not. I did not realize what you heard, and I hurt you.”
I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve your trust.
Shane’s chewing slows, and he hums, thoughtful. “Yeah, we were not on the same page there. But I was thinking about it, just now. It was a misunderstanding, it happens.”
“But not like this. I hurt you, Shane. You thought I did not want you. That could not be further from truth.”
“Say that again.”
“That could not be further from–”
“No, that you–”
“I want you.”
“Yes, again?”
“I want you.”
“Okay.” Shane is so bright, like this. So beautiful. “I want you, too.”
Ilya feels his cheeks heat up. “Oh my god.”
“Yeah?”
He nods, buries his face, groans. Peeks sidelong at Shane.
The corner of Shane’s mouth curls up. “It’s okay. At least you weren’t the one to have a total meltdown about it.”
Ilya shakes his head, makes a face. “Who said I did not have ‘total meltdown’ too?”
Shane chuckles softly. “Well, I’m a bit embarrassed you saw me like that.”
Ilya looks up. Shane’s lips are pursed, and as Ilya gazes, he will not meet his eyes.
“Shane,” Ilya says. He sits up, fixing his eyes on Shane’s. “Shane.”
He cups Shane’s face in his hands and waits until Shane finally looks back.
“It is not embarrassing,” Ilya insists, “The least embarrassing thing. And I will help you, always. It is my pleasure.” He draws his hands through Shane’s hair, tucking the longer ends behind his ears. “And besides, this time was my fault. I am sorry, sweetheart.”
Shane’s lips twitch upwards, a half smile. “I don’t deserve you.”
Ilya stares. Those were words that belonged to him, coming from Shane’s mouth.
“You are wrong. I do not deserve you.”
“That’s not possible, Ilya, how can we both not deserve each other?”
Ilya huffs out a laugh. Of course Shane is stuck on this particularity. “But, Shane. I messed up, and I am scared that I cannot always give what you need. That I will hurt you again, like this time. I am scared it was so easy.”
Shane shakes his head. He snakes his leg around the back of Ilya’s and hooks their shins together. “It goes both ways, though. I didn’t check. We both just assumed the wrong thing.”
Ilya tenses. All he can see is Shane on the floor, unable to stand on his own. “You were hurt, though.”
“Stop. I was just louder about it. But you were– are hurt, too. It’s not your fault.”
He nods, but it’s hard to believe. The words that did the damage were his.
“Hey.” He feels Shane’s hand on the back of his head, and then Shane is bringing their foreheads together. The grip is firm. He can’t shrink away.
“It’s not your fault,” Shane repeats. “Okay?”
“…Okay.”
Ilya’s eyes close as Shane brings his lips to his. The conversation with Svetlana echoes in his mind.
You deserve to be happy.
He wonders if Shane would think so, too? Maybe, maybe they can try.
Ilya wants to try.