Chapter Text
Shane’s keys jingled as he unlocked the door of Ilya’s Boston penthouse, his phone’s flashlight illuminating the knob. This was the first time Shane had stayed over at Ilya’s house since they started their official relationship, and he found himself fumbling with the keys in his excitement to get inside. Even just the reminder that he had a key to Ilya’s house made him giddy. He pulled his suitcase into the entryway that was as dark as outside and slipped his shoes off. Shane looked around, feeling slightly confused. The house was so silent Shane could hear the low hum of the heater reverberating off the walls. He checked his phone to be sure he had texted Ilya that his cab was leaving the airport even though he knew without a doubt that he did.
Headed home from the airport. See you soon ❤️
Ilya had read it but not responded. Odd. Ilya always replied to Shane’s texts, even if they were purely informative. Shane had spent more time than he’d ever admit imagining what it would be like when he arrived. Ilya would be lounging on the couch in just a pair of loose sweatpants, but he’d immediately jump up when he heard the door open. He would stride quickly to Shane and wrap him in his arms before he had a chance to move out of the doorway, and Shane would melt into his arms and Ilya would kiss his head and tell him he missed him and Shane’s mind would finally, for the first time in a whole month, go silent. But he was already moving out of the doorway and there were no warm arms wrapped around him or soothing Russian voice by his ear. Shane couldn’t help but feel disappointed, but he tried to reason with himself. We never talked about him waiting up for me. He was probably just exhausted. Ilya had played a game that afternoon against Detroit and lost 0-3. Shane hadn’t watched the game yet, but he knew those guys had a reputation for being both verbally and physically aggressive.
He climbed the stairs to Ilya’s bedroom and pushed the door open slowly, shoulders dropping slightly when he saw the room was dark. When they first talked about planning their schedules around seeing each other, Shane thought it would be manageable. Not ideal, but they used to go months without even talking to each other, so Shane had been sure he would handle being apart from Ilya this season well. He had been so wrong. He had felt nauseous in their hotel room the night before they were torn apart by their hockey schedules, forced to be in different planes, different cities, different beds for a month. Shane had tried to hide how upset he was, but Ilya had tilted his chin up and looked at him with such sad eyes and said, “I will miss you so much.” In that moment, Shane would have rather never touched a hockey puck again than be removed from Ilya’s side.
The first night of the month away, Shane laid awake, feeling like he was drowning in the openness of the bed. The first week away, he cried after talking on the phone to Ilya. After two weeks, he went out and bought Ilya’s shampoo just so he could smell it and feel closer to him. The third week, he fell asleep staring at a selfie Ilya had taken of him kissing Shane’s cheek. The entire last week, Shane had spent every spare moment he had imagining finally being able to see Ilya. He wanted to just talk to him, tell him all the boring little details of the past weeks that couldn’t fit into the facetimes they stole when no one else was around. And, fuck, Shane wanted to kiss him. He felt like he would die if he went another hour without kissing him. He wanted to climb into Ilya’s lap while he reclined against the pillows in his bed and lie back against his chest and breathe in the warmth of his bare skin. Shane wanted to sleep so closely to Ilya that he couldn’t tell where his body ended and Ilya’s began, until they were inhaling the same breaths, until their limbs went numb from holding each other so tightly.
So Shane couldn’t help that his stomach dropped with disappointment when he realized Ilya hadn’t waited up for him. As he quietly moved his suitcase in the room, his eyes adjusted and he could see Ilya laying on his side, eyes closed, arms wrapped around the covers like he was desperate to hold something. He knew he shouldn’t purposefully wake up Ilya, but he couldn’t stand being so close to him without touching him. Shane gently lowered himself to the edge of the bed beside Ilya. From here, he could see Ilya was wearing Shane’s sweatshirt, and he smiled to himself.
Shane remembered texting Ilya after they’d parted, Hey, have you seen my navy blue sweatshirt? It’s kinda big and worn out?
Ilya had sent back a selfie of him wearing it in his hotel room. It smells like you. And it’s soft.
It was Shane’s favorite sweatshirt, but he had been almost giddy to hear that Ilya had stolen it. It felt so intimate, that Ilya would want to wear something just because it smelled like Shane. Seeing Ilya wearing it to sleep was comforting to Shane, a reassurance that Ilya missed him as much as he missed Ilya, that he needed to be close to Shane in some way in order to sleep. Shane slowly dipped his fingers into Ilya’s hair, keeping his touch as light as possible so as not to startle him. He gently rubbed his palm against Ilya’s scalp, relishing the feeling of his soft curls against his hand. Ilya sighed, barely audibly, but didn’t open his eyes. Shane felt almost concerned that he hadn’t woken up. I hope he’s not sick. He touched the heel of his other hand to Ilya’s forehead, but his temperature felt normal. Shane finally decided he just needed to let him sleep, and carefully removed his hand from Ilya’s hair. He gazed down at the line of his nose and the curve of his lip, barely visible in the dim light. Even just the outlines of his face were so beautiful, like something carved out of marble by adoring hands. Shane brushed his knuckles against the side of his face and bent down to press a soft kiss to his forehead, letting his lips linger as he inhaled Ilya’s comforting scent. He smelled like spice and sea salt and home.
He showered and brushed his teeth in the en suite bathroom, pulling on boxers and one of Ilya’s old graphic t-shirts that Shane pretended he threw in his suitcase on accident. When he climbed into bed, Ilya was lying on his stomach, facing away from Shane, which made it difficult for Shane to curl up beside him like he so badly wanted to. He shifted as close to Ilya as possible, until their shoulders were pressed against each other, and wrapped his arm around Ilya’s. Shane slid his fingers in between Ilya’s limp ones, and kissed his shoulder.
“I love you,” Shane whispered.
He closed his eyes and leaned his cheek against Ilya’s arm. Despite the edge of anticipation that still lingered, Shane was exhausted from traveling and the warmth of Ilya beside him relaxed him instantly. He drifted to sleep imagining being woken up by Ilya wrapping him in his arms.
*
When Shane opened his eyes, there were lines of light creeping out of the blinds and onto the navy blue sheets wrapped around his waist. He blinked several times, disoriented and confused, before remembering where he was. He turned to Ilya’s side of the bed, butterflies filling his stomach at the sight of his boyfriend sleeping beside him. My boyfriend. Shane smiled. He still couldn’t believe he had a boyfriend at all, much less that it was Ilya Rozanov. Ilya was on his side, facing away from Shane, and Shane scooted forward, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s waist. Before he could press his chest against Ilya’s back, Ilya reached back without rolling over, placed a hand on Shane’s chest, and firmly pushed him away.
Shane froze completely and his mind went blank for a split second before a thousand simultaneous thoughts crashed in on him. Was Ilya messing with him? Maybe he was sick and didn’t want Shane getting too close? Was he half-asleep and too disoriented to know why someone was touching him? Wait, had he mistaken Shane for someone else, an old hookup, or maybe he had hooked up with someone recently, it had been a whole month and maybe he decided he didn’t want to wait for Shane anymore, or maybe he was mad at Shane, he had to be mad at him, why was he mad at him, why wouldn’t he let Shane touch him, what did he do to make Ilya not not let him touch him, oh god–Shane felt an intense wave of nausea roll over him. He looked down and saw his arms were still outstretched toward Ilya’s back.
“Ilya?” His voice cracked.
Shane stared at Ilya’s back, begging him silently to turn, to move at all. Finally, Ilya stood up and walked to the bathroom without even tilting his head in Shane’s direction. Shane was sitting straight upright now, picking desperately at the skin on his fingers. The bed felt like it was rolling beneath him.
Do I follow him, what if he’s sick, do I wait, should I leave, I should leave, he wants me to leave, why does he want me to leave?
He stood up and walked towards the bathroom door, so dizzy it felt like he was walking on a trampoline. He froze a step away from the bathroom, right as the door swung open. Ilya froze too, so close to Shane that their feet bumped. Ilya almost immediately turned his face down, but not before Shane caught a glimpse of the shadows beneath his eyes.
“Ilya? Ilya. Ilya?” Shane heard himself say. It sounded like begging, but he couldn’t stop himself.
Ilya just shook his head and and shouldered past Shane and down the stairs. Shane stood there for a minute, his whole body aching as if Ilya had just slammed him into a wall instead of just pushing past him. Then before he could think, he was running after Ilya, almost tripping down the stairs to reach him.
He was standing near the entryway, moving aside Shane’s shoes to grab his own. Shane stopped himself several feet away from Ilya and suddenly there were words pouring out of his mouth, all at once, jumbled together desperately. “You’re leaving? What happened? What’s wrong? Did I–was it–”
“Hollander.” Ilya looked up from tying his shoe. “Enough.”
Shane swallowed hard. Hollander? He wished Ilya would’ve punched him in the face instead. He suddenly felt suffocatingly hot.
“I’m going on run.”
“I can come with you.” Shane’s voice was small and he had never felt more pathetic in his life.
“No. I don’t want–” Ilya cut himself off, rubbing his necklace between his fingers. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “I cannot. I’m sorry.” He immediately turned and walked out the door.
Shane stared at the closed door. I cannot I'm sorry I cannot I’m sorry I cannot I’m sorry. The more Shane repeated it to himself, the more final and dooming it sounded. After a month of not seeing each other, he had physically pushed Shane away, refused to talk to him or even look at him, and had left the house saying, I cannot. I’m sorry. All Shane heard was I don’t want you.
Suddenly he felt like his legs didn’t work and he collapsed onto the couch. His limbs were shaking and his chest was heaving and he was biting the skin around his fingers. Shane replayed all of their last interactions, trying to find where things went wrong. What was the last thing Ilya had said to him before he came home? Was it over text or call? Shane bolted up, scrambling upstairs to find his phone. Hands trembling, he opened their text messages. They had called the night before Shane flew to Boston. He specifically remembered how tender Ilya had been over the phone.
I can’t wait to kiss you tomorrow, he’d said, Can’t see your freckles well enough over the phone, I miss you so much, sweetheart.
What had he done in the past day to make Ilya not want him anymore? He scrolled to their messages from yesterday. Shane had texted him before his game: Good luck! Can’t wait to see you and hear about how you won tonight :)
Ilya hadn’t responded, but Shane had just assumed he had already put his phone in his locker. Now the lack of response made Shane’s stomach drop. And he hadn't responded to his text saying he was leaving the airport either. Was he even really asleep when Shane got home, or was he faking it so he didn’t have to see him? Shane dropped his phone on the bedside table and dug his fingers into his hair. His throat was tight and he could feel tears brimming in his eyes. The only explanation he could come up with for Ilya’s coldness was that the month apart made him realize he didn’t really want a relationship with Shane. But it just didn’t make any sense to him. Why would he have been so sweet and attentive over calls and texts the entire month if he didn’t want to be with Shane anymore?
What did I do? Shane wondered for the hundredth time in the past thirty minutes.
He felt the same sinking dread and aching confusion as he had in Vegas when they presented the rookie of the year award. Ilya had gone from back kisses and tender check ins the first time they had sex, holding him in bed and stroking his hair after he came, to fucking Shane at arms length and blowing cigarette smoke in his face as aftercare. Shane had never felt so stupid and helpless in his life until now. He knew he wasn’t always the best at picking up on subtleties and understanding tone, but there was no way he had been so wrong about how Ilya felt about him. He was Shane’s boyfriend now, but suddenly he didn’t want to talk to him? He rubbed at his eyes, trying to distinguish if the blurriness of the room was from tears or dizziness.
Shane glanced at the nightstand where he’d dropped his phone and saw a photo there, unframed and propped against the lamp. He picked it up and saw it was a photo of himself that Ilya had taken over the summer. Above Shane's bare, tan shoulders, Ilya hand was cupping his cheek and Shane was smiling wide, the kind of smile that framed his eyes with lines like ripples. He picked up the photo to examine it more closely and turned it over to see the words summer, 2017 and my Shane handwritten on the back. Shane’s breath caught when he saw it. Ilya kept a picture of him beside his bed with the words my Shane handwritten on the back. But he wouldn’t let Shane touch him after a month apart.
Shane fell back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling, thoughts spinning faster than the ceiling fan. He felt overwhelmed by a sense of failure, the same feeling he had after losing a playoff game. No matter the circumstances, no matter the evidence that the loss was not his fault, he would still feel crushed and sickeningly guilty and overwhelmed with the feeling that he was not good enough. I’m not good enough for him. His breath was coming faster now his chest felt like it had a rock on it and he was sweating. He gripped the sheets and tried to focus on the feel of them in his hands and the sound of the fan. When his breathing evened out to slow and shaky inhales, he stood up, knowing he had to find something to do or he’d have another panic attack. Shane headed downstairs, turning on his notifications just in case Ilya texted him.