Work Text:
“You need to change your voicemail.”
Ilya blinks at him, half way out of the shower, dripping wet. He’s got a towel partly around his body, his curls are full and bouncy and barely dried, and he’s staring at Shane like he’s grown a third head.
“What?”
Shane puts (more like tosses) Ilya’s cellphone onto the bathroom sink from where he found it in the bedroom, abandoned on the nightstand. It lands with a noisy clatter, tumbling into some cologne bottles. He lets out a short breath out of his nose, hands coming to rest on his hips, staring at that spot until his vision dots black. He nods, draws in a breath, then nods again,
“Right now.”
Ilya glances at the phone and then fully pulls himself out of the bath. He dries himself off, tugging on a white t-shirt and briefs before using the towel to quickly go over his curls. He then throws it towards the hamper and Shane almost swallows his tongue when Ilya steps close enough that he can smell him. And it’s like warm skin and body wash and home.
Shane draws in a sharp breath, a stinging along the bridge of his nose.
“Did you try to call me about your yogurt?” Ilya asks and there’s gentle teasing there, something that just tells Shane that he doesn’t understand. He picks up his phone and looks at the missed calls—there are exactly two (far less than that day and yet not enough). “I know it’s sad they don’t have your favorite flavor anymore but…you should get your mom to write strong-worded email about how the best hockey player in the league can’t have his strawberry-honey yogurt. Maybe you can get a sponsorship.”
“You don’t get it.” Shane snaps and Ilya’s demeanor changes instantly. He stands straighter, his shoulders draw back, and his gaze works over his boyfriend as he tries to gauge what’s actually wrong. Because it’s now obvious that something very much is.
It’s then that Ilya hones in on his hands shaking, that his entire body is trembling, that he feels so much like a live wire; barely contained.
Shane sniffs and suddenly looks away, attempting to control himself even though he knows it’s too late for that. The way Shane can feel the heat of Ilya’s body, can feel his fingers and mouth without him even touching him, the way his entire being aches for him, and the idea that this could have been ripped away far too soon—
Ideas he thought he processed, things he thought he dealt with; those same what-ifs come crashing back as they did in the middle of that grocery store when Shane called and Ilya didn’t pick up.
Hi, this is Ilya. I will never listen to your voicemail.
Hi, this is Ilya. I will never listen to your voicemail.
Hi, this is Ilya. I will never listen to your voicemail.
“I can’t—I can’t listen to your voicemail again,” Shane chokes out, shaking his head. “I can’t.”
Shane’s been told that grief isn’t linear, that it comes and goes in its own timeline, that it exists in waves that never truly make sense. But how does he even begin to explain to Ilya, who is living and breathing in front of him, that he’s mourned him? That it's been weeks since the plane incident and Shane still thinks about his life in two halves—the one with Ilya and the one without. That he’s lived both completely, to the fullest, and how he sometimes can’t catch his breath when he thinks about it for too long.
That he’s pretty sure a piece of his soul died that day, a part of him that belonged wholeheartedly to Ilya that he’s not sure he’ll ever get it back.
Even though Ilya is okay. He’s okay.
Shane finally brings his gaze back up to boyfriend, tears that were lingering on his lashes spilling down his cheeks when he draws in another breath. He attempts to wipe them away, his heartbeat in his ears and living in his throat,
“Shane,” Ilya whispers and he steps closer, as if to touch him, phone set down on the edge of the bathroom sink. But Shane extends his arm to keep him where he is. He can’t—he just can’t for a moment.
Shane wipes his face again and tries not to be angry; he’s felt a myriad of emotions, every single one, things he thought he’d never feel in regards to someone he loves so deeply. He thinks about those messages, the ones that popped through on his social media—the ones where Ilya was saying goodbye;
You are the best thing in my life.
I love you. Always. Maybe from the first time I saw you.
Whatever happens, I am with you. Safe in your heart. I believe it.
And how could he? How dare Ilya think that Shane could somehow live without him?
All these thoughts and a thousand more, all back in the forefront of his mind, taking up residence, living like a cancer that’s spread to the inside his chest, between his ribs.
Because Ilya didn’t pick up his phone.
Hi, this is Ilya. I will never listen to your voicemail.
How could Shane even pull together enough words to tell him all the things he wanted to say? A lifetime of messages in a voicemail Ilya would never listen to.
“I need—” There’s a noise that leaves his throat, sounding far too much like a frustrated whimper.
When Shane’s hand falls, when it’s no longer a barrier between both of their bodies, Ilya moves. He cups both sides of Shane’s face, soothing his thumbs over his freckles,
“Okay, okay,” Ilya nods, drawing him closer until their bodies are pressed together—stomach to stomach, chest to chest, Ilya’s arms hooking around his waist while Shane’s rest on top of his shoulders. Shane tucks his face into space above his collarbone, Ilya’s hands mapping firm circles along his spine until one of them squeezes the back of his neck. “I will change my voicemail, moya lyubov'. Right now. Right now. You will never have to hear it again.”
Shane sniffles and grounds himself in Ilya’s words, the cadence of his voice, the way it vibrates against his body. In the heat and smell of his skin, the brush of his curls along the tops of his forearms as he hugs him, in the weighted presence of his touch.
Ilya pulls back briefly, cupping Shane’s cheek again to wipe the tear tracks off. He then presses a series of kisses to his forehead and the bridge of his nose, gliding his lips down to his mouth. The kiss shared there is slow and intimate, a thousand phrases and promises left unsaid. Their foreheads press together afterwards and they stand there for a few minutes just drinking the other in.
Ilya holds Shane just a little bit tighter, picks up his phone where he abandoned it on the sink, and changes his voicemail.