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Shane understands that this is all part of it; this perfectly well-orchestrated plan that they came up with two years ago at the cottage. On good days, the distance between him and Ilya is minimal, mostly because Ilya is only two hours away and the drive is so quick and easy at this point that it’s practically become ingrained in his being. He could do it with his eyes closed, and it’s certainly a lot closer than Russia. But on bad days, when they’re both traveling, or worse when one is home and the other is not, Shane feels that separation like a physical ache.
He loves winning with the Metros, he loves being a part of that team (it’s all he’s ever known). He still doesn’t quite understand how Ilya is okay with being in Ottawa, from being one of the best in the league to taking constant hits and losses (except maybe he does know, he does, because Ilya chose Shane instead of winning. Because he continues to be one of the best at hockey even though he’s not playing for Boston anymore).
All of these factors, things that make sense on paper, sometimes twist between his ribs and yank on his ribcage. Unless they’re in the off-season, they’re in a constant state of moving. It’s not exactly like it was before that summer at the cottage, but it’s close. And Shane doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like missing Ilya.
He’s tired of feeling frustrated over the phone—
“Are you sure you should be moving around?”
He watches through Facetime as Ilya exits his place, locking the door behind him. “Yes, am taking walk, which is good for you.”
Shane rolls his eyes, no matter how fond he might be, “Right…when you don’t have any broken ribs. I saw that hit, it looked fucking brutal.”
Ilya scoffs, zipping up his hoodie underneath his puffer coat. It’s cold and early, the sun is casting through the trees as Ilya begins to walk down his street. Ottawa is quiet in the late morning, the only sounds Shane can hear are his boyfriend’s breathing and a series of bird calls.
“I am bruised,” Ilya corrects, his breath puffing gray in the air in front of him. He glances at the camera, his eyes locking on Shane’s. His face softens along with his voice—Shane almost can’t look at him, “I told you last night, moya lyubov', I am okay. Not anything I have not had to deal with before.”
Shane breathes out of his nose, leaning back against the headboard of the hotel he’s in. He runs a hand over his face, “Was a dirty hit.” He grumbles.
Ilya hums in agreement but doesn’t feed into Shane’s annoyances. Ilya knows other players tend not to like him and he’s never had a problem with that. He feeds off it, uses it as ammunition, it’s one of the things that pushes him to be the fucking best. One time he told Shane that he could take hits, he could handle dirty moves, that words chirped in his direction didn’t hurt him—it was just something he had accepted about being a hockey player. But Shane, distantly, doesn’t think he should have to.
There’s a soft silence between them but not uncomfortable, something that feels like they’re right next to one another, finding comfort and the feeling of home in eachother’s company. But…there’s something about watching Ilya walk, about the sun coming up behind him, touching his curls, turning them golden that just causes an uneven, painful thump in his chest.
“I miss you.” He blurts out; it’s sudden and feels far too loud in the quietness of Ilya’s surroundings.
His boyfriend’s gaze snaps back to him and he slows down his walking, almost stopping as he brings the phone to his eyelevel. Ilya opens his mouth to say something back but suddenly Shane is backtracking because he sounds just a little bit pathetic—they’ve been apart before, sometimes for years and he can’t handle a long weekend?
“I mean, it’s just—” He struggles to find something to say, “I know it’s only been a few days.” He lets out a breath of a laugh, “I sound clingy.”
“No,” Ilya interrupts, “You can…cling,” He says, “Tseplyat'sya,” In Russian this time, which just makes Shane smirk, air leaving his nose. Not quite the exact concept, but it means something nonetheless. Ilya makes sure that his eyes find Shane’s before he speaks again, “I miss you, too.”
Shane swallows over a sudden lump in his throat, nodding, his thumb tracing the outline of his phone like if he tried hard enough he’d be able to touch Ilya instead. “I’m headed straight to you when I get back, not stopping anywhere else first.”
And Ilya smiles, nodding his head before he continues on his walk.
—
The moment Shane crosses the threshold into Ilya’s place, his hands are on him. He’s barely dropped his bag or toed off his shoes, his hands are cupping both sides of his boyfriend’s face and he’s kissing him. They end up on the couch, not able to make it to the bedroom, and they don’t do much because of Ilya’s ribs (shocker that they’re worse off than he insisted) but it’s enough. It’s more than enough for Shane.
They lie on the couch afterwards, sated, completely naked. Shane’s stretched out on his back against the arm of the couch, Ilya tucked between his legs. He tugs a blanket down off the back and lays it over them both. He presses his nose and lips into Ilya’s hair, breathing him in, fingers tracing down his back and circling along moles that he can see.
Sun spills into the living room through large windows, burnt orange and soft yellow, reaching both of them. Shane draws in a deep breath, memorizing the way it touches Ilya, how it filters through his hair. It turns it golden again, except this time he can touch it. So he does. He picks his hand up and threads it through his curls, scratching at his scalp, his stomach fluttering when Ilya closes his eyes at the touch.
It makes Shane never want to be apart from him for longer than two hours of space, of travel, of atoms between them. And maybe, he decides, he won’t be again.