Chapter Text
Shane noticed it first.
In between the clacking of a spatula hitting the pan and the sound of Ilya chopping vegetables, there’s a sniffle.
It's a small, unimportant thing as far as Ilya is concerned. He’s warm in that easy, unfocused way that always comes over him in moments like this, standing shoulder to shoulder with Shane in the kitchen.
“Allergies?” Shane asks with one eyebrow quirked up, his face illuminated by the warm glow of the stove light. He’s beautiful.
Ilya sighs dreamily, the faint, clogged whirring from his sinuses lost on him as he says, “Ah, It’s nothing.”
The closeness makes Ilya a little lightheaded, pleasantly fuzzy, like his body has decided there’s nothing else it needs to pay attention to beside Shane. Every accidental brush of their arms makes the world feel a little bit softer, a little less sharp around the edges.
Ilya smiles, giddy. It’s like he’s sneaking his hand into the cookie jar before dinner, already hungry for what's next. He sets the knife aside and slides up behind Shane, his fingers already inching beneath the fabric of his husband’s button down.
A little sugar won't spoil dinner.
Shane freezes mid-stir, gasping, “Your hands are really hot.”
Ilya hums, unfazed. “Are they?” He presses closer, fingers climbing higher. “Just hot for you.”
Shane squirms, easy as he is, and presses back into his husband, his ass rubbing at Ilya’s crotch. At the first touch of his semi, Shane reaches for the pot lid and turns off the burner.
“Yes,” he huffs, desperate. Ready. Perfect. Just as Ilya’s palms find their target, Shane’s pillowy chest, he sniffles again.
Shane stiffens. He reaches for Ilya’s hands, tightens his fingers around Ilya’s knuckles as they knead his pecs. “Hmmm…” Shane murmurs. He’s so warm, so pliable. And he’s so gentle as he pulls Ilya’s hands off of him. Before he can ask what’s happening, Shane is guiding him away from the stove, his grip soft but firm on his wrists.
“Go wash your hands and sit down,” Shane says, calm but resolute. “I’ll finish dinner.”
Ilya pouts but lets himself be easily steered towards the sink, the warmth of Shane still radiating off him but now tinged with… Concern? He shrugs it off, still floating in that fuzzy, lightheaded headspace, but he can’t help noticing the kitchen feels slightly different, as if the air has shifted around them. He’s pretty sure he's been kicked out. It wouldn't be the first time.
Ilya sits at the counter, watching as Shane turns the burner back on. He mourns the space between them, feeling a little lonely. He sulks, and props his elbow up on the counter to rest his chin. The coolness of the granite sends a chill down his spine.
He doesn’t understand why Shane rejected him. Nasty eggplant pasta is more interesting than his sexy, horny husband? Maybe it was too stuffy by the stove. He shrugs to himself. A small voice in the back of his head whispers the quiet part: Too clingy. Ilya frowns. And sniffles.
Minutes pass.
Ilya traces patterns on the counter with his finger, watching Shane move around the kitchen. So smooth and fast. Like when he skates. He glides across the ice. Every turn is perfect, every stop is so easy for him. Hockey too, he’s so good at hockey, but not just hockey. Cooking and grocery lists, and sorting the laundry, and all the little things Ilya barely notices until Shane does them.
Everything Shane does is just… so good, and Ilya’s head feels heavy, heavier than it should. His arms are cool on the counter, and the world feels fuzzy. Like he’s floating. Shane moves to the pantry, quick, so fast, it’s almost magic. Ilya’s eyes flutter shut. But he wants to keep watching, wants to memorize it all, every motion, every perfect thing Shane does, and his head sinks a little, and everything is warm, soft, and Ilya feels himself slipping, slipping, just a little…
A gentle shake on his shoulder pulls him out of his daze.
“Ilya—Here,” Shane whispers, holding a tissue out in front of him. Ilya sniffles again, blinking up at his husband. He reaches for the tissue, a smile tugging at his lips.
“Dinner’s ready,” Shane adds quietly, sweetly, as he rubs circles into Ilya’s shoulders. His tone makes Ilya’s chest ache just a little. His face heats a bit warmer, impossibly so.
Ilya rides that pleasant warm buzz into dinner, hot off Shane's affections. He’s floaty and happy as he drifts into the dining room, movements loose and unhurried like he’s still being carried there by Shane’s hands.
The room opens up around him.
Too big, really.
A long table stretches through the center, meant for hosting and entertaining drunk teammates, for dinners that need extra chairs and loud voices and too much beer. Not for nights like this, for just the two of them. But Shane sets it like it’s the smallest table on Earth.
Ilya slides into his chair and admires Shane’s work.
Their plates are pulled close together at one end. Candles lit, silverware set, water poured in the exact Boston cup Ilya uses every night. He’s oddly sentimental about it but neither he or Shane question it. Everything on the table is neat and intentional, like Shane prepared it slowly and carefully, thinking about Ilya while he did.
The sight makes Ilya happy. He’s doted on, cared for in a way once unknown to him. Dinners with his father and brother were far and few between even before his father… changed. More often than not, they’d all branch off with their plates, retreating to separate rooms, the act of eating reduced to something solitary and silent. With Shane, it’s completely different. Even if they’re not eating the same meal, Shane with some health-conscious pre-prepared diet-friendly blah blah blah and Ilya with a burger, they eat by each other all the same.
Ilya’s heard of couples complaining about hearing each other chew, about the noises being icky and ruining the romance. He doesn’t understand it. He loves hearing Shane chew, the way he eats slowly and meticulously like he’s really contemplating every bite. He loves hearing that pleased little sigh when Shane realizes his bizarre cooking concoction he's gotten off of some obscure internet page actually tastes good. And they’re usually sat so close that sometimes Ilya will get the chance to agree when he licks the crumbs off Shane’s lips.
Tonight, he plans to do the same.
But with that thought, he inevitably notices something’s a bit off.
Shane sits down but not quite as close as usual. Still near and still within reach, but there’s a sliver of space between their chairs that isn’t normally there. A gap Ilya could fit his knee into if he wanted. He doesn’t remember Shane ever doing that. They always end up touching somehow. Knees knocking, elbows bumped up against each other, even at this ridiculous table that seems determined to keep them apart.
Ilya glances up. Shane’s already focused on his plate, poking absently at his food. Is probably nothing, he reasons.
The waft of steam distracts him as he draws his eyes back to the bowl of eggplant noodles. Eggplant that somehow manages to look delicious under the soft overhead light. The noodles are glossy and Ilya can’t comprehend how they could be so glossy when Shane curses cooking oil like it’s personally wronged him. He doesn’t try to understand, all he knows is that it looks incredible. There might even be butter in it. Shane really went all out.
Without thinking, he leans in, expecting the smell to hit him. Garlic and spices, something.
There’s… very little.
He pauses, frowns slightly, leans closer just in case he missed it. The scent doesn’t come rushing in. Just a dull impression. It’s strange. It doesn’t stop him from taking a bite.
Ilya digs into the eggplant pasta, still a disgrace to all pastas no matter how nice it looks, with an eagerness of a man suddenly starving. It’s good, so good, even if the taste feels muted and thinner than it should be. That doesn’t stop him either. He mainly just focuses on enjoying the texture. Sometimes it’s just nice to have something to chew on.
“Feeling okay?” Shane asks, fork hovering halfway to his mouth, his eyebrows creased.
“Huh? Da, Yes.” He swallows and takes another bite. “I feel good.” Ilya says around a mouthful of whole wheat noodles. “Great actually,” He gasps mid-bite, a little breathless, “Could be even greater if noodles were real. I can only dream. But it’s as good as vegetable pasta can be.”
Shane scoffs, lips twitching like he’s fighting a smile. “Shut up, you seem to be eating it just fine.”
“Because you did good,” Ilya says immediately, undeterred. So what if he can’t taste it? He stabs another forkful and eats it with exaggerated seriousness. “Very good.”
Shane ducks his head. He nudges his plate an inch to the side, then back again, like he can’t decide what to do with his hands. “It’s fine. I mean…” He clears his throat. “I just… followed the recipe.” He’ll never learn how to take a compliment.
“Mhm.” Ilya hums, eyes flicking to the table. “And you set candles?”
Shane’s ears go pink almost instantly. He reaches for his water, takes a sip, then sets it down a little too carefully. “They were already out.”
“And my cup?” Ilya asks lightly, rubbing the fading logo with his thumb.
Shane shrugs, but the corner of his mouth betrays him, tugging upward despite his best effort. “You always use that one.”
Something warm unfurls in Ilya’s chest. He takes another bite, slower now. “I like that you always do this,” he says, gentler without quite meaning to be.
“Do what?” Shane asks, still focused very intently on his plate.
“This,” Ilya says, gesturing vaguely between them: the plates pulled close, the candlelight, the careful symmetry. “Makes it feel like it’s just us, like it matters. Thank you.”
Shane presses his lips together, fighting a smile that’s clearly winning. He gives a tiny shake of his head, embarrassed and pleased all at once. “Just eat before it gets cold.”
“Of course,” Ilya says easily, warmth buzzing through him. “I would never take a meal from my darling housewife for granted.”
The words are light, tossed off with a grin, and already buried under another bite.
Shane freezes just for a second. He clears his throat and takes a very deliberate sip of water, eyes fixed anywhere except Ilya. Even after all this time, he’s still weak to a bit of teasing.
“Don’t—” Shane starts, then stops, lips pressing together like he’s trying not to smile. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” Ilya tilts his head, openly amused. “You cook. You fuss. You set table like you’re in magazine.” He gestures loosely at the candles. “Very domestic. Very wifely, even.”
Shane lets out a quiet, helpless laugh through his nose, shoulders hunching in just a little. “That doesn’t— that’s not—” He rubs his thumb along the handle of his fork, still not looking up. “I just wanted it to be nice.”
It’s soft. Like it slipped out by accident.
The warmth in Ilya spreads, slow and heavy, settling right behind his ribs.
“Well,” he says, gentler now, “you succeeded.”
Shane risks a glance up at that, clearly against his will. His smile is small but bright, like it’s trying to behave and failing anyway. He looks happy. And a bit aroused.
Ilya feels the edge of it then, the point where this stops being harmless dinner banter and turns into something else. Something he probably shouldn’t be doing at the table, with plates still warm and candles burning between them. He knows he should ease off. He knows exactly what button he’s pressing.
He wants to press it harder anyway.
Because Shane is squirming just a little. Because that glow is unmistakable. Because Ilya likes knowing he can do that to him easily. with just a few words shared across a quiet dinner table.
“Who could’ve predicted that boring Shane Hollander would become my perfect little doting housewife who I love so so much.”
Shane’s reaction is immediate. His face lights up first, bright and unmistakable, pleasure flashing so quickly it barely has time to exist before he smothers it. His ears go pink, his cheeks too through a layer of his freckles. His shoulders pull back like he’s bracing himself.
Then he’s on the defense.
“If anyone’s the wife, that’s you,” Shane blurts, a little too fast, a little too loud. “Don’t forget, I’m the breadwinner here—”
“Bread?” Ilya cuts in instantly. “You? Bread?”
“Oh, here we go—”
“Bread, he says?” Ilya rushes out, nearly choking on a noodle to get the words out. “No, no, no. That can’t be right. Mr. Keto wouldn’t dare get close to anything with bread in it.” He stabs a piece of eggplant, lifting it triumphantly. “Case of point.”
“Case in point,” Shane corrects.
“Yes! Yes. Case in point.” Ilya laughs harder, tries to clear his throat when something feels stuck, but Shane is flushing now, lips turned upwards despite himself, and Ilya can’t stop. Shane’s too cute. Cute and pretty with his teeth peeking out from behind those delicate lips. He bites at them before revealing a full smile.
But his smile disappears in an instant when a harsh cough rips from Ilya’s chest. It’s sudden and violent. Ilya starts making god awful noises, his cough wet, raw, and uncontrollable. His fork slips from his hand, clattering to the floor with a distinct metallic ring that feels too loud in the wide room.
He bends forward, coughing, his throat burning like it won't quite open all the way.
Shane jumps to his feet, “No,” Ilya hacks in between breaths, “No, sit. I’m fine! I’m fine.”
Shane lowers himself back into his chair like he could still spring up on a moment's notice, a deep crease forming in between his eyebrows, “You’re kidding, right? You’re obviously not fine.”
“Was just a noodle down the wrong pipe.” Ilya insists, waving him off, even as pressure builds behind his eyes. He stops Shane from getting up to grab another fork and simply picks up his off the ground and wipes it clean like nothing happened.
“Uh-huh…” Shane mutters, poking at his own pasta while he steals glances at Ilya. He reaches for his drink, straw clicking softly as he absently gnaws on it, eyes flickering up to Ilya and back down again.
Silence stretches.
Thirty seconds go by.
Thirty seconds that feel like an eternity.
Then Shane blurts, “I can literally hear you struggling to breathe and your nose is running. It’s— snots gonna drip into your food.”
Oh. Shit. Ilya quickly wipes at his nose, shaking his head. “Eggplant is spicy.”
Shane frowns, the straw slipping from his mouth and bouncing back into the glass. “It's not spicy at all.”
“Okie,” Ilya sniffles again, a stubborn smile still in place. “We disagree then.” He takes another bite.
Shane sits still for as long as he can. He lasts maybe ten seconds, three longer than he does when he cums. Impressive, really, that he holds out so long.
Ilya watches it happen: the way Shane’s shoulders go rigid, the way he stops pretending he’s not staring. His foot taps against the hardwood once. Twice. Thrice. Like a countdown Ilya didn’t know he was starting. Then Shane’s up. He closes the distance in one stride with a palm pressed flat to Ilya’s forehead.
He exhales, low and unhappy. “Yeah. You’re really hot.”
Ilya tilts his head up into the touch, a lazy smile already forming. “I know I am.” He just can’t help it. Shane doesn’t smile back.
“You’re definitely—” He begins.
“No,” Ilya says quickly, “Don’t say it—”
“Sick,” Shane finishes, his voice resigned.
The word hits heavier than Ilya expects. He knows what’s coming next.
But—
“The game,” they say together.
Ottawa vs. Montreal.
Shane’s face falls and his body stiffens. He takes a small step back.
“Fuckkk…” Ilya groans, coughing, waving it off. “No. Not sick. Maybe… tired? Pre-game jitters? Russians don’t get sick, you know this. When was the last time I got sick? Can’t remember. Do you? Doubt it, because I never have.”
Shane doesn’t answer at first. Just watches, quiet and his expression unreadable. His eyes stay on Ilya, calm, unblinking. He doesn’t bother.
“I—okay, maybe I am a little… sniffly,” Ilya admits, forcing a chuckle, trying to keep the tone light.
Shane leans back just a fraction, hands folded and his voice quiet and clipped. “A little is enough to be dangerous. What if you’re too sick to focus and somehow get injured?”
What? ‘S a bit extreme.
Ilya laughs, a little too high, trying to keep things casual. “Shane. C’mon, just a cold, really. I’ll shake it off. Totally fine.”
Shane tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. Teasing time is clearly over. He gives Ilya nothing to work with and stays just watching, thinking. Silence stretches.
“I… okay, yeah, fine,” Ilya says finally, shoulders slumping, voice low. “I’m too sick. Got it. Happy now? Ughhhh…”
His whines are punctuated by a sudden cough. And then he can’t help but let out a helpless snotty sniffle. Tiny, pathetic. The final, undeniable nail in the coffin. He slumps against his chair, conceding defeat before Shane even leaves the room. Okay, Yeah. This is bad.
By the time Shane returns with a decongestant, Ilya has long accepted he won’t be playing on Saturday. He doesn’t say it out loud. He just lets the thought settle, heavy and disappointing.
God, this sucks.
And somehow, it gets worse.
Shane presents the decongestant, hand outstretched. Ilya reaches for it, only for Shane to pull back.
“No,” Shane says, voice firm. “Hold out your hand. I’ll drop it in your palm.”
Ilya blinks. He can’t believe it.
“Oh my god, Hollander.” He laughs, covering his mouth. “You’re so dramatic!”
Shane glares at him, shaking the pills in his palm. They rattle mockingly. “Take them. Seriously. I can’t touch your hand, I’ll catch it.”
“Nope.”
“C’mon, Jackie said these would—“
“Don’t care what Jackie says—“
“Take them!”
“Can’t make me!” Ilya grins, already feeling antsy, already warming up. For what? Who knows.
“Not taking anything actually. Not unless you pop them right into my sickly mouth!”
“Rozanov.”
“Hollander.” Ilya mimics, monotoned.
“Ilya.”
“Shane.”
Shane must know what’s coming.
“No, Ilya!” He wags an accusing finger.
“Shane…”
“Ilya, Don't you do it!” Both of his hands come up defensively.
Something gives it away, a twitch in Ilya’s stance or the widening of his pupils, he doesn’t know. But Shane moves.
Ilya charges, chair legs screeching as he pushes too fast, hands grabbing at empty air where Shane’s sleeve was a second ago. His fork clatters once again, long forgotten this time as Ilya barrels forward, laughing, “Oh no you don’t!”
Shane ducks into the open space of the living room.
“Gonna cough all over you, lyubimyy!” Ilya yells, coughing deliberately hard, laying it on thick. But the performance backfires immediately. The cough turns real, guttural and scraping as he rasps, “I’m gonna get you!”
“No!!!” Shane yelps, already grinning.
He clears the couch in a single, easy motion, his bare feet skidding only slightly on the rug before he recovers. He’s obnoxiously coordinated. Good at everything, Ilya remembers. Shane’s long hair bounces loose around his shoulders, catching the light as Ilya chases. “We both can’t get sick!! Don’t!” He excitedly shouts, swiveling just out of reach as he puffs out little laughs, giddy and alive in the moment.
“Don’t touch me!”
The space suddenly feels enormous.
The long dining table behind them, the couch, the lamps, the stupidly expensive open floor plan that gives Shane room to escape. Ilya gives chase, momentum carrying him forward but everything feels off. Like his body is half a second behind his brain. Like he’s jetlagged, limbs heavy, balance slightly wrong.
He clips the corner of the table with his hip. The jolt rattles him. A lamp wobbles violently, shade bobbling, and Shane shouts, “Grab it!” as Ilya catches the lamp before it hits the ground.
“Nice!”
They pause, staring at each other, thankful and relieved, until Shane’s off again.
Shane laughs mid-sprint, high off competing, even with something as stupid as this.
That sound hits Ilya square in the chest. God, he loves this part. Loves the determination. Loves how beautiful Shane looks when he’s like this: carefree, fluid, moving like it’s second nature. Like he’s on the ice.
Ilya surges forward anyway, fingers brushing fabric—
Shane twists, button-down slipping right through Ilya’s grasp like water. The soft cotton slides between his fingers, gone before he can close his hand.
Almost.
“Fuck,” Ilya mutters, breath coming too fast. He feels another cough working its way up his sore throat.
He knows Shane is faster. Always has been. He has better edge work, better acceleration. Ilya’s never expected to win these chases, countless timed sprints have proven that already.
But almost still hurts. He grits his teeth, suppressing an erupting cough the best he can to focus on Shane.
Again. Ilya lunges, stretching too far, body sluggish. Shane jumps the coffee table this time, landing clean, while Ilya stumbles, palms slapping down on cool glass to steady himself. His head swims. His lungs burn. His nose drips again, traitorously.
“No touching!” Shane calls, laughing, hair bouncing as he shakes his head no.
Ilya laughs too but the sound rings a little hollow. There’s a tiny pang beneath it, something he doesn’t quite want to name. He pushes forward anyway, this time not aiming for Shane’s hands, or his shirt.
He leans in for a kiss, His lips perked. To fix this feeling. Just a kiss.
Shane turns away instantly, “That obviously includes kisses,” He says, still smiling but firmer now. “No kisses!”
Ilya’s grin falters just a fraction. He knows he’s being childish. Knows Shane is just being like this for the sake of the game, for their team. Still, he can’t quite shake the flutter of insecurity curling in his belly. The rules keep stacking up.
Shane backs away and then bolts again, disappearing down the hall and slamming the bathroom door shut. The lock clicks loud and final. “You can’t get me!” He says, breathless. He’s teasing, being cute. It’s fun. Ilya knows this. He does.
“Ref! Unfair advantage!” Ilya huffs, stuck somewhere between moping and laughing as he jogs, slower now, up to the door. “I’m sick, Is not fair!” He jiggles the handle for longer than necessary as Shane giggles. After too many failed attempts, he gives up and presses his forehead against the cool wood of the door, willing it open with his fevered brain.
“Sick or not,” Shane chirps, “I’m faster than you. Admit it and I’ll come out.”
“Okay,” Ilya says too fast. He heaves, “Okay, Shane. I admit it. Come out now.” He coughs, head spinning.
He hears his own voice and hates how it sounds.
There’s a pause.
Maybe Shane hates it too.
When Shane speaks again, his voice is muffled, quiet. Careful. “Take the decongestant and I’ll come out.”
“I will, I was always going to—”
“Promise?”
“Yeah, Yeah, Promise. Come out and watch me do it—”
“But no kissing.” His tone clipped, “I’m serious, Ilya. Kiss me and I'll actually be mad.”
Ilya’s stomach hurts.
The chase doesn't feel so fun anymore.
If being too sick to play on Saturday is the penalty issued, then waking up to Shane gone, his side of the bed cold, is sitting in the box as the rest of the game goes on without him.
Ilya’s fingers brush against the empty sheets where Shane should be. He stretches weakly further toward Shane’s side as if to fill that empty space, but the effort only reminds him how sluggish he feels. His limbs are heavy, his head is pounding, and every joint screams in protest. The pile of blankets on him certainly doesn’t help with his attempt at moving.
Shane must have tucked him in deeper overnight. The extra layers are folded neatly and methodically the way Shane does everything in his life. He made sure every single one of Ilya’s extremities were properly bundled. Even his hairy toes now have fuzzy socks on them. Imagining Shane in the dead of night trying to wrestle socks onto his ticklish feet, with Ilya no doubt trying to squirm away, makes Ilya smile. And the vision is a small comfort when faced with the icy chill of the empty sheets beside him.
Shane’s probably been awake for a while. For hours, even. He might have already gone on a run, already ate breakfast, might even be halfway through his routine. He’s had a quiet morning alone without the anxiety of having Ilya hang off his every move. Was probably peaceful. It makes him wonder if Shane misses the days of them being apart constantly. What’s the phrase: distance makes the heart go stronger? Somber… Fonder? Whatever. Ilya hates whoever came up with that crap.
A groan escapes his throat as he tries to lift himself upright, every motion heavy. The floor feels impossibly cold under his feet when he finally swings his legs over the edge of the bed.
It’s no big deal, no biggie. Shane always wakes up first. Would be weirder if he wasn’t already up. ‘s normal. Typical. But today it feels like a reminder that practice, the team, Shane, can exist perfectly fine without him. The no new notifications on his phone seems to prove that. He stares at the screen, thumb hovering, as if something might appear if he waits long enough. It doesn’t.
The screen stays blank.
Right, of course. So everyone’s just Super Totally Cool with him missing the game? Really?
Maybe it’s a good thing the team can survive without him. Isn’t being a good captain also about how the team performs without him too? That’s the point of leadership, right?
So they don’t need him hovering. Don’t need him pushing through sickness, barking orders, holding the line. Maybe everyone’s already adjusted, slid neatly into place without him. Ever since Shane joined the team, things have been easier, that's undeniable.
Ilya remembers what games were like for the Centaurs before Shane. Half-filled stands even on a good night, the crowd buzzing with polite interest at best, more often just yawning through another forgettable weekend. Wins were rare and, on the rare chance they did happen, they felt lucky, accidental almost, as if the puck had simply landed in the net by mistake. Momentum never stuck, it was a fragile thing that evaporated the second anyone looked away. Which was very often because Troy’s plays were so cringeworthy Ilya couldn’t bring himself to watch half the time.
One night, after a particularly rough practice, Ilya had complained, muttering about missed passes and sloppy defense, about how hopelessly and utterly bad they were. Shane had just shrugged, leaning back with his arms crossed, and said, casually, “Well… you know the team sucks. What do you expect? You joined a losing team.”
Ilya had gotten a bit defensive and snappy after that. After all, he’d joined the Centaurs to be closer to Shane, to shrink the distance between them to an hour instead of endless long-distance days. He’d left other teams, other opportunities, other moments of glory behind because he wanted to be near Shane. To build something together. And Shane’s offhand comment made him feel… small. Like all the sacrifices, all the effort he’d put in, barely mattered. Fuck, being on a losing team was one thing but being a loser was another entirely.
The team had been… fine. Decent enough. Forgettable.
But then Shane shows up, and suddenly, the energy is just different. The stands fill. Wins feel earned and meaningful, not accidents. People talk about them and their reputation shifts from the team that’s “an easy win” to an actual real fight. And Ilya notices, painfully aware that he’s been trying for years to do the same and he just couldn’t make it happen. Shane did. Just by being there. Just by existing in the right place at the right time. And Ilya didn’t.
Ilya exhales slowly, eyes still on the blank screen. Not even Luca or Troy messaged him. And they idolize him.
He thinks of Luca, all wide-eyed enthusiasm and nervous energy, looking at him like he can do no wrong. Something worth modeling yourself after. Thinks of Troy too, always pumped up and eager, buying every whatever formulaic “We’re totally gonna fuckin’ win” speech Ilya gives before games he’s almost certain they’re going to lose.
What if they’ve finally realized they were just wrong?
Maybe it’s finally clicked that they’re idolizing a version of him that doesn’t really exist anymore? Or worse—never did? Just a name, a past, a highlight reel they weren’t around for. He's got a reputation doing all the heavy lifting while the present quietly slips away. The idea creeps in, unwelcome but stubborn: maybe this is just what it looks like when you’ve passed your prime.
He thinks, stupidly, of his knee. The left one. The way it clicks now. Shane sometimes giggles when it does.
But Ilya used to be the glue when he was with the Boston Raiders. He was the guy everyone looked to when things went sideways. A winner, that’s for damn sure. There was no question about it. He’s not exactly sure who he is now with the Centaurs. Certainly not that guy anymore.
Especially now that there’s Shane. Perfect Shane. Steady. Unshakeable. The kind of player who makes everyone around him better just by being there. And it’s why Ilya loves him. He’s everything the NHL wants in a captain. He’s everything Ilya wants in a husband. But that leaves one ugly question. What’s left for Ilya?
Maybe the team doesn’t feel his absence because they don’t have to. Maybe they’ve already adjusted, the adjustment easier than it should’ve been.
He flips the phone face-down onto the nightstand with a sharp slap, more force than necessary.
So this is it, then. This is what being old feels like. Not a dramatic fall. Just… fading relevance, becoming optional. A has-been.
He sits there, shoulders slumped, eyes unfocused. If he didn’t push himself back in, if he stopped forcing his place at the center, would anything really change?
How long would it take for anyone to notice the difference? If he disappeared?
For Shane to notice?
If he—
“Ilya? You up?”
“Da,” he croaks, voice rough and small.
He gets to his feet slowly and shuffles toward the kitchen, dragging himself along, expecting to find Shane moving on with his day while Ilya lingers in self pity.
But when he steps in, Shane’s attention is immediately on him. He hastily herds Ilya to his usual spot at the counter where a warm cup of tea steams gently. “No coffee today, alright? It’ll make you jittery,” Shane says softly, glancing up as he sets some medicine down next to it. The pills roll, gently tapping into a water bottle waiting next to a perfectly arranged and prepared plate of bacon and eggs.
Ilya halts in front of the chair, it has one of his favorite blankets already draped over it. With his gaze locked onto the little set-up, he feels… guilty. He’s stupid. So, so stupid, for thinking— whatever he had been thinking— of Shane, his husband. He’d be so mad if he knew. How could you think so little of me?
Ilya exhales, brushing his hand along the counter, and mouths sorry. He’s trying to stop thinking like that. He really is. Being so insecure at this age is humiliating. He’s been through so much and just one day of a stuffy nose is all it takes for a grown man to spiral like a fucking teenager? He has to be better. He wants to be the captain he’s supposed to be, to be a person Troy and Luca can actually look up to, and a partner Shane actually deserves.
Quietly, he sinks into the chair.
He eats slowly, deliberately, each bite of Shane’s breakfast both comforting and cruelly reminding him that Shane had thought of him even while he was curled up, barely moving, barely present. The warm tea slips down his throat, easing some of the soreness there. The pills waiting beside him seem to promise more than just relief. They’re a tangible sign that someone cares, that someone is thinking about him when he can’t even think about himself. He swallows them with a gulp of water. With a blanket tucked around his shoulders, he leans back, pressing against the softness. His limbs, still sluggish, seem lighter now, his foggy head clearing just a touch.
He swallows, and the quiet happiness in the room hits him in a wave.
He looks up at Shane, who’s busy tidying the counter but still glances over with a gentle smile. Ilya’s heart can’t contain itself. ‘I love you,” he says. Shane purses his lips, sending a little air kiss in Ilya’s direction. It’s fucking adorable. Overwhelmed, Ilya reaches, fingers curling toward Shane’s wrist, seeking that small, perfect warmth. Maybe even looking for forgiveness for the earlier thoughts Shane will never know about.
Shane stiffens and steps back just enough that Ilya’s fingers brush air.
The motion hits Ilya like a puck to the neck. His mind flashes back to yesterday: the chase, the “no touching,” the frustration of being kept at arm’s length while he was still trying to feel close. The memory mixes with the ache of his sickness, the heavy blankets, the warmth of breakfast. It all amplifies the sting. He frowns.
“Again on this ‘no touching’ bullshit?” Ilya blurts, voice tight with frustration. He reaches once more for Shane’s wrist. Shane dodges it again.
“Fuck. You’re so boring.” It comes out meaner than he intends it to.
Shane freezes, eyes wide for a split second, before schooling his expression to a normal, playful glare. “Asshole.” He scoffs, shakes his head, and then adds, “It's not like this is fun for me either.” His tone is firm. “If we’re both sick, who’s going to win the game on Saturday?”
“Uh, dunno, maybe any of the other fucking players? Troy? Luca? Zane?”
“Troy? Yeah?”
“I said many names—”
“Said his first. Well, I texted the team last night, right, told them you’re sick, yeah?”
“Don’t know where you’re going with this—”
“Luca said he hopes you get better by the way. So did Wyatt. Troy didn’t say anything back just fyi—”
“I said many names! Many team names!”
“Speaking of! I wonder how our team would feel if not just one—but two—of their star players couldn’t play against Montreal, just because someone wanted to cuddle.”
“Fine!” Ilya snaps, voice sharp enough to startle himself. “Forget it!”
He stands abruptly, shoving the blanket off his shoulders, and marches over to the couch. He flops down with an overstated plop, deliberately sitting at the far end of it, the one farthest from Shane. It’s his way of saying, you want space? For the heart to grow softer? Here! Have it.
He crosses his arms over his chest, posture rigid, eyes glaring at the TV though the screen barely registers. He catches Shane in his peripheral, mouth open like he might say something, but Ilya simply reaches for the remote and ups the volume until he walks away.
Some stupid movie is playing about some stupid shit. Explosions. Shouting. Whatever. Ilya pokes at the remote obnoxiously, flipping through different channels he doesn’t care about. He pretends to be completely absorbed in the mindless flicker of the TV for a bit until he dares a few glances in Shane’s direction. His chest tightens a little every time Shane passes a doorway. The sound of his steps on the hardwood is barely noticeable over the TV but it’s practically all Ilya can focus on. Fuck.
He jacks up the volume higher and flips through channels with deliberate, exaggerated loud clicks, intentionally making the noises obnoxious. To drown out Shane’s footsteps. The TV sounds make his pounding pressure-induced headache worse but he endures it.
Shane passes the living room carrying a laundry basket, moving with the same maddening calm as always. Ilya’s heart practically rings itself out. A minute later, Shane passes back the other way. Bare feet on hardwood. Ilya hates that he can track him by sound alone.
He turns the volume up another notch.
The washer starts somewhere down the hall, a low mechanical churn.
Higher again, til its whirring blends in with explosions and gunshots and random screaming and news headlines. He clicks through the channels louder, faster, til his ears ring. He wants Shane to snap, to roll his eyes, to finally call him out for being irritating. He knows he’s being ridiculous. Say something. Say something, Ilya thinks, clicking the volume up more and more. Yell at me.
But Shane doesn’t. Not a single word. He’s as calm as ever as he continues on with chores.
Ilya frowns. Really? Nothing? He pokes at the remote again, even louder, slamming through channels with exaggerated impatience. Still nothing. Shane doesn’t flinch when he passes by the couch. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t acknowledge it. It’s too easy. Shane moving on with his day like this, like Ilya isn’t even here, like practice and laundry and life don’t need him at all. Maybe he was right this morning.
He pushes his tongue against an implant. Just enough to feel it throb.
Ilya pulls out the big guns. He tries playing Shane’s documentary on max volume, knowing it makes him cringe to hear his own voice. The screen explodes with Shane’s voice, crisp and clear, echoing off the walls. Too loud. Ilya winces outright this time, pain flaring hot behind his temples. His stomach rolls a little. He squeezes his eyes shut for half a second. Still, he doesn’t turn it down. The noise hurts. He knows it does. That almost feels like the point.
Normally, this is where Shane would cringe, come stomping over all red like a ripe tomato to say something. Anything.
The documentary runs. And runs.
“I love my routine,” on-screen Shane says, voice loud enough to blow out the TV speaker. “It keeps me sane when life tries to get me down.”
Ilya clenches his jaw harder, pain shooting through his molar.
The washer stops.
“Uh-huh, yeah, the cottage for me is perfect.” The t of ‘perfect’ buzzes, broken. “It’s quiet.”
Ilya presses down til it hurts, painful enough to make his eyes water. He welcomes it.
The dryer kicks on with a heavy thump, barely audible.
Shane crosses the living room again, this time with folded laundry tucked against his side. He doesn’t look at the TV. Or Ilya. Just moves through the space like the noise doesn’t exist.
“Being alone in my element, no distractions, no noise…it’s really nice. Peaceful.”
Ilya drops the remote onto the couch with a thud almost entirely drowned out by the TV and turns fully towards Shane.
He stares.
Openly and Intentionally. Chin tipped up, eyes locked on Shane’s back as if sheer force of will might make him crack. He waits for the sigh. The eye roll. The final moment he says, “Ilya, You’re such a fucking toddler. Quit it.” He counts the seconds in his head. One. Two. Three. Thirteen. Twenty four. Thirty. Really?
Shane just moves throughout the kitchen with the same calmness as before, unfazed by the noise and by his own voice blasting from the TV. He doesn’t look annoyed or upset. If anything, he looks… lost in thought.
“Only thing that sucks is the pests, y’know?
Then Ilya notices what Shane’s holding. A small white container. Clorox wipes.
“Bugs. Just a part of the outdoors. Still, it's crazy how loud the crickets can get.”
Shane pulls a wipe free with a soft shhk and turns towards the counter, the exact spot where Ilya had been sitting for breakfast, and begins wiping it down carefully.
“I’m pretty good at getting rid of them though.”
Something twists in Ilya’s stomach. A sudden, humiliating flare of embarrassment. He suddenly becomes painfully aware of himself: the way his fever-warm skin glistens along his oily clogged pores, the lingering smell of sweat and stale gym clothes and that he’s sat in day-two boxers, clinging to him in all the wrong ways. His curly hair becomes straight as it sticks damp to his forehead, and every movement seems to amplify the stink he’s been actively trying to ignore.
“Seriously?” The word snaps out of him, hoarse and incredulous, cutting clean through the documentary’s audio.
Shane finally looks at him.
It’s the first time in an hour.
“Dead serious,” he says flatly, and goes back to wiping.
Ilya leans back into the couch, head throbbing, arms crossing tighter over his chest. He stares at the TV without seeing it, ears ringing, jaw clenched so hard he swears he feels the implant move. The sound feels unbearable now, but turning it down would feel like losing.
The credits roll.
He stays mad.
Stays sick.
And watches Shane move through the house, room to room, close enough to hover, to always be in view, but never enough to touch.
…
Eventually, the noise dies.
Ilya doesn’t slam the TV off or announce his surrender. He just… stops. The next autoplay preview starts and he lets it go for just a few small seconds before finally reaching for the remote. His head is throbbing, his throat’s raw, and his whole body sags with the weight of the day. His anger has nowhere left to go. He's just tired.
Click.
The living room falls into a hush so sudden it rings. The absence of sound is almost as loud as the TV had been. Ilya exhales, long and shaky, and lets his head fall back against the couch. His eyes burn. He keeps them closed.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then there’s that soft pad of bare feet on hardwood.
Ilya doesn’t look right away. He knows better than to have hope. But the sound stops, too close. Close enough that he can feel him there, a presence at his side. It makes his chest ache before he even opens his eyes. He cracks one eye open, slowly.
Shane is standing right next to the couch, his pink lips pursed.
Shane’s hands hang uselessly at his sides, shoulders slightly rounded. It's clear he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. His gaze isn’t on Ilya at first, it’s fixed on the empty space on the couch. The cushion with a permanent indent in it. The exact spot where they cuddle up close every night, sometimes with intent and sometimes not. It doesn’t always have to be about anything going anywhere. It’s nice when it does but most of the time Ilya just wants to feel close, skin to skin like a newborn baby. And that can come out in weird ways like sneaking his fingers through Shane’s pant hole til the elastic loosens and the stitches rip to accommodate his whole forearm, snug and warm against a hairy thigh. If Ilya could fit his whole body in there he would, he likes to think Shane would let him.
Or sometimes it's Ilya shoving a hand down Shane’s pants, hearing him gasp, only for Ilya to stop just above Shane’s dick to twirl fingers in his pubes instead. Ilya likes to pull the hairs between his fingertips, mentally noting if Shane trimmed them recently by how long they pull. Whether he has or not doesn’t matter, it’s just one of those things that Ilya wants to know. He wants to know everything about Shane. How many wisdom teeth he has, what grade he got on his algebra homework in school, what flavor of toothpaste he likes, how many freckles are on the back of his left shoulder, when was the last time he saw a rainbow, and… when was the last time he trimmed his pubes?
Ilya won’t find out today because Shane insists on just helplessly looking at their spot like a hurt puppy.
The sight knocks the last of Ilya’s defenses clean out of him. The tantrum is gone. The bitterness drains out of him in seconds. He swallows, throat tight, and shifts just enough to make room. The movement is obvious. An invitation.
Shane notices. His jaw tightens. He looks at Ilya then, really looks at him, eyes warm and pained and stubborn all at once.
“Please,” Ilya says quietly, voice stripped down to the truth of it. “You’re not gonna get sick just by sitting next to me.”
He doesn’t move closer but doesn’t move away either.
“I could though,” Shane says, his eyebrows drawn taut.
The words are firm, but his face betrays him. His eyes linger on the couch again, then on Ilya, like he’s arguing with himself in real time. Like denying this hurts him almost as much as it hurts Ilya.
Silence stretches between them, heavy and intimate in a way that feels crueler than shouting ever did.
Shane stays standing.
And Ilya, sick and exhausted, misses him so badly it feels like a physical ache.
The rest of the day is just as awful.
Ilya gets worse. He’s suddenly overtaken by chills. The kind that crawls up his spine and settles there, teeth-chattering and all. One minute he’s burning up and the next he’s shivering. He curls in on himself on the couch, blanket pulled up to his neck, throat raw and head swimming as he recounts every mistake he made that day.
Shane notices the chills immediately. He’s there in seconds with a warm towel, the steam still coming off it as he carefully presses it to Ilya’s forehead. The touch is gentle. But Shane is wearing gloves. The sight of them is truly jarring.
Ilya recoils before he can stop himself, eyes flicking down to Shane’s hands. The gloves crinkle softly as Shane adjusts the towel, careful not to touch skin. Ilya’s stomach turns. It makes sense Shane doesn’t want to directly touch sweat-damp, oily hair and clammy skin. He wouldn’t either. He probably looks awful.
He leans away.
“I just finished cleaning,” Shane says quickly, like he’s felt the shift. “These aren’t about you, I was wiping the stove down and just…”
He trails off, watching Ilya’s face.
Ilya nods. Of course. That makes sense. Totally reasonable.
Still, the gloves stay on for long after Shane’s done 'cleaning.'
By evening, Shane announces he’s heading out as he’s already grabbing his keys. Only fifteen minutes, he insists.
“I’ll grab you something easy,” he smiles, already pulling on his jacket. “Comfort food, hm? Whatever you want. Mcdonalds?”
Junk food, then. Greasy and salty, the kind of thing Shane never eats.
It should feel considerate. And in any other moment, it would. Tonight, not so much. Normally, they’d eat together, even if their meals weren’t the same. But tonight, it feels like he’ll get Ilya the gross greasy junk he likes, but he won’t eat with him. Maybe Shane thinks he’s too… icky. With his nose all clogged, surely his chewing will bother Shane, just like those couple magazines all say. He’ll have to eat alone so that he doesn't gross Shane out. It brings back something old and bitter in Ilya’s chest, his father disappearing with a plate, his brother eating in silence in another room. Meals as something fractured.
“Oh,” Ilya says, distantly. “Yeah. Okay.”
Shane pauses, keys still in hand. He looks at Ilya. He tilts his head like he’s going to say something. Then he thinks better of it and just nods.
“I won’t be long. Promise.” He smiles, brushing a loose strand of hair behind his ear.
The door closes.
Ilya stares at it long after the sound of it latches shut.
Thirty minutes go by.
What happened to fifteen?
Finally, the front door opens and Shane is carrying two big bags, struggling to hold them upright. He unloads them on the kitchen table and it’s a ridiculous amount of fast food: five burgers, three orders of fries, chicken nuggets, more than Shane has ever ordered for them even on the most rare cheat day. A little spark of excitement hits Ilya for a second. Shane got all his favorites.
“Wow. Really?” He chuckles, “Did you order everything on the menu? What, you think I’m—uh—garbage can?”
Shane glances up, smirks, and shrugs. “Mhm, I’ve seen you eat worse,” he says in a joking but deadpan way.
Ilya laughs, but the laughter dies quickly behind a snotty sniffle. The room feels heavy. He’s feverish, sniffly, and Shane has seen him this way all day. Insecure, childish, stinky, and disgusting. Now there’s this mountain of food in front of him, and he imagines Shane watching him stuff his face, mustard and ketchup slathered all over his oily skin, cataloguing it under: Unsexy.
The joke lingers uncomfortably in his mind. He swallows, heat rising in his ears, and mutters, “Uh… I’ll, uh… take a burger to bedroom, okie? Garbage can needs privacy.”
He grabs a burger, trying to act casual, and walks a little too fast.
“Wha—Why?”
“You don’t wanna see what I’m gonna do to this burger. Might not find me so hot after.”
He doesn’t dare look to see Shane’s face before he shuts the bedroom door closed. It clicks shut louder than it should.
Once inside, Ilya perches on the edge of the bed and takes a bite of the burger. It tastes good but muted, like everything else right now, dulled by congestion and fever and the vague sense that he’s doing something wrong. He tells himself this is what he wanted, privacy to pig out and relief from the imagined weight of Shane’s eyes on him while he eats.
The bed dips under his weight and no one else’s. The TV isn’t murmuring in the background. There’s no fork scraping a plate or Shane talking around a mouthful of food. All he has is the crinkling, lonely sound of the wrapper in his hands.
From the other side of the door, he can hear Shane moving around the kitchen, drawers opening, a chair leg screeching against the floor, the faint rustle of a bag. Normal sounds. Domestic sounds. They don’t include him.
He finds himself staring at the door before he realizes he’s doing it.
A small, stupid part of him is waiting.
Ilya exhales shakily, the realization sinking in slow and mean: he hadn’t actually wanted to eat alone. He’d wanted Shane to roll his eyes and say something like don’t be fucking ridiculous and sit on the bed with his own food, just to be near him. It’s needy and… and pathetic but Ilya wishes so badly Shane still wanted to be around him even when he’s all snotty and disgustingly leaking from multiple orifices. Even when he’s grossest. Especially then.
Shane didn’t really even fight him on it.
Ilya takes another small bite of his burger and chews mechanically, his ring sitting heavy on his finger as it digs into the dimpled bun.
He hasn’t fought him on really anything, outside of the no-touching, all day.
Svetlana’s voice, uninvited, pops into his head. It was during one late night, a wine-soaked conversation, where Svetlana had been gossiping loose-lipped about one of her friends. Most of the time Ilya would just pretend he’s listening, nodding to girl talk that just sounded a lot like blah blah blah and then I said blah blah blah but then she had said, “Y’know it’s like you’ll know a relationship is over when she’s just done fighting.” She smacked her lips, cherry red. “Like the second she quits nagging you, when she just accepts the bad behavior, that's how you know you’re truly fucked. ‘Cause she’s stopped caring.”
Ilya remembers vacantly staring at the lipstick stain she’d left on her wineglass and answering without thinking, just to participate, “Mmm… No nagging? Doesn’t sound too bad.”
The words had felt wrong on his tongue, felt even worse coming out his mouth. It was like something one of his Boston teammates would’ve said three beers deep, laughing too loud about how their wives were on their ass all the time. He’d heard it hundreds of times, guys whining about reminders, about texts asking where they were, about being told to either come home now or don’t come back at all. She never gets off my fucking back, they’d say, rolling their eyes, giving their best macho-man performance.
Those conversations always had Ilya’s skin crawling. There was something so casually cruel about it, the way they talked about women who were just paying attention, who bothered to notice when something changed. He wondered if they would’ve preferred a partner who let things rot quietly. And yet here Ilya was, parroting the same sentiment. And it sounded even worse coming from him because it echoed something familiar. Something his father would’ve said. Svetlana must’ve been thinking similarly because she had quickly downed the rest of her drink, grabbed her purse, and left at one am, two hours earlier than she usually did.
Ilya had been left to stew as he blinked hazily at a text notification from Shane reading: “Don’t drink too much. Tell Svetlana I said hi. Miss you.”
He had been tempted right then and there to call Shane and tell him everything he was thinking: that he loved every time Shane lectured, preached, or nagged. That his heart only grew every time Shane ripped the blankets off him when he slept through his alarm for the umpteenth time. Or when Shane would click his tongue mumbling, “You’re gonna crack a tooth one of these days,” and hold out his hand, forcing Ilya to spit out the bottle cap he had been chewing. That even Shane collecting the empty toilet paper rolls only to dump them on Ilya’s side of the bed with a pointed, “If you want to keep them so bad, they’re all yours!” only made Ilya love him so much more.
It was only when Shane’s voice came through the speaker, “Jesus, Ilya, how drunk are you?” did Ilya realize he had actually called.
Nagging meant Shane was looking at him. It meant Shane cared enough to correct him, to fuss, to say hey, don’t do that, I want you safe, I want you here. It meant Shane was paying attention in the small, unglamorous ways that actually mattered. It made Ilya feel tethered, like someone would notice if he drifted too far off course, if he started slipping quietly into something bad.
But Shane hadn’t yelled at him for blasting the TV earlier. And he hadn’t snapped when Ilya blasted the volume, or coughed too loudly, or sprawled across the couch in a way that was objectively disgusting. Shane had just… adjusted, which was arguably worse.
And now this? No pushback for running away, tail between his legs? No argument against breaking one of their most sacred routines, one of the only times of the day to recap and enjoy each other's company? He broke routine, a ritual, an unspoken agreement that no matter how long or brutal the day had been, they’d sit down together and unload it. Shane would ramble in his earnest, linear way about practice, about some rookie that pissed him off, about a stranger who wouldn’t walk fast enough at the grocery store. Ilya would complain just to complain, about traveling, about the season, about how everyone was annoying him lately. Half of it didn’t matter. None of it had to be important.
It was about re-stitching themselves back together after the day had pulled them apart.
Does Shane not wanna be stitched to his husband? Maybe he’s already tired from carrying the day on his own. It was probably easier to let Ilya go than to fight him on it, easier than trying to make space for someone sick and so needy and always spiraling.
Or maybe Shane had already decided Ilya wasn’t worth the effort tonight. That he wasn’t worth the fuss, or the nagging, or the closeness. That it was simpler to let him disappear into the bedroom and eat alone than to sit beside him and deal with it.
Soon the burger sits half-eaten on the nightstand, cooling, grease soaking into the wrapper, while Ilya leans back against the pillows, fed and untouched, and… painfully self-conscious.
By the time Shane climbs into bed with him, both of them are exhausted. Ilya’s limbs feel like lead, his head’s foggy from fever, and every movement’s a negotiation with his own brain.
Ilya scoots closer under the covers, curling toward Shane instinctively. It’s second nature. The urge to touch him is strong, desperate even. Before he can even attempt anything, Shane’s holding up a pillow like a miniature barricade. “No, Ilya.” Shane whispers, voice low. “If I get sick and play like shit,” He huffs, “Then we both lose, Ilya.”
Ilya blinks at the barrier. It’s… so dumb. A literal wall of fluff between them. He wants to laugh, the absurdity cutting through some of the tension, but instead he presses his forehead to the pillow, heat prickling behind his eyes. “You’re so… I don’t even know,” he mutters, voice muffled.
“It’s protection,” Shane says, voice soft, a hint of amusement. He’s trying to make a stupid joke.
“I thought we were done with that.”
“Nope,” He says while nudging the pillow further into place, creating a little divider. He adds another pillow further down to separate their crotches. "C'mon, be mature," Shane says once Ilya starts dramatically humping the pillow.
Ilya giggles but eventually stops. After a few seconds, he groans, "Look, I get it. But I hate it.”
Shane snorts without looking at him. “Better safe than sorry. You know how you like to cuddle in your sleep. This’ll stop any accidents.”
Ilya sighs, curling just enough to feel Shane’s warmth brushing the other side of the pillow without touching. It’s silly. Goofy. And it hurts like hell. Understanding the reasoning doesn’t make the ache in his chest any smaller.
Minutes stretch. Shane shifts beside him. Ilya presses into the bed, listening to Shane’s even breathing. He wants to reach over, wants to reach for him. Even imagining it twists his stomach with longing.
Finally, Ilya whispers, hoarse and tired, “Can’t wait til the game is over.”
Shane just breathes softly, adjusting slightly.
Exhaustion wins over longing eventually. Ilya relaxes, pillow pressed against his cheek, the absurd divider looming between them. He lies there, staring at nothing, close enough to feel Shane’s warmth through the pillows but not close enough to touch.
The space between them feels huge. Realistically, it’s only a few centimeters.
In the darkness, Shane exhales softly, voice low.
Almost too quiet for Ilya to hear.
“Team’s counting on me. Need to win this… for us.”
Ilya wakes to the sound of fabric rustling.
It’s not alarming, just the subtle rustle of sheets being adjusted. The mattress dips slightly on the other side of the pillow barrier. His fevered brain doesn’t grab onto the rustling as anything and he’s halfway back into dreamland seconds later.
Then it happens again.
Slowly, carefully, the sheets ripple. Like someone is trying very hard not to wake him.
Ilya stays still, which isn’t too hard when he’s almost tipping back into REM. He keeps his breathing as even as he can but he sounds like he’s choking to death with his sinuses full. Luckily, His eyes are glued closed by sleep gunk. He feels motion through the mattress, the faint tug as the sheets twist between them. Someone’s restless.
It’s unusual because Shane’s side of the bed has always been calmer. He usually sleeps like a corpse, on his back, arms barely moving at his side. Ilya joked more than once that he could draw a chalk outline around Shane and by morning he’d still be smack dab in the middle of it. It’s funny nine times out of ten but sometimes Ilya will wake up in a panic and press two fingers to Shane’s throat just to make sure there’s still a pulse because of how still and lifeless he looks.
Ilya, on the other hand, moves constantly in his sleep. He tosses, kicks, flips from side to side like a rotisserie chicken. He’ll wake up sideways, arms sprawled over Shane’s chest and legs thrown over his hips like even his subconscious is trying to pin him down. Which is partially why the pillow barrier makes sense, Ilya hates to admit that though. Shane will sometimes complain about the squirming, bickering that one day Ilya’s gonna knee him in the ribs in his sleep and end his hockey career forever. He says it like a joke but Ilya knows deep down Shane is actually paranoid of something unpredictable and rare like that actually happening.
One day, feeling a little weird about it, Ilya said over the sound of the treadmill, “If it really bothers you that bad we could, y’know, sleep in separate rooms, like some old couples do when one of them has the… uh… snore disease? Snore illness?” His words tumbled out awkwardly and he added, “Maybe when old and balding, you’ll get snorey and we’ll have to do it like that anyway.”
Shane had blinked at him mid-squat, unsure whether to laugh or roll his eyes. Then he had listed, patiently at first, all the ways they could sleep in the same bed even if one of them had ‘sleep apnea.’
“There’s masks for that kind of thing, CPAP.” He had said in between reps, “I could sleep on my side, you could wear earplugs. Maybe we could get a mattress that has the sides separated so I could prop myself up to breathe better— also why is it assumed I would be the one to have sleep apnea and not you? If any of us was gonna have something going on it would be you—
“Hey!”
“—but that’s beside the point.”
Ilya had tried to argue all of that sounded like a lot more work than just sleeping separately but Shane was already rattling off more solutions: “We could buy angled pillows, like the triangle ones they sell on infomercials, or maybe talk to a doctor about changing our diet, sometimes it happens because of weight I think, but we’d manage. We’d figure something else out—”
But when Ilya interrupted again, Shane exhaled harshly, eyes narrowing as sweat dripped down his forehead. He had put both hands on his hips, his little workout shorts creasing underneath his fingertips, and said, voice clipped, “Do you not wanna sleep with me?”
Ilya gawked, shocked that was even a question. Was that not the foundation of their relationship?
"Of course I do!” He jumped off the treadmill and practically pounced onto him, circling his sweaty hands around Shane’s waist. “I just didn’t want you to feel like you have to.” Their damp foreheads pressed together. “I know it's— I’m hard to sleep with sometimes.”
“What?” Shane huffed, “Sleeping with you is the easy part." He yanked Ilya closer. "Idiot.”
“You’re right. It’s the best part too, hm?” Ilya said, kissing the sweat off Shane’s top lip. He gripped Shane tighter, wanting to leave bruises on his honeyed skin.
“Mhm..,” Shane sighed dreamily as a muscled thigh rutted up between his and fingers dug a bit harder, “I want it— wanna sleep with you, Ilya, forever.”
Ilya licked along his temple, whispering, “Forever and ever and ever and ever—”
They slept together that night, obviously.
Same as always, Shane still as a corpse and Ilya restless and everywhere all over the bed.
But tonight, Shane is the one to fidget. That is very unusual. Shane doesn't move unless he has a reason to.
Something nudges the pillow wall.
It’s warm.
A hand slips underneath one of the pillows, knuckles first, like a cautious animal, fingers following in uncertain awkward and hesitant little wriggles. Ilya’s pulse jumps so hard he’s sure Shane must feel it through the bed.
The hand inches closer, still not touching him but just close enough where Ilya can feel the heat of Shane’s skin. The space between their hands feels charged, buzzing, like static waiting for a spark. It takes all of Ilya’s strength to not just grab him and scare the living fuck out of him. The sheets pull and twist softly around his wrist as Shane’s fingers move, the fabric brushing his skin making him feel like a raw wire.
Ilya swallows.
He’s seconds away from just doing it: clutching Shane’s fingers inside his like they’re teenagers holding hands for the first time. He pictures it behind his eyelids, their fingers intertwined and wound together so tightly it's almost pornographic. He could moan at the thought and can practically feel his tendons twitching to move. But he stops himself because ultimately: Ilya’s just really curious what Shane’s goal is here. He was the one who said ‘no touching’ this whole time.
What is this, a bit of hypocrisy from Mr. Disciplined? Ilya wants to know. So he just lets this happen, whatever this even is.
Shane’s hand hovers, unbearably.
Then his fingers drift closer still, just enough to graze metal.
Ilya feels it immediately, the lightest touch against his wedding ring. A careful brush of a thumb against the band. Shane nudges it gently, rotating it a fraction around Ilya’s finger, as if confirming it’s still there. A giddy giggle is stuck in Ilya’s throat.
The contact is maddeningly delicate. Shane doesn’t touch skin, doesn’t cross the line he’s drawn for himself even now. No one would scold him for giving in, the worst he’d get is Ilya’s pleased teasing. But he just plays with the ring like a child would, touching it innocently, twisting the cool band against a fever-warm finger.
Ilya’s eyes sting. He has a hard time keeping his fingers still as Shane fidgets.
This is worse than if Shane had kissed him. Worse than if he’d stayed on his own side completely. Ilya’s heart pounds too fast and he’s forced to let out a breathy sniffle that reverberates through his body, his hand twitching slightly. Their fingers accidentally knock together.
After a few seconds, maybe longer, time feels wrong and fake, Shane stills.
There’s a pause. A breath held somewhere in the dark.
Then, suddenly, Shane’s hand retreats quickly back under the pillows.
The sheets ripple softly as the barrier is restored, pillows nudged back into place. Shane rolls away, movement contained and final.
The bed settles.
Ilya opens his eyes to the dark, heart pounding, hand still where it was, ring slightly twisted on his finger. The warmth of Shane’s fingers linger.
He stares at the ceiling, throat tight, and presses his thumb over the ring like he might hold the memory in place.
He tries to go back to sleep, but finds himself just staring into the darkness waiting, not wanting to miss it if Shane does that again.