Archive of Our Own

1.

It’s after a rough game between Montreal and Boston. The crowd was intense, their teams clashing on the ice, over and over again. Buzzers, penalty boxes, bodies slammed against boards. Shane had been wrung tight the entire game, body thrumming so loudly Ilya could feel it on his bench across the ice. And still, the Metros had won with one last goal from Shane himself, his arms not even raising in triumph as the buzzer sounded his goal, no smile on his face as his team swarmed him. He seemed to get smaller in the celebration as Ilya’s team slowly made their way off the ice, devastated by a 1-point loss. 

Ilya considers it as he paces his condo, dressed in his softest clothes because he thinks that’s what Shane might need when he finally gets here. He’s late, but that’s to be expected after a win. If Ilya’s team had won, Shane would be the one waiting in his condo until Ilya could sneak away from his team. But Shane wasn’t in the right place to be celebrating, Ilya could tell at the face off from the start of the game. He looked all wrong tonight, like a puppet held taunt by frayed seams. 

The buzzer at the front door sounds, and before Ilya makes it down the hallway, the door is clicking open with the key Ilya gave Shane all those months ago. It still warms his heart to see him use it, that he feels comfortable enough allowing himself into spaces that used to be all Ilya’s. He’s toeing his shoes off by the door, keys held tight in his fist, his shoulders tucked up to his ears and a faraway look in his eyes as he pointedly doesn’t look at Ilya.

“Sorry,” Shane mumbles, but his voice is all wrong. The usual relief at seeing him, at being reunited together after months of being apart, is gone. In its place is tension, the sound creaky and hoarse through his Boston condo. “Couldn’t get away fast enough.” 

“Is okay,” Ilya tells him, finally stopping in front of him, finally getting to wind his arms around his waist and pull him to his chest where he can bury his face into soft hair and breathe in the familiar scent of home. 

Only Shane steps back. No, he recoils. His eyes are wide when they finally meet Ilya’s, brown orbs drenched with exhaustion and anxiety and something else. Ilya’s never seen him like this, Shane’s never acted this way around him. Shane should be melting into his arms, clinging to him and climbing up his body, knowing that Ilya will carry him. 

“You are… hurt?” Ilya asks, arms dropping to his sides, trying not to let the hurt show across his face because Shane has never flinched away from him. 

“No,” Shane shakes his head, his hair falling across his forehead to hang slightly in his eyes without product post shower. It’s Ilya favorite, when he can run his fingers through his hair without the strands stiff between his fingers. “Sorry, I just. Tired, is all.”

But Ilya’s seen Shane tired before. Exhausted, even. After rough games or pushing himself too hard in the gym, after nights they kept each other up so late because they couldn’t keep their hands or mouths to themselves despite their early morning obligations. This is something else, something deeper, something darkening his eyes and making him seem so much smaller.

He reaches a hand out to cup his cheek, and Shane pulls away with a hiss. Ilya stills with his hand still in the air, floating between them, as Shane’s cheeks pink with embarrassment and frustration. “Sorry.” He says again, voice clipped. 

“Is okay,” Ilya repeats, letting his hand drop back to his side in dejection. “We can sleep.” 

Shane's face seems to crumble at that, and Ilya doesn’t know why. “We haven’t seen each other in months,” he points out, a franticness to his voice, his hands starting to shake at his sides. “And you just want to sleep?”

“Shane,” Ilya keeps his voice calm, quiet in the late hour, masking the panic he feels clawing in chest. “You are setting clear boundaries here. You will not let me touch you. Of course I want to hold you and kiss you. What would you have me do when you keep jumping away without telling me what’s wrong?”

Ilya’s entire body craves Shane. Seeing him in front of him, having him close enough to touch, has his body humming with need, with want. To pull him into his arms, to bury his nose in his neck and breathe him in, to feel the familiar weight of his boyfriend in his lap. But Shane doesn’t want that. Shane’s entire body is rejecting him. 

The strings holding Shane up from earlier seem to be pulling tighter. Where he was slouching into himself before, he holds himself straighter now. Still, his hands shake by his sides, even while they tighten in the fabric of his own sweatpants at his thighs. 

“I-I want you to touch me,” Shane says, but it’s not believable. Not with the way his throat bobs around the words, like he’s having to regurgitate them, like they’re causing him physical pain.

“Do not lie to me, dorogoy,” Ilya’s voice suddenly hardens around his syllables. “We do not do that, yes?”

Shane flushes and drops his chin to his chest, eyes closing tightly. The sight tears at Ilya’s insides, twists them up like someone just reached inside him and closed their fist. He wants to take care of him, to protect him from whatever's happening that Ilya can’t see. He goes through waves of thought around his boyfriend. Did someone say something to him? Did he get hurt at practice and he doesn’t want Ilya to find out? Did he read something upsetting? What is wrong with his boy?

His eyes trail over Shane’s body again, trying to zero in on his discomfort, like he could make everything better if he just had something to base it off of. Because Shane’s hands are still shaking, white knuckled in the fabric of his sweats. There’s a crease between his brows that’s usually released the second he sees Ilya. His bottom lip is sucked between his teeth and it looks painful. 

All Ilya wants to do is reach out and hold him, make everything better. But Shane’s body is screaming discomfort and irritation. He thinks he’ll make it worse if he tries. 

“I do want you to touch me,” Shane finally tells him, hands now shoved into his hoodie pocket like he can hide how he’s trembling. “But I don’t want you to touch me.” 

Ilya nods even if it makes no sense. “Can you explain? For me?” He’s fluent in Shane, in his idiosyncrasies and his behaviors. Shane licks his lips while staring at Ilya's mouth: he wants to be devoured. Shane plays with the fingers of Ilya’s hand while they’re sitting: he wants to be closer. Shane pushes his plate close to Ilya’s on the table: he’s full and doesn’t want it to be a big deal. Shane’s fingers twitch in the hem of Ilya’s clothes while they’re in public: he’s ready to go home. 

He slowly peels his chin from his chest with great effort, like holding himself up right is painful. “I’m sorry,” he says again, but Ilya shakes his head and holds himself back from reaching for him again. “I…get like this sometimes. My body just feels wrong. Like my skin is too tight.” He sounds angry about it, frustration etched in his voice. “I still… want you. But I think if you touch me… like this,” he sweeps his hands down his body, gesturing to himself like he’s pathetic. “I might scream.”

“Okay,” Ilya nods, breathing in the words, letting them settle in his brain. “Thank you for telling me.” And really, he’s proud of him. Of how he fought through his discomfort to explain how he’s feeling, of how he didn’t shut down or deflect like he might have if they weren’t as far as they are now. He frowns then and looks at Shane, really looks at him. “You are too busy up here,” he taps his own head, “so now it feels like this isn’t yours.” He then rubs his hand down his own body. Overstimulated, his brain supplies the term.

Realization and relief spreads across Shane’s face, slow and beautiful and heartbreaking all at once. Ilya wants to kiss him. He nods frantically through a sharp exhale. “Y-yes. That’s it.”

“Oh, moy maylsh,” Ilya tries not to coo at him. That’s now what Shane needs right now, even if he looks so damn soft and sweet and small. “I know how to help you.”

Because Ilya does. He’s paid enough attention to Shane through the years he’s been watching him. Even if Shane doesn’t know what to do with this, Ilya can take over. Guide him back to himself slowly and gently before it gets to be too much. Ilya’s been taking care of Shane in smaller ways all this time: reminding him to go easier in the gym after an injury, making sure he eats even when he doesn’t feel like it, offering a look or a smile when he notices him getting overwhelmed at events. 

Shane needs release. Ilya can give that to him. 

“Will you let me?”

Shane’s brow wrinkles cutely. “I-I just need to wait it out.”

“Het, moya sladkaya,” Ilya knows he can help him. He feels silly for not putting it together earlier. “You just have to listen to my voice,” he drops his tone, similar to the one he uses in the bedroom, when Shane is begging and crying for more, but he keeps it gentler, reserved only for this moment. The effect is instant. Shane’s bottom lip pops out from between his teeth where he was chewing it again. “Just like that,” he continues, feeling more confident as he watches Shane’s shoulders droop slowly. “Follow me.”

He doesn’t wait to see if Shane listens, just turns and pads slowly up the stairs. Soft footsteps echo behind him, the trail over his hand over the railing as Ilya turns into the bathroom. “So good,” he tells him, hand reaching into the shower and turning the knob. The tub starts filling. “You will get clean.”

Shane stares between the tub and Ilya as the steam starts to fill the room. “I showered at the rink.”

“But you hate that soap,” Ilya reminds him, checking the temperature of the water. Just hot enough to sting, but not enough to burn. The way Shane likes it when he’s floating. Because he’s halfway there already, he can see it in the way his eyes focus and unfocus. He’s overstimulated but doesn’t have the word for it, needs to let go but doesn’t know how to ask for it. Ilya sees it now, how Shane trembles to give up control, body begging to be set free. “You like my soap. You like smelling like you’re mine. Come, undress.”

The commands he’s giving are gentle, purposeful. Shane’s always done well with instruction, in the bedroom and out. It takes the choices from him, the decisions that seem impossible in the moment. 

Shane’s fingers tremble in the hem of his hoodie as he lifts it over his head and folds it. He’s left in just the tight under armor shirt and Ilya frowns. “No wonder you can not relax,” he tells him, gesturing towards the shirt. “You hate that fabric.” Especially when he’s sweaty, or wet. 

“It’s for the sponsorship,” Shane reminds him, voice a quiet murmur. His hands grip it to tug it over his body. “I have to wear it for post-game interviews.”

“You still hate it,” he shakes his head, then raises a brow when Shane just stands there shirtless. “You will bathe with pants on?”

“Ilya, please,” Shane’s trembling again.

“Take them off,” Ilya drops his voice, command obvious in the quiet room. Shane doesn’t even think about it, doesn’t try to argue or talk his way out of it. He just hooks his thumbs in the elastic of the sweatpants and pulls them down his thighs with his boxers. He folds them, too. “Very good. Get in.”

He’s pleased when Shane does exactly that. He steps one leg in first, then the other, and slowly lowers himself into the tub. His knees curl up to his chest and his arms wrap around them. A sigh escapes his lips once he’s settled. Ilya reaches for a rag. “Do you want me to wash you?”

Shane’s eyes widen and a blush covers his cheek. It’s not new, not embarrassing, they wash each other in the shower all the time together. His mouth opens and then closes around his bottom lip, teeth biting until the skin around it turns white. Ilya knows a silent Shane when he sees him. 

“You do not have to speak right now, baby,” Ilya kneels beside the tub with the rag, holding it in the space between them. “I would like to wash you. May I?”

His eyes glass over at the words, a heavy exhale escaping through his nose. He stares hard at Ilya, irises filled with longing and trust, but the edges of uncertainty fog around them. So Ilya waits for him, for any kind of response. There is no rush. Finally, Shane nods, eyes pleading, so Ilya dips the rag into the water and reaches for his bodywash. 

The scent filters into the damp air as he lathers the cloth, moss and evergreen and clean. Shane tenses at the first press of the fabric across his shoulders, but he doesn’t pull away, so Ilya keeps his motions light and gentle, methodical. First his shoulders, then his back, around his neck trailing to his chest. By the time he swipes the rag down Shane’s arms, he’s relaxing, tension releasing from his heavy shoulders. 

“There,” Ilya murmurs into the silence, placing the rag on the side of the tub. “Now you smell like you’re mine. I will get you something to wear.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer as he pushes himself up, but he tracks the way Shane tilts his head and the corners of his mouth turn up, like a smile wants to form but he’s too far disconnected to make the effort. He grabs the worn hoodie that Shane always steals when he’s here, something soft with the tags missing, and grabs a pair of flannel pants that will be too long around his ankles but just baggy enough around his waist. Shane exhales when he sees them placed on the sink, and Ilya knows he made the right decision.

He reaches for the towels. “Come here.” 

Shane’s long body unfolds from the tub, water dripping, and Ilya steps forward, towel still clutched in his hands. “I will dry you, yes?” He waits long enough to see the slight jerk of his head, a nod, and then wraps the towel around him, rubbing the clean fabric over his wet skin. He moves in the same order as when he scrubbed him: shoulders then back then neck then chest. He steadies Shane as he finally steps out the tub and rubs the towel over his legs, drying around his ankles and over his feet. “Better,” Ilya tells him, stepping back to hang up the towel. “Now dress yourself.”

He watches the flicker of hesitation pass over Shane’s face as he glances between his clothes and the ones Ilya set out for him. Finally, his fingers close around Ilya’s hoodie before he pulls it over his head in the very Shane way no one else dresses: head first. The fabric swallows him, the elastic of the hoodie falling around his thighs with the seams from the shoulder sitting low on his arms. He immediately looks more relaxed as he steps into the flannel. 

“Look at that,” Ilya praises, leaning one hip against the sink with his arms loosely crossed over his chest. “All mine.” 

Shane sways lightly on his feet, the words a balm, and Ilya knows that he’s close to floating, to letting go completely and totally. “Go lay on the bed. On your stomach.”

The words seem to stir uncertainty in Shane’s chest because his eyes suddenly widen. They still have that glazed look to them, like he exists somewhere between here and the clouds, but there’s a fear laced through them that Ilya has to put to rest right now. “No, not for that moy malysh,” he tells him, keeping the distance between them still because Shane’s made no move to get closer to him. “Just trust me. Listen to my words, yes? I will join you.”

Shane gives him one last look before he turns out of the bathroom. Ilya takes a moment to reorient himself, to ground himself before joining Shane in the bedroom. He makes quick work draining the tub and making sure the towels are hanging to dry. He sets their toothbrushes out on the counter for later, with the toothpaste he only keeps because it doesn’t irritate Shane’s gums. 

The room is mostly dark when Ilya enters, the only light flooding in from the bathroom in a small beam across the mattress. There, in the center of his bed, Shane lays on his stomach, his head pillowed on his folded arms in front of him. He somehow seems smaller now than he did before, trembling at his full height in Ilya’s entry way, dressed now in all Ilya’s clothes, smelling like Ilya, body trying to unknot vertebrae by vertebrae. 

He makes his footsteps purposefully louder as he walks the distance to the bed so as not to startle Shane. His eyes pop open at the movement, eyes tracking him as he gets closer, breathing suddenly labored, and no, this will not do. Not on Ilya’s watch, not in Ilya’s home. 

Outside, Shane can be strong and brave. He can be a captain and a leader, someone with strong shoulders to bear more burdens than he deserves. But with Ilya, he can let go, can hand the weight over to Ilya’s sure hands because all he has to do is just be with him. Unmasked, unburdened. 

Ilya slowly crawls over his tense body, giving Shane time to adjust to roll away. When he doesn’t, he lowers his weight over him, pressing his chest down into his back, his legs resting over Shane’s, holding himself mostly up with his elbows framing Shane’s shoulders. 

It’s exactly the result he thought he would get. The weight forces an exhale from Shane’s taunt lungs and his entire body relaxes underneath him, the fists of his fingers uncurling immediately. It’s like someone just cut his frayed puppet strings, no, Ilya, just cut the strings, because he can hold him like this, can keep him together without any bit of him seeping through the cracks. The exhale turns into a choked sob, and Ilya can feel Shane’s shoulders start to shake with something like relief, quiet tears escaping from his eyes and dripping onto the comforter. 

“There you are,” Ilya sighs, pressing a kiss over his nose, catching a tear between his lips. “I got you, Shane. Just like that, let go.” He keeps himself steady over him, breathing deeply so that Shane can feel the rise and fall of his chest like a blueprint to match. He can feel it unwind something inside Shane, deep in his mind and it crawls towards the surface. “You can just be. With me, like this. Always.”

“M-more,” Shane gasps, his eyes squeezed shut and his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Okay, shh,” Ilya soothes, taking the weight off his elbows and pressing more into Shane. The air pushes from his lungs in a smooth exhale, and his shoulders stop shaking, stillness enveloping him for the first time all day, probably in weeks. It hurts Ilya to think about, a frown on his lips as he perches his chin over Shane’s shoulder, just how long this was probably webbing inside him. His frown deepens when he notices the blood clotting around Shane’s lips. “No, stop that,” he grabs his jaw gently, prying his lip out from his teeth. It comes out red and bloodied. “Do not hurt yourself.”

Shane whines under him, then turns his face into the crook of Ilya’s arm as if to hide. Instead, he latches his teeth onto Ilya’s bicep, kneading the muscle in his mouth. It’s sharp and it stings, but it doesn’t hurt. He gazes in awe at him. “Oh,” Ilya breathes, watching how Shane’s face seems to relax now, knot between his brows gone and his tears drying. His breathing is steady. “Your oral fixation continues to surprise me.” He brushes his free hand through the soft hairs at the back of Shane’s neck, gentle and tentative, unsure if he’ll pull away or flinch. When it seems to pull him further down, he repeats the motions, over and over again. 

“Oh, lyubimy,” Ilya coos when he feels it, that relief, that release, subspace. Shane is beautiful like this, hard lines replaced with soft edges, trust seeping out his pores and peace etched into his face. He looks impossibly young like this. Ilya’s seen it before, but never outside of anything sexual. This feels far more intimate, and it only intensifies Ilya’s love for him. 

He cards his hand through his hair and lets Shane chew on his arm until his body sinks into sleep, the difference obvious. Shane’s jaw goes slack and releases Ilya’s bicep, his breathing gets softer, and his body seems to relax even more. Safe, in Ilya’s arms, under Ilya’s weight, this strong, beautiful, determined, stubborn man falls asleep. 

Ilya waits a few more minutes, hand carding through his inky hair, studying him like this until he’s sure he’s not about to wake up. Then he moves him, carefully and gently, so he’s under the blankets with his head cradled on a pillow. He lays next to him, keeping distance between him, watching him. 

A small whine leaves Shane’s lips, his brows creasing in the middle, then, like a magnet, he rolls until he finds Ilya, curling into his side. A sigh escapes him at the contact, and he stills, restful once more. Ilya drapes his arm over his waist and presses his lips against his forehead.

“Ty mozhesh prosto otdokhnut zdes,” Ilya murmurs into his skin, letting his own eyes sink closed. “You don’t have to stay strong.”

2.

The weeks in between seasons are peaceful, and the cottage had become a sort of safe haven for Ilya after his first visit. The quiet of the lake, the way the sunlight pooled through the windows early morning to wake him, the scent of Shane’s fancy coffee brewing in the kitchen after a run along the trails. It was more home than anywhere he’s ever lived. And this visit felt more special, more grounding after the past few weeks.

Their press conference for the foundation went well, if not a little high strung for nerves. The community accepted it easily, though the hockey community still remains divided over the end of the decade-long rivalry. Ilya announced his transfer to Ottawa which stirred up even more attention, and yet, he’s never been happier. He’s already moved into his new home in Ottawa, close to the rink with a McDonalds on the way. And now he gets to spend the final few weeks between the next season with the love of his life.

Who has not stopped pacing. Or chewing his lip. Or staring off into space. Ilya gets close and he tenses, shoulders hunching around himself like a shell. He sits just close enough to feel the heat from his body, but never enough to touch. Sometimes, he’ll reach his hand out, tug on the hem of Ilya’s clothes, but when Ilya looks at him, he drops his hand and looks away. 

“What is happening up here?” Ilya taps the side of Shane’s temple where he can reach it across the couch. “You are acting like skittish cat.”

“Am not,” Shane scoffs, brushing Ilya’s hand away and scooching further on the cushion, away from him. 

Ilya just stares at him. “Myod,” he deadpans, gesturing to the distance between them. “You just did it again. What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” Shane pushes himself off the couch and rubs his hands frantically over the fabric of his shorts. “Are you hungry? I’m gonna cut up some… wait… klubnika?” The word rolls clumsily off his tongue, but the pronunciation is perfect, like he’s been practicing that one word for days.

He smiles. “Strawberry, yes, very good, moya lyubov,” he tells him, and watches the way his ears immediately turn pink. Shane stands there for a second longer, not really looking at Ilya, but staring in his direction, thumbs rubbing the seams of his shorts. Then he just nods and walks away. 

Ah. 

Ilya knows now. Not what is wrong, but how to help. He stays on the couch, scrolling through emails on his phone that are mostly spam and unimportant, but he taps his fingers against his knee, wondering how to approach Shane when he comes back in. Because there’s anxiety lingering under his surface, and a need clawing up his throat. 

Footsteps alert him that Shane is coming back, and he looks up to watch him pad softly back into the room, socked feet leaving a small echo through the otherwise silent cottage. The chime of the bowl hitting the glass coffee table is the only thing that disturbs the peace. 

“Come here,” Ilya curls his finger at him, and Shane straightens and takes a few steps closer.  He reaches behind him for one of the many silly throw pillows and drops it onto the ground between his feet. “Good. Now kneel.”

Shane immediately takes a step back, face curling up adorably like it’s the worst idea he’s ever heard. “Wh-Ilya, not now.” 

“Ah, but I did not ask,” he tells him, leaning forward onto his elbows. He pins him with a stare and drops his tone to that familiar register, the one that clears whatever thoughts or anxieties are wrapping Shane in their webs. “So you will be good and mine and kneel for me. Right now.” He points back to the pillow again. 

The words seem to wash over Shane, bubblewrap and a balm, stopping whatever protest was about to push past his throat. His teeth find his lower lip and Ilya zeroes in on it, eyes narrowing. “Don’t you want to be moy khoroshiy malchik?” His voice carries that easy dominant edge, and the result is beautiful and breathtaking and a little heartaching all at once. 

Shane drops to his knees in front of him, chin tucked tight to his chest with that familiar faraway look in his eyes, different from the glazed quality of subspace. His chest huffs a little bit, like he would forget how to breathe if Ilya wasn’t right in front of him, a perfect contradiction of commanding and gentle. 

“No words yet,” Ilya tells him, pleased at the easy posture Shane takes, the way his shoulders already seem looser than the entire time they’ve been here. “I would like to touch your face. Is that okay?” There’s no hesitation before Shane nods, and Ilya beams, reaching out to cradle his face between his palms and stroke his thumbs over the jut of his cheekbones. “Now tell me. What is wrong? Head or body?”

“Head,” Shane’s word is an exhaled confession. He squeezes his eyes shut against Ilya’s gaze like it’s too hard to have this much attention, this much love. “It’s stupid.”

“Sweetheart,” Ilya calls, cupping his jaw. “It’s not stupid. Tell me, please, lyubimyy.”

Beautiful brown eyes blink open filled with uncertainty, and immediately all Ilya wants to do is cage Shane inside the space between his ribs and his heart, not for control, no, Ilya doesn’t crave that. He needs Shane to see that his heart only beats because Shane is in it. He needs him to feel it with every breath and beat. 

“I guess now that it’s real,” Shane’s voice is beautiful and broken, laced with anxiety. Ilya momentarily sees red until he realizes the only person that’s responsible for this tone coming from his mouth is him, Shane. “I’m scared that you… will resent me. O-or regret everything. You know, these changes. I-I’m worried I haven’t done enough, or… I’m not enough.”

“No,” the word is sharper than he means it to be, but fuck, how could Shane think that? Because he’s not curled up inside Ilya’s chest to feel how much love he has for him? “No,  solnyshko, no.” He tugs him closer, hand wrapping around the back of his neck. “I could never resent my reason for breathing. I could never resent my Shane.” 

It’s like a dam breaks then, because Shane’s shoulders start to shake, gently at first, then full on trembles. Big, full tears leak from his eyes, falling over Ilya’s waiting thumbs. “A-and when you didn’t k-kiss me this morning,” he hiccups and his face flushes, shame the ugliest shade of red Ilya has ever seen on him. Shane should never feel ashamed, not for his emotions and not around Ilya. “I-I thought… it was already starting.”

Ilya gasps and he means it. “I did not kiss you this morning?” He asks, trying to remember. They were up late last night, talking and kissing and giggling under the covers until sleep took them both. When Ilya woke up, Shane was already in the gym, so he brewed the fancy coffee and grilled Shane’s weird spinach and feta not-sausages with some scrambled eggs. “I am so sorry, sweetheart. I should have kissed you, you’re right.” He didn’t kiss Shane this morning. He put his coffee and food down on the table in front of him, squeezed his sweaty shoulder, and went back to sleep. 

But they kissed today. So many times. When Ilya woke back up from his nap, while they made lunch together. Ilya kissed him in the lake before dunking him under the water. 

But he didn’t kiss him this morning. He didn’t know how important that was, that it can set a precedent for the day or reinforce negative thoughts. 

He kisses him now, slow and deep, tilting Shane’s head back with his palm around his jaw, fingers resting on his throat how he likes it. “I will kiss you everyday,” he promises into his mouth, tasting rust and pennies, and he wonders how many hours Shane spent abusing his poor lip. “Every morning that I am with you, I will kiss you.” He feels like he could take Shane’s soul like this, how deep he’s kissing him, or like maybe Ilya could put his soul inside him, or maybe they’re already meeting in the middle. “I am so sorry, moe vsyo. Ya ne mogu nasytit'sya tvoimi potseluyami.” 

Shane pulls back like he’s been slapped, wiping his hand across his eyes. “N-no, I don’t want you to do it because you feel l-like you have to.”

“Oh, my Shane,” Ilya doesn’t let him go far. He reaches behind his neck to take a fistful of his hair between his fingers, pulling sharp enough to sting but not enough to hurt. Grounding. “I do not have to do anything. But for you, my moon and stars and sunshine, I will do everything.” 

Through the glassiness of his tears, Ilya sees it then. That slow release spreads across his face, beautiful and familiar and all his. Shane’s lips part, his breathing shallow in the space between them. Realization and certainty paint safety into the canvas of his face, stunning and sharp and immediate. 

“N-no more words,” Shane whispers, maybe even begs, body only being held up by the soft grip in his hair. “Please,” he exhales. 

“No, no more words, solnyshko,” Ilya promises, and then guides Shane’s head down to his thigh. “Just listen to my voice.” 

It should make Ilya feel drunk, this ability he has to calm Shane, to cut through the noise in his head to bring him back to his body, but it only makes him feel protective. Shane is not weak, has never been, but like this he is fragile, leaning heavily into Ilya’s lap, tears drying in tracks across his cheeks. 

“Thank you for letting me in,” Ilya tells him, and pushes a strawberry between his lips. Shane chews quietly, like on auto pilot, and he feeds him another one. “I always want to hear you. I want to give you what you need.”

Ilya keeps one hand in Shane’s soft hair while his other continues to feed him, pushing strawberries into his waiting mouth and then stroking his cheek while he chews. His eyes are already closed, all tension stripped from his features and replaced with a raw vulnerability that Ilya will never tire of. This version of Shane, this version of them, exists only between the confines of their love. 

He feeds him until Shane turns and presses his face into his thigh, humming softly into the fabric of his soft sweatpants. Ilya pops the berry into his own mouth before dropping both hands onto Shane. One tangles into his hair to massage his scalp while the other drops to his shoulder, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of his shirt to feel skin. 

“Keep being like this with me,” Ilya tells him, reverent. “I love you like this. I love you always.” 

The post-game interview is a sensory nightmare. Ilya can see it, the way the lights hurt Shane’s eyes and the cacophony of voices are giving him a headache. There’s still sweat dripping through his hair and clinging to his body under the under armor shirt on the screen and it makes him furious. His answers are professional and curt, making it obvious that he’s ready to leave, but the questions keep coming, and Shane, sweet and polite, keeps answering with his fake million-dollar smile for the cameras.

“He’s tired,” Yuna notes from the other end of the couch. 

“Long week on the road,” David supplies from the armchair. 

“He will rest,” Ilya agrees. 

The metros had a week-long road trip that ended with a home game in Montreal. After the game, Shane is driving to Ottawa for his next three days off. They’re staying with his parents tonight and doing something for lunch tomorrow, a late birthday celebration for David since Ilya and Shane both had games. They’ll go back to Ilya’s house after for the next two nights, even though Ilya has a home game the next night. Shane will wait until Ilya’s home before driving back to Montreal, another flight waiting for him to another city to take him further away from Ilya. 

Finally, the Shane on the screen exits, and the questions stop. The screen changes to a commercial and Yuna stretches her arms over her head with a yawn. “I’m guessing you’re going to wait up for him?” She asks, brushing her fingers through Ilya’s curls. 

“Of course,” Ilya agrees, leaning up to kiss her cheek in passing. 

This life, this space for Ilya that the Hollanders carved out for him, warms him from the inside on the coldest nights. He watches with fondness as David saunters into the kitchen to start turning lights off and refill their waters. Yuna makes her way down the hallway, leaving the door cracked for him, and then the gentle sounds of rain and owls hooting echo through their white noise machine. It’s silent when David closes the door behind him, and Ilya is left in only the glow of the lamp beside him.

He moves then, pocketing his phone so he can watch Shane’s location, knowing he has two hours before he gets here, where Ilya can love on him and soothe the ache he could see on the screen. Shane’s childhood bedroom is neat and tidy, the only thing out of place is Ilya’s overnight bag. He turns the top light off and plugs in the lamp he brought with him, one that shines directly to the ceiling with the way the shade hangs around the soft orange bulb. He thought about buying one of those that projects stars or moons, and he still might one day, but that’s mostly a guilty pleasure thought for himself and less for Shane.

This is for Shane. The gentle lighting, the noise cancelling headphones he found online last week. It’s a new design, some new technology. They’re supposed to be comfier, fit for side sleepers without slipping or moving. He immediately thought of Shane and his head aches and his inability to sleep on the road with his teammates that snore, which is most of them. 

Then he pulls out the weighted blanket, the one from his home that he keeps just for Shane. He bought one for all their houses, the exact same dark grey color folded neatly across the base of their bed in the cottage, another that Shane keeps folded in the chest at the end of his bed for when he needs it. 

It’s freshly washed with their gentle skin detergent, and sprayed lightly with the cologne Ilya wears. He takes care of all the blankets when he visits, making sure they stay fresh and remain a point of comfort for Shane when they have to be apart.

The headlights of Shane’s boring jeep slip through the cracks in the blinds, and Ilya heads to the front door, leaning onto the porch to wait for him. Shane looks exhausted under the lighting of the porch, highlighting the heavy bags under his eyes and the dark look in his eyes. He fights the urge to run to him, to sweep him off his feet and tuck him into bed to rest. He could tell from the interview that Shane would not want to be crowded right now, and it’s made more obvious seeing him so close like this. 

“Dorogoy,” Ilya greets, stepping back to let Shane in. “You did it.”

Shane smiles sadly at him, a small nod towards his direction as he slouches down to start taking his shoes off. “You’re here.”

“Da, of course,” Ilya nods. He has to shove his hands into his pockets to stop from brushing his hair from his face. “I told you I would be waiting for you.”

“No, I know, I just-” Shane straightens then, and blows a strand of hair up from between his eyes. He looks stiff and stuffy, the hood from his hoodie bunched up awkwardly under his thick coat. He hasn’t even looked at Ilya yet, not really. His eyes dance from Ilya’s then to the wall then to his feet. “Sorry, I missed you.” 

Ilya smiles, soft and sweet and all for Shane. “I missed you, too, moy malysh.” His fingers still twitch to touch. “You are… foggy, yes? Up here?”

Shane sighs and leans back against the way, a certain fondness taking over his expression that he directs towards Ilya. “A little bit, yeah. I’m sorry.”

“No, do not apologize,” Ilya brushes him off. “I have…stuff. To help. I can help.”

“Y-you don’t need to,” Shane shakes his head. “I-I know it sucks, when you can’t t-touch me, but,” his hands are shaking by his sides now, embarrassment brushed across his face. “It’s not your problem to fix.”

Ilya frowns, because he doesn’t see it like that at all. “Shane,” he calls, voice taking on that register, low and dominating and soothing. “It is not a problem, and you are not something to be fixed. This is not wrong, how you are feeling.” 

“I feel wrong,” Shane whispers brokenly, and Ilya’s heart does a painful twist in his chest at the admission. 

“Oh, moya solnyshko,” he shakes his head, crouching down a little so he can meet Shane’s downcast eyes. “You are not wrong. You are not broken. Ty sovershenen. Ty moy.” 

Brown eyes turn hazy and bright at the words, and Ilya knows he’s broken through some of the fog in that stubborn brain of his. He reaches a hand out, slow and unrushed, and lets it hang in the air between them. It takes a moment for Shane’s eyes to find it, and he chews his bottom lip at the offering. After a deep breath, he reaches for him, hesitantly linking their fingers together. 

Just the touch alone is enough to ease the ache in his heart at seeing his love like this, at being apart for months on end with only days together in between. Ilya would announce their love to the world right now if he could, so they didn’t have to keep seeing each other behind closed doors or under the moonlight. So that when Shane needed him, they weren’t miles and miles away, across continents or playing separate games. He could stay right where he belongs: at Shane’s side. 

“Follow me,” Ilya keeps that tone in his voice, steady and unguarded, and tugs Shane through his parents house, down the familiar hallway to his old room. Shane gasps behind him and when Ilya turns there’s tears burning behind his eyes. “My love.”

“How do you always know?” Shane gasps, a quiet sob racking his shoulders, his hands now covering the bottom part of his face, only his eyes visible over his fingertips.

“Because I love you,” Ilya tells him, and then reaches for the buttons on Shane’s coat, pulling the heavy fabric off his shoulders. “Because I see you.” 

Ilya helps Shane out of his cold clothes and into the pair of sweatpants and oversized hoodie Ilya had thrown into the dryer before his arrival. Shane lets him, sniffling the whole time, eyes staring at the soothing light on the ceiling. When Ilya goes to pull away, Shane’s fingers tangle in the hem of his sleep shirt, stopping him. 

“One second, lyubimyy,” Ilya soothes, squeezing his fingers before stepping away. “Lay down. Get comfy.”

The rustle of the sheets behind him tells him that Shane listened, and Ilya reaches into his bag for the ear plugs. When he turns around, Shane is curled up on top of the comforter on his side, his head resting on a pillow facing him. “No, baby. You like sleeping on your left,” Ilya shakes his head, and then reaches out to pat his hip. “Get comfy.” 

Shane turns without hesitation and Ilya smiles before reaching for the weighted blanket at the bottom of the bed. He pulls it over Shane, makes sure that it’s tucked around his shoulders, the weight evenly distributed across his body. He makes a choked off sound in his throat, and then seems to settle more into the mattress. 

Ilya lays on his side across from him, propping himself up on an elbow in front of him. “These are noise cancelling," he tells him, popping one out of the case. “Suppose to be comfortable, better than your airpods. Would you like to try?” The pillow case rustles around Shane’s nod, and Ilya reaches over and gently nudges the plug into his ear. Then he cradles his jaw to lift his face from the pillow, easing the second one in before placing his head back onto the pillow. 

The shift is noticeable, immediate, like ice on a burn. Shane’s lips part with a quiet gasp and his eyes flutter closed, relaxed. Ilya smiles and settles onto his side, curling his arm under his pillow to watch him. The lighting in the room casts shadows across Shane’s face that highlight how high-strung he’s been on this trip, and how desperately he needed a night like this. 

He thinks Shane is almost gone, his breathing even and slow, mouth relaxed around the exhales, when his hand pokes out of the blanket. It pats the mattress a few times before finding its target: Ilya’s hand. He drags it across the bed and settles it on his face, arm snaking back under the blanket. His deep brown eyes are warm and soft when they blink open, expressing appreciation and happiness. 

Ilya takes the hint and cups his cheek, drags his thumb over the dark circles under his eye and across the bridge of his nose. Shane’s eyes flutter closed again with a pleased exhale. “Thank you,” his voice is soft and syrupy sweet in the room, and Ilya feels his heart lurch at the sound. 

He stays awake a little longer, tracing his fingers over the contours of his peaceful face, watching as Shane relaxes fully into the mattress, warm and safe and taken care of in a way he wouldn’t allow anyone but Ilya to do. Because that’s exactly what this is. Ilya could poke and prod and guide as much as he wants. It’s this surrender from Shane that really matters, the willingness to let go and grant Ilya the permission to take over. It’s sacred between them. Ilya will never take it for granted. 

4.

“On purpose,” Shane’s voice is shaky through the phone, broken, and it’s the lack of anger that really alerts Ilya. “They think I tripped on purpose. I-I can’t even… I don’t- on purpose?” 

It’s been an exhausting shitshow. Even if a small part of Ilya is guiltily pleased about not having to hide anymore, about not having to lie and tell people that he’s just friends with Shane, that he doesn’t have to bite his love down harder and harder each time they see each other in a crowded room so he doesn’t crack and say something stupid.

Because they had a plan. A good plan. One Shane was committed to even on the days it drove Ilya fucking crazy with the effort of not screaming it all out to the world. Ilya was going to do it, was committed to it just as dedicatedly as he was to Shane. Because Shane’s choice to come out to his parents was already taken from him and Ilya wasn’t about to force Shane into anything he wasn’t ready for.

But here they are. Plan in the trash, all decisions stripped from their hands, and Shane was breaking under the weight of everything crashing down around him. 

His words echo in Ilya’s brain long after their phone call ends, Shane tired enough to pass out on facetime in Ilya’s bed in his home in Ottawa. Ilya hears them as he laces up his skates because his team still has to play even if his heart is already back in that bed with Shane. 

On purpose. 

No one knows Shane the way Ilya knows him. And Shane has been so brave and so strong through everything. Through the meetings with Crowell, the backlash from his own team, the spiraling of the internet. 

What’s worse is Ilya hasn’t been able to see him yet. Not since that night that Shane tripped on accident. It’s been long and hard but at least Ilya’s had the distraction of hockey, of skates on the ice and a team that would never turn their backs on him. Shane doesn’t have that, might not even have a team to go back to. Ilya has had a sea of support while Shane has had his parents and Ilya. What, and Hayden? Rose? 

Not enough. 

He’s relieved when Scott Hunter knocks him out of the playoff, all cocky retorts dead on his tongue because now he can go home to his heart and his future. 

The house is quiet and dark when he walks in, all the shades drawn and curtains pulled tight. The hum of the refrigerator seems the loudest inside the walls, echoing faintly and gently. Shane’s shoes are neat by the door, the pillows on the couch organized and fluffed with the soft throw blanket from Yuna folded neatly over the top. There’s no evidence of life here. 

He finds Shane in the bedroom, kneeling on the floor against the bed like he’s praying, except Ilya knows he isn’t. Shane doesn’t pray, and his shoulders are pulled taunt under the weight of Ilya’s sweater he stole. He doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t acknowledge that Ilya entered the room. 

Ilya approaches him quietly and slowly, lowering himself to crouch next to him, keeping enough space between them for Shane to make the first move. Shane’s head tilts in his direction, but his eyes still don’t move from their unseeing point on the wall. 

“Oh, moy malysh,” Ilya keeps his voice low and steady. “I am sorry I was not here.” 

Shane doesn’t even blink at the words, but his fingers twitch in his lap, knuckles white from how hard he’s been clenching his fists. It’s the slightest movement, but when Shane’s curled into himself like this, wrapped deep inside himself, Ilya recognizes it for what it is: a request. 

He pushes himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, feet wide on the floor. “Kneel for me.”

Voice like steel wrapped in a blanket, he’s able to wade through the depths of Shane’s mind. His body uncurls from its partial kneel against the bed, and he shuffles enough to put his knees between both of Ilya’s legs. His head stays low, chin tucked to his chest, and his eyes stare at a point on Ilya’s calf. 

“You need to feel like mine?” Ilya asks gravelly low, letting the words wrap around him. Shane takes in a shuddering breath, like a drowned man starved for air. “Sweetheart, you are always mine,” he tells him, and watches the tears spring up behind his lashes. “You will always be mine. The rest is just silence.” 

“But it’s so loud,” Shane whimpers. 

Ilya’s heart ribcage swells with the pain that Shane is feeling, the despair and loneliness and fear turning the air sour. “What does it say?”

“I-I’m a liar,” he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut like he can see the words painted behind in eyelids. “I-I don’t deserve the C. I’m w-weak. I’m not e-enough.” 

Ilya grabs his face then, hands gentler than the fury rising in his throat like bile at the words, at the thought of anyone saying those things about his Shane. “Who says these things to you? I will kill them.” He’s serious.

Shane tugging his bottom lip between his teeth is answer enough.

“Oh, you do.”

Shane tries to pull his face away, cheeks flamed red with embarrassment as the first tear falls. Ilya doesn’t let him. He keeps his grip firm on his jaw, keeping him right where he can see him, stripping him bare with his gaze. “You do not get to say these things to yourself,” he tells him, firm.

“But-”

“No,” he says, voice low with intent. “Het, lyubimyy. You don’t get to say these things to yourself. That’s my boyfriend you’re being mean to. Moy solnyshko. Moya lyubov. Moyo vsyo.”

Deep brown eyes drenched in tears glaze over like ice melting. A pressure lifted from exhausted shoulders, a sob escaping its way up a throat that’s been holding in its screams for weeks now. Ilya watches it, tracks the moment and movements of Shane’s body as he begins to crumble in front of him.

“Tell me,” Ilya murmurs, keeping one hand on his chin to hold him steady while the other cups his cheek, thumb brushing under his eye to catch his tears. “Say it.”

“Say what?” Shane is so pretty when he’s confused.

“You are enough.”

“Ilya, I-I ca-”

Ilya slides his hand down around his throat, thumb and forefinger pressing against his pulse point, not to restrict or control, but to hold and rebuild. “Only two words I want to hear from you right now.” 

Shane bites so hard into his lip that Ilya can see the blood start to pool, and quickly pries it out. “Now, Shane.”

It doesn’t happen now. It maybe takes a full minute, Shane’s chest heaving as he tries to dodge Ilya’s steady gaze that pins him in place. Ilya lets him, cool control seeping into the space around him, his grip around Shane’s throat never wavering, the way his love for him never wavers. Slowly, Shane gives in. He meets Ilya’s eyes, timid and filled with a fresh wave of tears, haziness clinging around the edges. 

“I-I’m enough.” It’s weak, small. The way Shane should never feel.

“Again.” Ilya commands. 

“I’m enough.” Better, but still not believable.

“Again, Shane.” 

“I’m enough.”

“Mean it,” Ilya’s tone is low, casual dominance pushing through to blow the final wafts of fog from Shane’s head. 

“I’m enough!” 

It’s a sob. Punched through Shane’s heaving chest like the words are a lifeline to cling to in the suffocating waves he let himself drown in. He moves, so fast Ilya hardly has time to register the shift in their positions, Shane’s arms wrapped tight around his waist and his face pressed into his stomach. His tears damp his shirt immediately, and Ilya cradles the back of his head. 

Ilya can see the acceptance in his eyes when he turns his face up, teeth gnawing gently on the fabric of his shirt. It’s a beautiful, enticing moment. Shane’s brown eyes shining in something like awe up at him behind the tears that are starting to dry. He swipes his thumb over his lower lip, pulling his shirt out from his mouth.

“You are mine,” he tells him, pulling him from the floor and into his lap.

“Yours,” Shane exhales, body going limp in his embrace. 

Ilya scoots them up the bed so he can lean against the headboard, keeping Shane tucked close to his body, both arms around him like he has the ability to both hold him together and protect him from himself. He drops kisses to his damp cheeks, collecting the leftover tears, and when Shane starts chewing on the hem of his neckline, Ilya quickly swipes the fabric from between his teeth and presses two fingers in instead, letting them rest against his tongue.

He feels it then: the collapse. Everything shouldered, everything heavy with burden gone in the wreckage that existed before Ilya’s voice. Shane’s fingers uncurl from their grip in his shirt, his shoulders loosen, and one last choked off sigh echoes from his lips, muffled by Ilya’s fingers. 

“You are enough,” Ilya murmurs into his hair. “Ty dostatochno.” 

5.

The bar is loud and packed with people, celebration in full swing after their first Centaurs win of the season. Their first game of the season, and they won. They won, with Shane’s winning puck to the net with twenty seconds left to the game. So it’s loud, and humid, and Ilya watches Shane across the bar where he's in a conversation with Harris and Luca. Or, well, Luca and Harris are having a conversation, and Shane is nodding when they look at him. 

As if feeling his eyes on him, Shane turns and meets his eye across the bar, a tight smile in place where a happy one should be. Ilya frowns at him and subtly brushes the tips of his fingers over the skin on the inside of his wrist. Shane follows the movement with heavy eyes, then repeats it to his own wrist, and Ilya nods. 

Time to go. 

He doesn’t waste time saying goodbye to his brothers he’ll literally see tomorrow. He just pays the tab for their entire loud group and makes a beeline for Shane. Luca and Harris have already drifted off, so Shane’s alone when he reaches him, face looking dimmer and duller as the seconds tick by. He places a firm hand on Shane’s lower back to guide him out of the bar and notes the way Shane flinches at the contact before pressing back against him. 

The crisp winter air is a relief as soon as they’re outside, and Ilya drops his hand, shoves them into his pockets because he wants to hold Shane, but Shane’s already made it clear that he’s in touch overdrive today. They relax into the car, silent for the first time all day, and Shane sighs and lowers his forehead to the window.

“I’m sorry,” he tells him, breath fogging the glass as Ilya starts the car. 

“Is okay, solnyshko,” Ilya tells him, grateful the bar is so close to their house because Shane needs to be warm and comfortable and silent and soon. “You must not apologize for this.” 

“I made you leave early,” Shane points out. 

“You did not make me do anything,” Ilya reassures, gently, placing his hand palm up on the center console. An option, if he wants to take it. “It was time to go, we go.” He glances at him when his hand isn’t touched. Shane’s head is still against the cool glass, his shoulders curled around him protectively.

Silence lingers for the rest of the drive, not uncomfortable, just heavy. Ilya drives the speed limit even though Shane isn’t nagging him about it, and they pull into the driveway five minutes later. Shane doesn’t move, might not even register that they parked. 

“Was it hard?” Ilya asks to the back of his head, strands of hair falling from the bun atop his head. 

“Winning? No.” Shane monotones.

“What was hard?” Ilya presses gently, and immediately regrets it when Shane’s shoulders tense up, creating a cocoon of himself that leaves Ilya painfully on the outside. He wants to understand, to know what’s going on inside his head, so that he knows how to help and where to soothe. 

But Shane doesn’t say anything else. The silence stretches on until Ilya feels like he might be the one with frayed edges. Left on the outside of whatever war is going on in the walls of Shane’s mine. He’s patient. If Shane needs space he will give it, even if it feels like Ilya might die on his own, he will do it. Because Shane always comes back. 

Finally, Shane’s body unwraps from around itself and he turns slightly, just enough for him to reach a shaking hand out to grasp the sleeve of Ilya’s coat. He’s not looking at him. His eyes are unfocused somewhere along the dashboard, but the grip on his sleeve is desperate, clinging. Something clicks in Ilya’s mind, the surge to defend and protect, his dominance let off its leash. 

“Go inside,” Ilya tells him, taking that edge to his voice. “Eat a granola bar and drink a glass of water. Then wait for me in the bathroom, okay?”

The instructions loosen something in Shane, Ilya can see it. His fingers twitch more into his sleeve for a moment before he’s reaching for the door handle. Ilya watches him leave, walk up to the door and unlock it. He waits, leaning back in his seat and breathing out his nose. Shane trusts him with this, and Ilya’s always a little afraid he’s going to push too hard one day or say something wrong when he’s like this. But Shane reacts and relaxes under his hand, under his guidance, like fresh air being breathed into his lungs for the first time. Shane surrenders to him every time and always comes back brighter and more vibrant. 

He finally makes his way inside, taking his time to toe off his shoes by the door and hang his coat so Shane won’t gripe at him once he’s feeling like himself again. He sweeps through the kitchen, notes the glass now sitting alone in the sink. A granola bar wrapper is sitting on top at the top of the trash when he raises the lid. He smiles.

“You listen so well, lyubimyy,” he praises when he walks into the dim bathroom, the shower running and steam pluming into the air. Shane is leaned over the sink, his arms crossed over the counter and his forehead resting against the granite. His back shakes. “No words,” Ilya tells him, standing close enough for him to feel the heat from his body but far enough to not make him feel cornered. “Can I touch you?”

A choked off sound and Shane’s head lifts from the counter. His eyes are red in the reflection of the mirror, glassy. He nods. 

Ilya works with intention. He wraps one arm around Shane’s waist to hold him up while the other works Shane’s shirt over his head. Once it’s in the hamper, he starts on his pants, pressing Shane’s back to his chest as he undoes the button and slides them down with his briefs. Shane shivers, exposed, but he stays still. 

“Get in the shower,” Ilya speaks right into the shell of his ear. “I will join you.”

Shane movements and slow and uncoordinated, graceful edge of the ice gone. He moves like he’s wading through honey, each step taking effort until he’s standing under the spray. Immediately, Ilya’s hand jerks into the shower, testing the temperature of the water, and he hisses at the heat. “Fuck,” he curses, turning the knob to the right angle, pulling Shane out of scalding spray. “You will burn yourself. It does not matter if you can not feel it right now.”

“‘M sorry,” Shane mumbles, hardly audible over the stream of water. “‘M sorry. Sorry. Sorry.” 

“Hey, no,” Ilya sheds his clothes off and leaves them in a heap on the floor, stepping into the shower in front of Shane. “No, is okay, moya lyubov. You’re okay, I got you.” He cups his face in his hands, thumbs gentle under his eyes. “You are okay, Shane. I am right here.” 

But the words don’t work. Shane keeps mumbling under his breath, his breathing getting more frantic with each forced out word. Apologies and broken pleas drip from his throat and mix into the steamy air. Ilya feels his heart break from it. His words aren’t reaching Shane today, soothing tones lost and the dominant edge a waste. 

He shoves two fingers into his mouth, cutting off the apologies with a wet sound in the air. 

It works. Shane goes silent, eyes opening wide with a sense of wonder leaking from his irises. Desperate fingers claw at Ilya’s wrist, holding him there, like he’s afraid he’ll leave him. Ilya tilts his face up to meet his, his other hand going to the back of his neck, fingers kneading into the tension. 

“No more apologies,” he says, stern. “No more words, yes? Let me take care of you.”

Shane’s lips move around Ilya’s fingers, consonants and vowels forming. He moves his fingers out enough for Shane to say, quietly, hopefully, dazedly, “yours.” 

Ilya’s eyes soften and his heart feels like it’s about to climb out his throat and into Shane’s. He thinks Shane would let him feed him his heart. He thinks Shane would do anything to keep them this close all the time, so that when Shane needs him, Ilya’s heart is already beating inside his chest ready to shine a light in the darkness. 

“Yes,” he agrees, voice wrought with emotion. “Mine. Moy. Vse moyo.” 

Something settles then. Ilya can feel it in the air and see it in the way Shane’s eyes flutter closed. He bites down on Ilya’s fingers, hard enough for him to feel it, but Ilya doesn’t flinch, would never flinch in the face of Shane’s vulnerability. 

They don’t wash. The water cascades down their bodies until it starts to cool, until Shane’s eyes are fluttering from trying to stay open and his breathing is deep and even. He whines when Ilya pulls his fingers out, teeth clenching at the absence, and Ilya shushes him while shutting the water off, reaching for their towels. 

He tries Shane first, slowly, gently, reverently. He dresses him in a soft worn t-shirt and briefs, guiding him slowly towards the bed. Shane’s pliant and sweet, laying back against the pillows with a heavy sigh. 

“Mine,” Ilya tells him, brushing his damp bangs from his face. “Aways mine. Always my sweet Shane.”

Shane preens at the praise, body loose and lax against the pillows. Ilya smiles and just stares at him, in wonder at how someone as perfect as him could be his, could want to be his. But here he is, blissed out and reaching for him like they’ve been apart for too long, like Ilya is the only medicine that exists for him. He goes willingly, curling his fingers around his jaw and pulling his face into the crook of his neck, arm slipping under his shoulders to bring him closer. 

“I would keep you here forever, moy solnyshko,” he whispers into his hair, hand rubbing firm circles between his shoulder blades. “I was made to love you like this.”

And he believes that. Deep in his chest, he doesn’t think he was ever supposed to love somebody the way he loves Shane. It’s all consuming, never changing, as sure as he is that the sun rises and sets, he was meant to love Shane Hollander. Like this and every version of himself that he thinks he needs to hide from the world. 

+1

The hotel room is bland and beige, with overly feathered pillows that Ilya can’t stand because Shane hates them. They were out of foam pillows when the team checked in, and after a quick run to the nearest department store, Ilya managed to find the last two pillows of the exact brand they use at home. 

It also has incredibly thin walls, which Ilya has gotten really good at tuning out in all his years of team trips and sharing rooms with noisy teammates. Besides, they’re only here for one night before they leave for Philadelphia, and he already knows the next hotel they’re scheduled to arrive at will be much nicer. So he can handle it for a night. 

Shane returns to the room with a soft click of the door, hands shaking where they’re gripping the ice bucket to his chest. He exhales a slow deep breath and leans back against the door, head thumping lightly on the wood. 

“Moya lyubov?” Ilya calls gently from the bed. 

Shane’s eyes crack open with a wince, locating him on the worn mattress. Ilya can see how tired he is, how badly their last game got to him. They won a whopping 1-0 against Chicago, and he spent the entire flight dissecting play after play while the rest of the team slept through the turbulence, Ilya included. It could be any number of things bothering him right now: the game, tomorrow's game looming in the back of his mind, the crappy hotel pillows and mattress, the sounds of their teammates laughter echoing through the walls of their floor, the amount of time they’ve been on the road now with no break. 

“I’m okay,” Shane tells him, pushing himself off the door and setting the ice bucket on the desk. “Just gonna shower.” 

Ilya’s already arranged their shower gels and lotions in the bathroom, their toothbrushes waiting in the holders on the counter. “Want me to come?”

Shane shakes his head, an apologetic smile sliding onto his face. “Not tonight.” 

“Okay,” Ilya nods.

The door clicks closed behind him and Ilya already knows. He knows that Shane is riding on empty and that they’re looking at a restless night of tossing and turning if he doesn’t do something about it. He pushes himself off the bed, turns off the big light, and switches on the lamp on the desk. Still too bright, he shuts it off and reaches for their phones, plugging them in on opposite sides of the bed with the flashlights on, face up. It sets a glow to the room, not as demanding or harsh as the others, and crawls back into bed to wait.

It doesn’t take long. Shane might enjoy long showers at home, but on the road he’s eager to get out, not fully trusting the cleanliness of the floors that millions of people have stood in. The water shuts off and Ilya can hear the sounds of products snapping open and closed as he goes through the carefully organized row Ilya set out.

Light streams in from the bathroom when the door opens before clicking off. Shane’s steps falter at the lighting in the room, his eyes shining for the barest of moments. Ilya catches it, always notices the slight micro expressions that cross his face. 

“Thank you for getting the bathroom ready,” Shane says, tone neutral as he makes a beeline for Ilya’s dufflebag, bending at the waist in just his briefs as he ruffles through it. 

“Of course,” Ilya answers eagerly, sitting cross legged on the mattress. “Check the front pocket,” he calls out when Shane pulls out an old Boston sweater, already pulling it over his head. 

Shane looks over his shoulder at him before pulling open the zipper in the front and shoving his hand inside. It comes out holding a small case. He stares at it, then at Ilya. “I thought I left these at home.”

“I keep extra pair,” Ilya tells him. 

Shane makes a choked off noise before padding softly to the bed. He lingers there, shuffling from foot to foot, before holding the ear plug case out to Ilya. “D-do you think…” he trails off, glancing at him from under his thick lashes, looking shy in a way Ilya hasn’t seen since they were teenagers. “I need to be yours. Tonight. Right now.”

Ilya’s breath leaves his lungs at the words and almost forgets to return because Shane has never asked for this. He’s never caught himself in time to recognize what he needs, it’s always on the verge of collapse that he allows Ilya to step in. But he’s standing here in front of him, almost trembling but trying to hold himself still, asking Ilya to take over. 

“Sweetheart,” Ilya draws, voice somewhere between tender and steel. “You are always mine. You know this.” 

Shane’s shoulders deflate at the words, and he finally lifts his head more. It’s open and clear, beautiful in the soft lighting. “I-I just… I’m too me right now. I need to be yours.” 

Their fingers brush as Ilya takes the case from his hand, skin tingling at the brief contact. Shane inhales sharply and grabs a fistful of Ilya’s sleeve, hand shaking, like the contact alone was enough to briefly silent all his worries. 

Ilya covers his hand with his, squeezing. “I am right here,” he tells him. “Come. Lay on your stomach for me.” 

The sigh that fills the room is poignant, and the mattress dips as Shane lays face down next to him, his hands tangling into the comforter. “Yes, perfect,” Ilya says, gruff and deep. “You are mine to hold. Mine to take care of. Moyo vsyo.” He shifts then, crawling over Shane’s body until he can rest his chest against his back, pressing him into the mattress underneath him.

An exhale escapes Shane’s parted lips, furrow between his brow already gone, and Ilya swipes one gentle hand through his damp hair, tucking it behind his ear. “You are mine like this,” he whispers it like a prayer, brushing his lips along the shell of his ear. “You are mine always, as long as you want to be.”

“For always,” Shane breathes, soft and pliant. “Yours for always.” 

“Mine for always,” Ilya agrees, and cradles Shane’s head as he eases a plug into his ear. He lowers him back to the mattress, turning his head to the side for access to the other one. It goes in easy, and Shane goes down easier, body relaxing fraction by fraction until there’s nothing left but warm breaths. 

He presses a gentle kiss to the back of his neck, and another to his shoulder, methodic in placement as he continues to murmur against Shane’s skin even if he can’t hear. “Ty takoy sovershenen. Ty moy. Ya tak sil'no tebya lyublyu.” 

“More,” Shane exhales, tilting his head into the crook of Ilya’s arm. “Please.”

Ilya kisses the top knob of his spine in response and lowers the rest of his weight down. Shane whimpers, soft in the silence of the room, and Ilya pushes his hand through his hair, grabs a fistful, and just holds it. Shane’s lips press gently into the skin on the inside of his elbow in thanks, and Ilya kisses behind his ear in answer: You don’t have to thank me. I am yours too.