Chapter Text
Shane stood in Ilya's foyer, alone. Checked his watch, hung his thumbs from his pockets. Checked again. He knew what flight Ilya had boarded from Moscow, Ilya had texted him when he boarded. He didn't know if Ilya had checked bags, and if so how many. Did he take his time getting out of the airport, brushing his teeth in the bathroom after deplaning, standing in a long airport coffee shop line for a coffee. It was nighttime to Ilya's body, Shane could do that math. 1 pm in Boston, would Ilya stop for lunch? He'd fly first class, probably, not that the portions were bigger, but at least the food would be good. Shane pulled out his phone to see if there was a deli nearby he could order from right now. Maybe it would arrive before Ilya did and Shane could hold up a crinkly plastic bag of sandwiches to distract Ilya from the fact that Shane was standing in his foyer, uninvited, because he wanted to see Ilya. Wanted to hold him after everything he'd been through in Moscow with the funeral and everything it meant that Shane didn't understand, yet.
A quiet roar of engine approached and idled and Shane's stomach flipped. This was a mistake, he thought desperately, panicking suddenly and looking to the door with a held breath. A car door opened and closed. The scrape of suitcase wheels on a driveway. Shane could hear the beep-beep-beep of Ilya's door code. He'd pictured welcoming Ilya home with a shove and kiss (too aggressive). He'd considered waiting on the porch (too visible), the kitchen table (too passive), the bed (gross). Shane kicked the ground, standing so awkwardly, ten feet in front of the door, and waited.
When the door opened, his stomach lurched again. Ilya had a woman with him. Of course he's not alone. He doesn't need you, not like this. Shane wished desperately he had the bag of sandwiches so he could say, "Hey, I was passing through...Boston...and thought you could eat. I've got to go. Good luck with...grieving...Call me later for phone sex."
Before he could say anything, Ilya was in front of him, fast as he was on the ice, Shane hadn't seen him crossing the space, but his body reacted in realtime, all this nerves springing to attention. Ilya's face was unreadable. Tired. Neither of them said anything. They didn't touch. Shane's thumbs still hung from his pockets. Ilya let out a choked sound (Surprise? Awkwardness? Surely, he wasn't laughing.) and his forehead landed on Shane's shoulder. He rolled it left to right, almost a nuzzle. Shane looked over his back at Svetlana--it had to be Svetlana--who was still at the door, watching them with a half-crooked smile. Like Ilya was a puppy who had gotten out of his cage and was doing something naughty that the neighbors would see, so the only appropriate response was, "Can you believe this guy?"
Ilya's forehead stayed on Shane's shoulder, at an angle Shane wasn't sure what to do with. He wasn't sure what Svetlana knew. What Ilya wanted her to know. The space meant something, surely. He finally raised his arm and spread a hand wide across Ilya's back. In response, Ilya looped his arm around Shane's waist until his hand was on Shane's right arm. Ilya's eye sockets were now rubbing across the corner of Shane's shoulder. Shane's fingers brushed up Ilya's spine and along his hairline. Ilya shuddered and exhaled loudly. He wiped his face with his open hand, which had still been holding a duffel bag.
Svetlana said something in Russian. She gestured her head toward the door. Ilya rolled his head to one side to look back over his bent shoulder.
"Svetlana," he began, his tone a level of fond that Shane recognized. "It's..." he continued.
"Jane, I know." She smiled now, at Shane, who attempted a smile back. "Good to finally meet you, Shane. You are very good at hockey."
Ilya stood, finally, fully wrapping his arms around Shane at his waist, standing to his full height. Ilya had been crying into Shane's shoulder, he realized now, and Shane wiped his face with tenderness he'd been holding in reserve since Tampa.
"I'll check in later," Svetland said, in English, following up with something else that sounded teasing in Russian.
Ilya dropped his hand to grab Shane's and walked them both back to the door. "No, no, no," he said, with all the charm he used on Shane when he tried to get out of a post-sex snuggle in favor of a quick shower. "I have been dreaming of you two meeting for, oh, hmm, too long to admit." There was a purr in that hmm that did something to Shane. Ilya reached for Svetlana's hand and guided it into Shane's. They had a sort of three-way handshake and Ilya was so giddy he looked like a little boy. "Come, come! Upstairs. I have the perfect idea." He turned on his heels for Svetlana and Shane to follow him. He grabbed his duffel and rolled his bag toward the stairs, and began speaking quietly to himself. "Too perfect. Unbelievable."
Shane and Svetlana shared an amused but wary look, sure Ilya wasn't about to propose a threesome, but not entirely sure.
Ilya looked over his shoulder, looking revived and genuinely amused. "Shane. Svetlana believes McSorley's stick had nothing to do with the King's losing the Cup in '93."
Shane's eyes bulged. He looked seriously at Svetlana for this first time, assessing her. "What?! You've got to be kidding me. And you call yourself a hockey fan. You think Hull was in the crease in '99 too or are you just anti-Montreal?"
"It's all about momentum, Shane," Svetlana said, "I'm all for rules-"
"McSorley's stick length was illegal!" Shane shouted.
"Half the sticks were illegal, no one was checking! Montreal chose to check because--"
Ilya giggled audibly while Shane tromped behind him. Svetlana all but shouted, speaking animatedly with her hands. "Ilya, my dear, your Jane thinks hockey can be won by flinging the rulebook across the ice. Yes, of course, I see this in your Toronto game last season."
"My Toronto game? Which game?"
"Second period, Juvin was off-sides by an inch. Less! And you fought with the ref. You won, but why? You would have won that game anyway. Same as the Kings."
"Unbelievable!" Shane called out. He knew exactly the call Svetlana was talking about, and yes, he would have won that game anyway, but it was the principle of the thing!
They had reached the bedroom now, and Ilya guided them both, looking as pleased as Shane had ever seen him. "You sit here," he led Svetlana to sit against the headboard. He kissed her forehead and she scowled at him but pulled Ilya's blanket over her feet like she had done it a million times. "You, moy kotoken, sit here." Ilya kissed Shane on the lips so quickly it barely registered. He was still formulating his response to Svetlana.
When Ilya pulled away again, with no intention to sit with them, Shane registered the absence and yanked him back. "Kiss me again, a good one." He sounded scolding.
"So demanding, moy lyubumy." He grabbed Shane's chin and stared at him with a radiant smile. He gave Shane one good, solid kiss. "I will kiss you so much soon. But for now, you and Svetlana have much to talk about. And I am so sticky from the plane. You will fight hockey while I listen from the shower."
And they did. Ilya sidled into the bathroom, leaving the door open. Svetlana barely missed a beat. She and Shane continued on with the greatest debates in hockey. She made good points, Shane had to admit. Ilya was right that the woman knew hockey, maybe, Shane had to admit, with a unique vantage-point as a Russian spectator.
They were deep in debating the legacies of Gretzgy vs Crosby vs Fedorov (who had played with Svetlana's father for some time so Svetlana had seen him up close and thus, had strong opinions on), when Ilya returned to the room, fully clothed in his softest sweats. He said nothing, but grinned like a maniac. Shane could not wait to kiss that mouth, but for now, Ilya climbed onto the bed, laying his head on Shane's lap, his long body laying against Shane's outstretched legs, his feet dangling over the edge of the bed.
"We can make room," Shane said, gesturing to Ilya's position, which looked uncomfortable.
"This one, always taunting Babay. The monster under the bed," she said to Shane. She raised her eyebrows jokingly and Ilya caught her hand and held it in place beside Shane's thigh. His eyelids drooped.
"Is Ovechkin the monster, or is he a God?" he said. His tired grin said he knew Shane and Svetlana had plenty to debate about Ovechkin, too.
While Shane argued with Svetlana, he played idly with Ilya's hair, sure he made the right decision to come.