Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, David Hollander, Anya | Ilya Rozanov's Dog, Yuna Hollander

Additional Tags:

Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Husbands, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Soft Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Humor, Fluff and Humor, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Sex, Feels, Boyfriends, Domestic Boyfriends, Past Domestic Violence, Past Abuse, Complicated Relationships, (familial) - Freeform, Good Parent David Hollander, David Hollander & Ilya Rozanov Bonding, Blow Jobs, Anal Fingering, Ruined Orgasms, Petty Shane Hollander, Autistic Shane Hollander, Light Angst, Angst and Humor, Worried Ilya Rozanov, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov in Love, Domestic Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Domestic, Hoodies, David Hollander and Yuna Hollander Love Ilya Rozanov, Good Parents David Hollander/Yuna Hollander, Diabetic Shane Hollander, Service Animals

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-22 Completed: 2026-08-25 Words: 62,977 Chapters: 15/15

reheating

Summary

“-moya rybka, I am sorry, sweet girl-” Ilya is saying, on his knees in the middle of their living room and patting the rug near him with what looks like devastation on his face as Anya continues to ignore him, curled up on Shane’s lap instead. Fresh off of several stacked events to fit them into a weekend–because Shane’s mom is nothing if not efficient when it comes to the deals she makes–Ilya got home only a few minutes ago, still in the outfit he’d left his Buzzfeed puppy interview in, which Anya had clearly not appreciated, sniffing him suspiciously after her initial excited greeting and then retreating to Shane immediately when he patted his thigh in welcome.

Shane is trying not to be obviously enjoying Ilya’s turmoil as much as he is, shifting Anya to lay on her back like a baby in one arm and cooing at her.

“I know, huh? Papa left and played with who knows how many other dogs, and the whole time you were here missing him. I bet he wasn’t even thinking about you, huh?”

“Hollander!” Ilya says, sounding scandalized. “Do not tell her that! Is not true!”

(collection of standalone fics/ficlets prompted by my own tumblr posts) (will update as inspiration strikes)

Notes

WHAT UP

PLEASE TO ENJOY ME GETTING LOST IN MY OWN SAUCE WITH THESE TWO

inspiration for this chapter: https://www.tumblr.com/penandinkprincess/811081555320651776/thinking-about-shane-after-the-worm-incident

Chapter 1: viral: shane tries jumping on an internet trend

“Do you ever wish you were more athletic?” 

Ilya looks up, blinking once as he processes what the fuck was just said to him, and he isn’t sure which is throwing him harder, the question or the currently-recording phone that’s being pointed at him in a way that he imagines is supposed to be subtle but couldn’t be more obvious if Shane was putting active effort into it. 

Both are warring with how poorly Shane is hiding his delight with himself under a very bad performance of sincerity. 

“What?” He asks, more to gain himself another moment of thinking than an actual question. 

(He barely resists the urge to openly laugh when he sees Shane’s eyes flick down to the screen of his phone, clearly making sure he has Ilya centered in the shot.)

(God, he’s ridiculous.) 

(God, Ilya is so in love with him.) 

“Do you ever wish you were more athletic?” Shane repeats, and even if Ilya couldn’t see the way he’s fighting not to openly smile, his eyes would be enough of a giveaway, clearly so pleased with his fucking awful performance right now. 

He considers calling him on it, teasing him about jumping onto a trend that’s basically already over and still looking like he thinks he’s getting away with something. He doesn’t even know how Shane–so smart, so clever, so strategic–didn’t consider that Ilya absolutely would have seen the trend before him by now, not with the screentime he manages to rack up. Then again, the only way Shane consumes TikToks is via the ones Ilya hand-selects and sends to him, so maybe he just hasn’t sent him any of this trend yet. 

The fact that Shane has then assumed that he’s found an internet trend before him is so absurdly endearing that Ilya almost has to kiss him about it. 

But first…

“I am very athletic,” he says, with all of the snap of a puppy showing teeth. 

“No,” Shane persists, and really, he wonders if his husband ever got away with anything as a child if this is what him trying to trick someone looks like. “Like, do you ever wish you were just really, really athletic?” 

“I am professional athlete,” he says, puffing his chest out a bit. If he’s going to play punchline for Shane’s entertainment, he’ll commit the way he always does when he’s trying to win something. “Is physically impossible for me to be more athletic. Is literally my job.” 

“No,” Shane says, and Ilya rubs his nose for the excuse to cover his mouth when he can’t help but smile at the way Shane can’t even keep a straight face for one single word, so obviously pleased that this “prank” is working. “When you’re on the ice, do you ever wish you were more athletic?” 

“You’re insulting me?” Ilya cries, throwing his arm wide with mock-anger. “In our own home, you are doing this to me? My own husband?” 

“I’m just asking-” Shane starts, but the fragile control he had over his performance shatters, and he laughs. 

Ilya rises and crosses the room in a wall of movement, wrapping his arms around Shane and jostling him. Shane laughs, torn between trying to get loose and trying to angle his phone to capture at least some of what’s happening, dedicated to doing it right because he’s Shane Hollander and incapable of not giving something his best effort. Ilya obliges in playing his part, pressing his face close to Shane’s, forehead against his temple and nose pressed to his cheek, speaking through gritted teeth but barely able to hide his smile as he does so. 

“U nas doma ty tak delayesh?” He growls, pushing hard enough to make Shane’s head tilt as he laughs, unable to even respond. “Kogda ya tak dobr k tebe? You forget how to say “no” in Russian yesterday and I am still nice to you, and you still insult me like this now?” 

“How am I supposed to know how to say no in Russian?” Shane says, sounding happy and smug in a way that makes Ilya want to use that phone camera of his to record something else entirely. “I never hear it.” 

“Here, then,” Ilya says, still playing at angry. “I will remind you: nyet, I do not wish I am more athletic. I am already the most athletic.” 

“Nuh-uh,” Shane protests. “That’s why I’m asking.” And now he’s playful in a way that has nothing to do with a trend and everything to do with who he is. He pulls back enough to smirk. “I just wonder if you feel bad sometimes, not being as good as me.” 

“Neuvazheniye!” Ilya roars.

It’s almost loud enough to drown out Shane’s laughter as Ilya wrestles him to the floor. 

*

In the afterglow, Shane owns up before they’ve even gotten up off of the floor, Shane’s back to his chest, curled together perfectly in a way that Ilya has never experienced with any other person. 

“It’s an internet trend,” he says, head on Ilya’s bicep. “It’s-” He starts to pull up a video on his phone, but Ilya stops him, pushing his hand back down and then pressing a kiss to the back of his head, the space behind his ear. 

“Yes,” he says, amused and still pleasantly buzzing from orgasm. “I have seen.” 

“Damn,” Shane says. “I thought I found it first.” 

Ilya snorts. 

“Rose just sent one to me!” Shane protests. “I thought it was a new thing.” 

“New to senior citizens, maybe,” Ilya teases, running his fingers lightly over the skin of Shane’s hip just to feel him twitch from the tickle before he replaces it with his palm, stroking slow and calming over the soft, warm skin. “Now c’mon. Show me your attempt. Is probably terrible, but maybe my skills are enough to make up for it.” 

“Asshole,” Shane says, still cuddling back a bit more and adjusting to get comfortable before he pulls it up, hitting play. 

*

“You should post it,” Ilya says later, when they’ve cleaned up and started making dinner, meaning that Shane has been banished to chop vegetables at the kitchen island while Ilya handles sauteeing garlic and mushrooms because Shane left to his own devices would refuse to use enough butter to be worth anything. 

“What?” Shane asks, looking up from broccoli dicing so precise that it’s a wonder he didn’t ask for a ruler for the task. 

“The video,” Ilya says, noting Shane’s empty glass and reaching to pull another ginger ale out of the fridge, sliding it down the granite to his husband, who catches it without looking away from him. “It will be good for your image. People will know you do things other than read boring hockey books and probably knit lace things that live on old people side tables.” 

“You’re a dick,” Shane says, but he smiles when he says it. 

And he does, indeed, post the video. 

*

RoseLandryOfficial

really? in front of my salad? (ilya, please explain that reference to shane). (also you guys are cute ❤️).

hllanovtruther879

oh my god. is this real life??? fucking raw on camera would be less intimate than this oh my GOD. 

mrsrozytherealone

it’s hard to see other people live your dreams 😭

HaydenPikeOfficial

no, it’s a fair question, rozanov. DO you wish you were more athletic??

IlyaRozanov-HollanderOfficial

your mother never has complaints 😚

Chapter 2: steamed: shane explores kink and ilya suffers

Chapter Notes

inspiration for this chapter: https://www.tumblr.com/penandinkprincess/811392314623803392/i-feel-like-shane-would-wait-and-think-so-hard-and

Ilya stares at the door for what he knows is an unreasonably long time. 

He’s just not sure how else he’s supposed to respond to it being shut in his face after the words “Oh, also, I don’t need an answer right now but just to think about: what would you think of trying out just fucking me without asking first the next time we see each other?” were said by his boyfriend as casually as if he was asking him to pick up some milk. 

And as if Ilya hasn’t already pushed how long he needs to leave to make it to the airport for his flight to the absolute limit in favor of having more time with Shane, meaning that he needs to leave right fucking now. 

“Shane!” He calls, pounding on the door again. No. Flight be damned, he will not let Hollander have the satisfaction of leaving Ilya as the horny and wanting one at their parting. 

That’s his move. 

“Go get in your taxi!” Shane calls back without opening the door. “Like I said, just think about it! Bye!” 

“No, that’s not-” He’s interrupted by the sound of the taxi driver honking the horn, an unsubtle reminder that this little stolen long weekend has come to an end. 

And that his boyfriend has apparently decided on mindgames as a big finish. 

Letting out a growl, equally annoyed and reluctantly impressed, Ilya concedes, picking up his bag and going to meet the taxi. 

*

He doesn’t bring it up the next time he talks to Shane on the phone, after he’s back in Boston and has sent him a message to let him know and then eaten dinner because he was nagged into doing it even though he’s exhausted. 

“Happy?” He asks Shane when he picks up the Facetime, angling his camera to display his empty bowl. 

“Depends,” Shane says mildly. “Was it food-food or your version of food?” 

Ilya rolls his eyes. 

In the ensuing–affectionate–round of bickering and then the strip tease he puts on despite Shane’s protests that he wasn’t interested even though everything about his face said otherwise and then falling asleep like gross lovesick people in a movie with their phones angled at their faces to drift off together, addressing Shane’s little joke at their goodbye goes unmentioned. 

*

The second time Shane does it is even more devious, and even if Ilya can admit that sure, maybe he’s sent a few sexts throughout the years just to tease Hollander before a game, getting this in his phone from a man whose usual version of dirty talk consists of completely honest answers and no embellishment at all should carry a penalty. If Ilya wasn’t sure that it would probably lead to his death at his boyfriend’s hands, he’d march up to a ref this instant, show them his phone, and demand they throw Hollander in the penalty box for unsportsmanlike conduct, especially in a game they aren’t even playing against each other.  Shane doesn’t even have a fucking game today, so fucking with Ilya’s head like this is purely for sport, which somehow feels mean in a way that Ilya would almost respect if he wasn’t currently the victim of it. 

God forbid the man chirp when he can suddenly learn how to sext, apparently. 

He jumps when a hand lands on his shoulder, slapping his phone facedown against his thigh in what he knows is an uncharacteristic display of fluster but unable to help it when he is so fucking flustered.

Not when there’s a gallery of pictures of cock rings and ball gags on his phone right now with the words, “Are any of these interesting to you?” underneath. 

Marleau lifts his eyebrows, looking amused in a way that Ilya already knows means nothing good for him. 

“I know you’re always saying Russians don’t blush, Roz-” 

“We do not,” Ilya agrees sharply. “No Russians blush. This is not a thing we do.” 

Marleau snorts. 

“Alright, man, if you say so, but those cheeks are looking pretty rosy to me, Rozy.” 

The ensuing wrestling match that happens after Marleau reaches out to pinch one of Ilya’s cheeks blessedly banishes the memory of Shane’s last text long enough to get himself together and make a speech. 

Are any of these interesting to you? 

Jesus Christ. 

*

“Any thoughts about what I sent you before?” Shane asks him two days later on a call, looking wildly and unreasonably innocent for someone who tried to psych Ilya out with sex before a game just for fun. 

Ilya does his best impression of someone who hasn’t been scrolling back up to those pictures and imagining using each one on his boyfriend. Nope. Not him. 

Shane will not get the satisfaction of knowing he got in Ilya’s head. It’ll only give him the motivation to do it more, and as sexy as it is, Ilya cannot afford to start having to go into games rock hard. 

God help him about any rumors that would start up in the locker room. 

“Any thoughts?” He repeats, lifting an eyebrow. “Should I have thoughts?” 

Shane’s face does the thing where he apparently realizes he’s misstepped somewhere in an interaction but hasn’t quite figured out how, suddenly looking a little doubtful and self-conscious in a way other people wouldn’t pick up on but that Ilya sees clearly. Shane shifts slightly in bed, tucking his face against his pillow a little firmer, and it’s resolutely not adorable, the way he tugs on the strings of his hoodie to make the hood fit just a little tighter, like he’s half-hiding from Ilya calling him on his bullshit. 

“No,” he says, and really, if Ilya hadn’t had to struggle to get his head back on straight after that text, he might almost feel bad at the poorly-disguised disappointment on Shane’s face. “That’s okay.” 

Yeah, he thinks with satisfaction at getting his point across. 

It fucking better be. 

*

He’s not sure exactly when Shane Hollander became evil, but it truly is the only explanation for what the fuck has been happening between them so far this year. He and Ilya spent a vacation together at the cottage, confessed their love, became boyfriends, ate pasta with his parents, and now something about the combination of those factors has made Shane a demon who is determined to fuck with Ilya for unknown reasons. 

Shane has turned evil and Ilya can’t even enjoy the end result of that evil because he has also developed a supernatural sense of the exact worse time to express how evil he is now via text or ending line on a phonecall. 

“I feel like “pain play” could be fun, maybe. Maybe like one of those hitting stick things or something? Think about it. Love you, bye.” 

“Have you ever done anything with dripping wax on someone?” 

“No pressure or anything, but here’s some stuff I found about something called consensual non-consent if that sounds like something you might want to try.” 

Ilya is under near-constant attack by the person he loves more than anyone else in the world, and he doesn’t know why. 

Is this supposed to be an incentive to make sure he keeps his word about signing with Ottawa? Is this an attempt to lure him back up to Montreal as soon as possible? Is this a long game of trying to wind him up so he’ll be desperate to fuck Shane by the time they’re back together again? 

(As if the latter isn’t already always the case.) 

It's not as if Shane was ever shy about what he wants in bed, really, not when he dropped to his knees within twenty seconds of their first hookup, but he's always approached things sideways, little hints and non-verbal cues that Ilya has hunted for with pleasure and a distinct satisfaction at being able to get boring, reserved Shane Hollander making beautiful noises and losing his mind over how good he feels. It had made Ilya a little nervous about their first time in a way he'd refused to acknowledge even to himself at the time, wanting Shane desperately after two years of pursuit but also a little worried that Shane wouldn't let him know if something hurt or just didn't feel good, so inexperienced but also always so eager to please. Even with him directly asking, seeking permission with every new element to make sure he wasn't rushing him, Shane's responses had been limited to head nods and noises that had made it an act of divine strength and restraint to continue holding himself back. Shane had been eager and enthusiastic after his initial nerves had burned away under the pleasure, but he hadn't been chatty. 

It's something that hasn't changed with time, really. Shane will out of nowhere hit him with a “You gonna come for me?” when he's feeling feisty and is trying to push Ilya over first, but though he's intoxicatingly vocal in bed, he's almost never verbal, not like Ilya, who gets off on making Shane shudder with filthy words whispered into his ear almost as much as he does getting him off by doing filthy things with the rest of his body against Shane's.

Which is how he knows that this new habit of Shane's is some strange new game he's playing for unknown–and very evil–reasons.

A man who has admitted to drinking the same protein shake every single morning for four years is not a man who is going to suddenly start sending Ilya kink dossiers out of nowhere, after all.

No chance.

The only answer is that Shane has now decided to be evil. 

Now if Ilya could just figure out why. 

*

Ilya wakes up before an early practice, yet again, to the filthiest combination of words he has ever seen. 

He is, of course, immediately, reflexively turned on imagining those words in connection to Shane. 

And then he rolls over and groans into his pillow, grumpily sliding a hand under himself to take care of things before he has to face his day horny for his long distance boyfriend and incapable of thinking of anything else all day as a result.

If Shane’s ultimate goal in this whole thing is driving Ilya literally insane he thinks as he reaches his climax embarrassingly quickly, he’s well on his way there. 

*

He’s had it. He’s simply had it. Ilya likes to think that he is actually a very patient man, especially with Shane, but enough is enough. There’s being teasing and playful and then there’s being a goddamn menace, and Shane has been happily playing jump rope with that line. Enough. The joke has officially crossed over into too fucking much territory. 

Really, if he never has to put his full concentration on trying to get rid of an erection in a corporate-stale conference room full of suits again, it’ll be too goddamn soon. 

“Hey,” Shane says when the call picks up, looking far too happy and sweet-faced for a goddamn menace who just nearly fucked up a very lucrative ad campaign in a very big way, “how’d the mee-” 

“Stop it,” Ilya says, deliberately holding himself back from a snap but still firm. 

“What?” Shane asks, brows drawing together in a way that usually has a 99% efficacy rate in getting him his way. 

Not today, Ilya decides. 

(...deliberately letting the focus of his eyes go a little fuzzy to help reduce the temptation.) 

“The texts and links and little comments before I have to go do something,” he says. “It was funny at first,” it wasn’t, not really, it was exactly as distractingly arousing as it’s remained, but he will not give Shane the satisfaction of knowing that, “but you have to stop. It’s not funny anymore.” 

“Funny?” Shane repeats, and if Ilya didn’t know better, he would think he sounded hurt. “You think it’s…funny?” 

“No,” Ilya says. “I don’t think it’s funny. It’s fucking annoying.” This is harsher than he meant this conversation to go, but maybe that will help get the point across. “Stop doing it.” 

“You don’t want me…asking about that stuff anymore?” Shane asks, and despite his lingering annoyance, Ilya involuntarily feels his stomach clench slightly. Shane sounds hurt by the demand, and everything in Ilya is telling him to stop that hurt, to take back whatever he needs to take back to make the hurt stop. It’s really not fair, Ilya thinks, feeling wildly thrown from the turn this conversation has taken, that he should feel like the bad guy here. 

He’s not the one who texted his boyfriend about his “thoughts and experience” with fisting before a business meeting with Armani. 

“Sorry,” Shane says, and the way he swipes at his face says clearly that his usual restraint of not letting tears fall has failed him here. “You’re right-I shouldn’t-” He cuts himself off. “It’s not what we do.” 

“That’s-” Ilya starts, but Shane doesn’t let him finish. 

Nor does he fully look at him anymore. 

“I have an early morning tomorrow, okay? I need to go. Love you.” 

He ends the call without even waiting to hear it back. 

Feeling two inches tall and not even sure how the fuck that happened, Ilya wonders with a guess that feels like a rock in his stomach if it’s because he wasn’t sure he would. 

Feeling wildly off-center and guilty for no fucking reason, he texts Shane “I love you,” and after a few moments adds a heart that he then backspaces immediately, hitting send before he talks himself back into it.

It remains unread. 

*

It takes four days of persistence to get Shane to answer any text messages beyond good morning/good night/miss you, and three days beyond that to get him to actually pick up a phone call. 

Even then, it takes ten minutes of coaxing to turn the video on. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking unfairly kissable when he’s too far away to be kissed. “You’re right. It was too much. I got too excited about it.” 

Again, Ilya doesn’t know how the fuck he’s ended up feeling like the asshole here, not when he’s been the victim of a sex-based psychological terror campaign and is currently speaking to the terrorist behind it.

But Shane looks too self-doubtful and repentant to avoid it. 

“You never did this before,” he points out, and it’s true. Shane was always enthusiastic, always eager to follow Ilya’s lead, even bold enough to manhandle his way into new positions he wanted to try after he had a few rounds of experience behind him, but it was never anything beyond that, never anything remotely like the things he’s been flashbanging Ilya with. 

Shane mumbles something too low for the phone’s microphone to pick up, and Ilya wishes with everything in him that they were in person right now, together, so he could hold Shane’s chin and tilt it up, could make him speak directly to Ilya and not whatever vague point he’s addressing right now. 

“I can’t hear you,” he says, and it’s deliberately gentler than it could be. 

“I said-” Shane says, and even in the dim light of his bedroom, Ilya can see him flush. “I said, ‘We weren’t boyfriends before.’”

Ilya blinks. 

“I mean, it’s not like we were…really actually vanilla or anything,” Shane Hollander using the word vanilla in relation to sex is an unexpected delight to hear, and Ilya wishes he had the space to enjoy it, “but we didn’t have time for some of this stuff, and…” 

“And?” Ilya prompts when Shane doesn’t continue on his own, settling down on his side on the couch. He’s not sure it’ll work as well when it’s happening through video call, but he’s learned through the years that getting lower than him–ducking down or laying beside him on the bed and leaving Shane sitting up–sometimes helps Shane work up the nerve to say something he’s hesitant about, like being taller than Ilya gives him a little extra power. 

(As if he hasn’t already had a terrifying amount of power over Ilya for years.)

“It’s not stuff you do with like…just someone you’re fucking?” Shane tilts his head slightly, clearly trying to get his words in order. 

Ilya considers letting Shane in on the secret that it was never “just fucking” between them, Shane clearly not experienced enough in casual sex to realize that theirs has always been anything but. 

In the moment, though, he’d prefer to take it one disconnect at a time. 

“So being boyfriends has made you sex freak?” He teases, making sure to keep his expression easily readable when Shane looks to the screen sharply. He remains open, obviously amused, making it easy for him to parse that he’s teasing. 

He sees Shane go a little more relaxed in response. 

“I mean, I already wanted to do a lot of it,” Shane confesses, and oh, doesn’t that fill Ilya with a dangerous amount of horny, imagining Shane beneath him for years thinking about all of the other things he wanted Ilya to do to him. 

“So you had to ask for it all now by attacking me with sexy thoughts before I have other things to do?” He asks, lifting his eyebrows. It’s really the main point of the issue. He wouldn’t mind some flirty sexting, really, but he’d rather it happen when he has time to actually do something about it other than white knuckle his way through something not meant for erections to be present. 

“I was letting you think about it!” Shane protests, earnest and clearly a little offended that Ilya doesn’t seem to appreciate the thought he apparently put into this. “I didn’t want you to think I had to have an answer right away! I was sending it before other stuff so you could think about it and get back to me after.” 

He really means it, Ilya thinks with equal parts exasperation and affection. In that beautiful, mysterious mind of his, Shane Hollander thought that sending him thoughts and research about kinks of varying degrees of filthy before stretches of time he couldn’t respond in was the more polite option, giving him a built-in excuse to wait before responding. 

His one miscalculation in this, however, is that that waiting would then be torture. 

Beautiful, awful, ridiculous man. 

Ilya is filled with so much love for him that it almost aches. 

“I’ll stop,” Shane says. “What we do is already always really, really good, and it’s not fair for me to ask-” 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Ilya cuts him off, reoriented from being gross and lovesick in an instant under the threat of Shane overcorrecting into never sharing what turns him on and asking Ilya to do it to him. 

The very thought sends a chill down his spine. 

“That is not the problem,” he says sternly. “If something turns you on, I want to hear about it, okay? If you want to try something, if you think of something you want to talk about, you tell me, yes? I do not want it to be secret for you.” Mystery solved, it’s important to him, making sure Shane isn’t afraid to bring him things in the future. He doesn’t want Shane feeling like he can’t talk to Ilya about new things he wants to try out. They weren’t bad ideas, after all. 

Just badly timed ones. 

Tentatively, Shane nods. 

Ilya smiles and then lets out a breath, rolling onto his back. 

“But just not before I am going to have to go into business meeting or game and pretend I am not thinking only of how much I want to fuck my boyfriend, okay?” 

Shane smiles. 

*

The next time they’re together in person again, it takes two rounds of sex before either of them is calm and rational enough for actual conversation. 

Even then, Ilya floats for a long time in the afterglow, pressed close to Shane’s back and stroking along his side and hip and thigh in the slow, firm motions that always help bring him back down when Ilya’s wound him all the way up and left him trembling from pleasure. He leans forward now and nuzzles at the back of his head, ducking slightly to press kisses to the warm skin at the back of his neck. 

“Back with me, malysh?” He asks, keeping his voice deliberately soft. He’s learned over the years that Shane startles easily at loud noises in the aftermath of sex, like orgasming has removed some layer of defense he has in how he interacts with the world. Ilya is always careful to stay quiet in that time accordingly. 

“Mmm,” Shane says in a hum that sounds like agreement but also sounds like he’s already half-asleep. 

Ilya smiles, kissing his way up to his hairline and then down onto his jaw. 

“So sleepy,” he teases, nipping at his throat gently, “and here I thought we could pick out a couple of the many ideas you sent me that we could try out this weekend.” 

Shane tenses for a moment so thoroughly that Ilya is about to take it back, afraid he’s pressed at something painful by accident, something Shane isn’t ready to be teased about just yet. 

When he turns over, though, still graceless but seeming much more awake than he was just a second before, he looks anything but insulted. 

“Really?” He asks, barely managing to contain his clear excitement. 

God, I was always going to be doomed to love you, Ilya thinks with equal parts warmth and despair. 

And then he pins Shane to the bed to start reviewing his favorite ideas. 

Chapter 3: thorn in his side: working through ilya's jealousy of rose

Chapter Notes

basis of this chapter (thank you to wildthoughtappeared for playing idea pingpong with me!): https://www.tumblr.com/penandinkprincess/811698014884347904/the-idea-of-ilya-being-so-mad-specifically-because

“-and what if I am…an actress?” 

Shane’s arousal in the moment at the prospect of a little roleplay takes a rather abrupt nosedive as he pulls back to give Ilya an unimpressed look. Ilya’s hand remains on the back of his neck from where he’d pulled him in to speak into his ear, but he doesn’t stop Shane from moving. 

(He never does, after all. Any restraint Ilya applies to him is only as strong as Shane’s acceptance of it. It’s part of what makes it so fucking hot, really.) 

(...now if Ilya would let go of this as easily as he lets go of Shane on command.) 

“Why the fuck are you so bothered about this?” He asks, and when Ilya scoffs and rolls his eyes, Shane rolls his in response. “It was two fucking times, Ilya-” 

“And yet she is still texting you four times an hour every hour,” Ilya sulks.

“She has texted me three times today total,” Shane corrects. “And that’s because I asked her to tell me how her first day on the new set was going.” 

“So sweet,” Ilya says flatly. 

“It’s-” He starts, but Ilya’s interest in this conversation apparently wanes, and Shane finds himself flipped from his position on Ilya’s lap to flat on his back, Ilya a long line of hard muscle against him. 

“Seriously,” he says, but he’s already tilting his head back when Ilya noses at his jaw, “she and I-oh fuck.” 

Discussing Ilya’s unwarranted jealousy of his ex-girlfriend abruptly becomes so much less important than Ilya’s lips at his throat. 

And much, much less important of those lips migrating other places on his body. 

They can discuss it later. 

(...much later.)

*

“-and Rose said she’d like to grab lunch or something when she’s-” Distracted by the way he’s multitasking in prepping his breakfasts for the week while Facetiming with Ilya, he almost misses the look of distaste that flashes across his boyfriend’s face. 

Almost. 

“What?” He asks, genuinely thrown for a moment, mind too fractured into trying to have a conversation and also remember what ratio of protein powder to oats he remembers liking best because he can’t find where he wrote it down. Then he remembers the conversation they’d circled around a few times but not really gotten into at the cottage before they went their separate ways for the season, Shane back to Montreal and Ilya back to Boston. 

Back to Boston to pout about Shane wanting to get lunch with his friend who just happens to be his ex, apparently. 

“Nothing,” Ilya lies, sniffing once and rubbing at his nose with a knuckle. “Is nothing. I am just surprised you have time in your schedule for random lunches with random people. I have seen your calendar before. Presidents of countries have more freetime.” 

“Do you not want me to get lunch with Rose?” Shane asks. He’ll have some problems with it that will almost definitely turn into a fight if the answer is Yes, but he’d at least like to actually know the answer. 

Nothing he’s come up with on his own has made sense, after all. 

“Get lunch with whoever you want, Hollander,” Ilya says, and it’s an effort not to make a face at being last named because Ilya is Mystery Pissed about something. “I am not your mother. I do not control your schedule.” 

“So you won’t care at all if I meet up with Rose next Tuesday and get lunch with her?” Shane asks, because he refuses to try and read between the lines when Ilya is trying to slam the book shut in his face like this. 

“Get dinner with her, too,” Ilya suggests. “Even brunch. This is something the Hollywood type enjoys doing, yes?” 

“The ‘Hollywood type’?” Shane repeats, and he can’t help the laugh in his voice when he repeats it. 

“Yes,” Ilya says, not seeming nearly as amused. “All of the people with their fake hair and fake tan and giant sunglasses in magazines. They are always going to brunch.” 

“Rose doesn’t do fake tan,” Shane says, finding the idea of Ilya perusing Hollywood magazines enough to have opinions about them wildly endearing. “Her makeup artist says she’s a ‘winter,’ whatever that-” 

“Winter, yes,” Ilya agrees, sounding far too pleased now. “Cold, annoying, depressing, good to see gone in spring each year.” 

“Ilya,” Shane says, trying so hard not to smile at how ridiculous this is but failing badly. “She’s really-” 

“No more talk of cold Hollywood people and their stupid fake hair and boring clothes,” Ilya interrupts. “Talk to me again about this oat paste you are making. I am still not seeing how it is better than McGriddle.” 

“Ilya, seriously-” Shane tries, wanting to finally put this Rose thing behind them, but Ilya has apparently made his mind up to be annoying until Shane drops it. 

“McGriddle has sausage and pancakes. This oat paste you are having has only sadness and disappointment. I can tell. It cannot be good for your morale.” 

Shane hesitates for just a moment, but maybe this is something best handled in person, not over video call when they’ve both already had long days with the season starting back up. He takes the bait and lets Ilya have his out. 

“First of all,” he corrects, “they’re called overnight oats, not oat paste-” 

*

It’s possible that bringing up the conversation about Rose by putting on one of her movies after he and Ilya have had dinner during a rare long weekend together is underhanded and a little bit mean. 

On the other hand, it’s also currently getting him fucked like Ilya is trying to drive him through the mattress. 

So there’s nuance. 

“Oh, fuck, fuck, Ilya-” He pants out when he’s been manhandled to a position that makes his vision stop working for a few seconds. He tries to say Ilya’s name again, knowing it gets him going and trying desperately to even the playing field, but an especially good thrust instead has his head arching back and a noise he didn’t know he was capable of making escaping him instead. 

From the shudder that goes through Ilya, it seems like it was still pretty effective. 

Ilya has been keeping up a long stream of Russian growled into his ear and pressed into his skin and whispered into the crook of his knee when Ilya had his leg over his shoulder, but despite his lessons so far, Shane hasn’t picked up most of what’s been said beyond the things he already knew like “so good” and “darling” and “so fucking beautiful for me,” which had certainly been plenty to understand. He whines through his nose when Ilya pulls out of him, but he goes willingly, flipped onto his front. He tries to stay on his hands and knees, but Ilya presses a hand to the front of one of his thighs and tugs, sending him flat on his stomach. 

(His complaints about the manhandling cease when Ilya resumes trying to drill him through to the floor.)

Ilya’s voice is a growl right into his ear in this position, face tucked tight to Shane’s. He has one hand around Shane’s throat–not squeezing, not hurting, just holding, possessing in a way that makes Shane feel a little lightheaded even without his airway restricted–and another around his belly, tugging Shane up into every thrust as if Shane isn’t already doing his best to accomplish just that on his own. Absurdly, given the negligible size difference between them, it makes him feel small in a good way, this kind of sex, Ilya all around him and in him and drowning him in pleasure and Russian and sinfully good angles of Ilya’s cock in his-

Between strings of Russian he can’t parse, Shane picks out the words “Rose Landry” and his enjoyment of the moment takes a massive hit. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He says, pulled out of the moment in an instant and pissed about it as a result. 

Ilya stopped moving the moment Shane stopped being pliant in his hold, hands suddenly careful, tentative until he finds out what happened. 

“What?” He asks, and his voice is soft in a way his fucking was not just a second before, clearly afraid that he’s hurt Shane or done something that’s made him want to stop. 

He has, but not for the reasons Ilya is probably afraid of. 

With a display of willpower he’s actually pretty proud of, he slides himself up the bed until Ilya has slipped out of him, aided by the way Ilya pulls back at once when he reads what Shane is trying to do. When Ilya tries to pull away completely, though, to give Shane space without touching him, Shane hooks a leg around him and pulls him back. 

“You’re bringing her up while fucking me?” He demands, incredulous and also annoyed that he just lost out on what was going to be a fucking amazing orgasm because of Ilya’s weird jealousy about Rose. He’d wanted to have a talk about her, yeah. 

But not while Ilya was inside of him, Jesus Christ.

With the confirmation that Shane isn’t hurt or uncomfortable with something they were doing, Ilya’s face loses its softness, going distant and arrogant in a way that’s immensely irritating given the fact that Shane now knows it’s an act. 

“You have misheard,” Ilya says, blatantly lying and thus pissing him off further.

Shane gets his fingers around the skin of Ilya’s hip and pinches hard in reprimand, getting a slap to the hand for it. 

“I didn’t catch the other stuff,” Shane says, unimpressed, “but you definitely said Rose Landry, and I definitely heard it. Don’t fucking lie to me.” He lets that sit for a second, holding Ilya’s gaze. “What did you say?” 

“It does not-” Ilya says, and he’s the one to look away first for once. He starts to pull away again. 

“Yes it does matter,” Shane says, wrapping both legs around him now. If Ilya wants to run from this conversation, he’s going to fucking work for it. 

(It’s not as if Shane has anywhere else to put the frustration of being blueballed, after all, he thinks, annoyed and petty about it.)

“What did you say?” He demands again, ignoring the way Ilya gives a half-hearted effort into trying to push his thighs away. 

“I said,” Ilya says, giving Shane an annoyed flick to the knee and still not looking at him, “‘Did Rose Landry make you feel this good?’” He meets Shane’s eyes now, defiant. “Happy?” 

Yes, kind of, but probably not for the reasons Ilya would think. 

“You’re so stupid,” he says fondly, and when Ilya’s head flinches back like Shane has slapped him, Shane pulls himself into a sit-up, legs still around Ilya, and draws him into a kiss, pulling away to kiss along his cheeks, his jaw, his nose, his forehead, dropping a “stupid” between every touch of his lips. 

“Stop,” Ilya says, but he isn’t truly struggling. “You are being very fucking rude.” 

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Shane says, with a final three kisses to Ilya’s mouth, pulling back but still holding his beautiful, stupid face between his hands. “Is Rose Landry the person in my bed right now?” 

“That’s not-” 

“Is Rose Landry the person I ate dinner with?” 

“She’s-” 

“Is Rose Landry the person I waited weeks to see for a weekend?” 

“That’s-” 

“Is Rose Landry the person I took to my cottage with me over the summer?” 

“She could have-” 

“Is Rose Landry the one in the groupchat with my parents?” 

“You might-” 

“Is Rose Landry the person I love so much I want to spend the rest of my life with him?” 

Ilya doesn’t seem to have a response to that one. 

Shane kisses him again and then lays back down, pulling Ilya with him to lay over him like a blanket, a warm, reassuring weight. He wraps one arm around his shoulders and presses Ilya’s head to his shoulder with the other, threading his fingers through his curls. He presses a kiss to Ilya’s head. 

“You act like you’re competing against her in a face-off,” Shane says softly. “You’re not. You already won, Ilya. You don’t have to keep fighting.” 

Ilya’s arms wrap around him almost tight enough to hurt. 

Shane says nothing, just strokes through his hair gently until Ilya is ready to let go. 

*

“I just don’t get it,” Shane says later, after they’ve resumed sex, though as something gentler, face to face, slow and steady as the tide, finishing almost gently, breathing the same air, pressing lips to skin blindly, coming down together with little tremors, pressed chest to chest like they can climb into each other’s rib cages if they just try hard enough. 

“Hm?” Ilya says, and the hum vibrates from his chest into Shane’s from the way they’re still pressed together, Shane sprawled half over him, head on his shoulder. 

“I told you she and I aren’t compatible,” he says. “You even looked up the definition. She and I wouldn’t work.” 

Ilya is quiet for a long time, hand massaging idly at the muscles in Shane’s neck in a way that almost has him asleep before Ilya’s managed to find a response. 

“Does she know that?” 

Shane frowns at the question, lifting his head up and pushing Ilya’s hand into place to support it so he doesn’t have to hold it up on his own. Ilya looks faintly amused at being used as a prop, but he allows it. 

The same way he allows everything from Shane except, apparently, his friendship with Rose. 

“Does she know what?” He asks, genuinely confused. “That the sex sucked? Yeah. She was there for it.” 

Ilya makes a doubtful noise, looking away, and Shane reaches to pull his chin back to make Ilya face him. 

“You’ve had sex with so many people, Ilya,” he points out. “And I’m fine with it,” he mostly is, at least, so long as he doesn’t think about it too long when he’s already mad at Ilya during a fight. “Why are you so mad at me having sex with one person?” 

Ilya’s eyes search his face, and he almost takes it back because Ilya looks so genuinely sad, so uncertain suddenly. 

“I don’t understand,” he says, voice a little tight. “How she could have had you and let you go. Is impossible. I cannot imagine it.” 

There’s really nothing Shane can do after hearing something like that but kiss Ilya until he feels a little dizzy, but after a few moments, he makes himself pull back. 

“When it was me with other people…” Ilya trails off, and Shane can see him trying to find the words in Russian and then also try to put them into English. He waits patiently, letting him take his time, rubbing his thumb over the crucifix resting on Ilya’s chest, smooth metal, warm skin, smooth metal, warm skin. “They were…fun,” Ilya finally says carefully. “And I enjoyed, but there was nothing else. They are like…snacks?” He says on a guess, and Shane can’t help but pull a face. 

“Pretty sure if you call someone a snack, that’s a good thing. People say it in comment sections all the time.” 

“Oh, and you are internet slang expert, Mr. ‘I Saw It On Twitter. A Lot of People Are Twittering About It.’?”

“Hey,” Shane protests, “twittering makes more sense, especially when it’s called Twitter. If it’s supposed to be a bird app, it makes more sense for the verb to be twittering when-” 

Ilya pulls him into a kiss in a blatant move to not start that discussion again, and Shane allows it. 

(Though he still maintains that twittering makes more sense as the verb.) 

“Other people, they were like snacks,” Ilya says, picking up his line of thought. “Fun, yes, and good for a little while, but I could not live on them, and I didn’t want to. They could not satisfy me in here,” he presses a hand over his heart that he then uses to cup Shane’s face. Shane turns into the contact, pressing a kiss to Ilya’s palm before returning his cheek into position. “They were not you, not ever. With you, it is different. Was different, always. I could not admit it at the start, but it has always been you, really. I think sometimes I did not start life–real life–until I met you.” Ilya’s thumb against his cheekbone strokes softly over his skin, likely over his freckles given how much Ilya loves them. “Even if you were very annoying and awkward the entire time.” 

“Okay,” Shane says flatly, pulling away and flopping down onto the mattress but still going willingly when Ilya uses a hand at his hip to turn him so they can face each other. Ilya keeps hold there, squeezing gently, thumb moving in small, slow circles over his hipbone. 

“Even that first time, was different than everyone else,” Ilya says. “And it just kept being different. And better. With you, it was unlike with anyone else, always. Other people, they were fun, but you…” Ilya shrugs, apparently reaching the end of what he can put into words. 

“It was always different for me, too,” Shane offers. “With you, it was-” He hesitates, just a second, about something he’s never told anyone else before. 

But fuck it. Ilya’s always gotten from him what no one else has. 

“It was the first time I ever wanted to be having sex while I was having it.” 

Ilya looks concerned for a moment, and the hand at his hip pauses, so Shane rushes to explain. 

“Not like-not like anyone made me, really. I wanted to want it so I would, but it was just like…get it done and say I did it. Then I met you and suddenly I wanted it, suddenly it felt good without even trying. Before that, it was always, like…” He tries to explain it in a way that makes sense, the belief that he could just try his way into liking sex instead of it just feeling like something to check off on a list, the same way he would a machine on his workout circuit. “Like I knew I was supposed to like it, and I just couldn’t, and that made it worse because everyone was talking about how great sex was all the time and it just. Wasn’t. For me.” He smiles slightly, reaching out to push a curl away from Ilya’s face, sliding his hand down to rest it against his neck, feeling the thrum of Ilya’s pulse beneath his palm. “But with you, it’s like…like it just clicked, you know? Why people liked sex so much. It’s like my brain just turned off and it was just-just feeling, like I could finally just let go and feel good. Without having to try to make it happen. It just. Happened.” 

Ilya is studying him closely, thumb stroking over his hip again. 

“And it was…not like this? With Rose Landry?” 

Shane’s distantly amused at the way Ilya keeps full naming her even now, but he just shakes his head. 

“I wanted to want her because I supposed to, but I never did. I only ever wanted you, Ilya. It was always you. When I say that she and I trying to have sex was a disaster, it’s because it was. It wasn’t good for me, and it definitely wasn’t good for her.” 

“Sex with you is always good,” Ilya says. “I know you do not like women, I understand this, but it was sex with you. How was it disaster when it was with you?” 

“Well,” Shane says wryly, lifting his brows slightly. “There’s the whole ‘I’m gay, so she wasn’t doing it for me physically’ thing.” 

“Hm,” Ilya says, and for the first time there’s some levity in his expression. “Yes, you do love a cock in your mouth. I can see this being complicating factor.” 

“Fuck you,” Shane says, lifting a leg to kick him on the shin, but he’s smiling when he says it. “I have tried it out with a couple of other guys, you know.” 

“Oh?” Ilya asks, seeming insultingly surprised. “You have left trail of satisfied men and broken hearts across the country, then?” 

“No, asshole,” Shane says, moving to kick him again but finding himself with his leg captured, Ilya pulling it to rest over his hip, bringing them closer together. Ilya’s fingers dig into the muscle of his thigh, and he’s fully aware that a little bit more of that, and they’ll be ready for another round of sex. 

Probably better to finish up this conversation sooner rather than later, then. 

“It was two guys, one on vacation in Cancun and another in LA. I thought it was just being with men, maybe, so I wanted to try it out, but I had to wait until I was somewhere no one would recognize me, and even then, I was still afraid they were just lying so they could sell a story to TMZ later.” 

Ilya makes a sympathetic noise. 

“They didn’t, obviously, and it was…fine, both times. One was just blowjobs and the other we actually had sex, and it was better than with women, yeah, but it wasn’t you. Nothing’s ever as good as with you.” 

“I am very talented,” Ilya agrees, because he is terrible and awful and Shane really doesn’t know why he loves him. 

(This is a lie.) 

“Prove it,” Shane says with a play-growl, pushing Ilya onto his back and straddling him. 

Ilya grins. 

*

“Nothing’s ever as good as with you for me, too,” Ilya says into his ear softly later, when Shane is half-asleep, lulled by good sex and Ilya’s gentle hands wiping him down with a warm cloth and then gathering him close. “You are the best I have ever had.” 

“I am very talented,” Shane says sleepily. 

He falls asleep to the sound of Ilya laughing. 

*

“I gotta say,” Rose says cheerfully, “this is among the weirder asks I’ve had from an ex.” 

Shane snorts, trusting that the noise will carry on the phone as he pokes his head into Ilya’s living room, looking for him. The game they played today was fun but brutal, so they’d both been tired and knocked out on the couch together after returning to Ilya’s house afterwards. Shane had woken first and decided to act on the thought he’d been having recently, walking away to dial Rose’s number and then planning to return to find Ilya sitting up, groggy and disoriented after losing Shane’s warmth beside him. 

It’s usually what wakes him when Shane gets out of bed first, after all. 

“I’m serious,” Rose says. “Usually it’s the opposite.” 

“Yeah, well, the opposite would not be helpful,” Shane says, spotting Ilya on his patio with a cigarette. He rolls his eyes. Ilya’s been better at reducing how much he smokes, but Shane knows it’s his niece’s birthday soon, so he’ll give him a pass on this one. 

He will also hopefully have a least a little something that might cheer him up a bit. 

(Hopefully.)

“Hey,” he says, poking his head out of the sliding door. 

Ilya turns to face him, clearly waiting to be told off for smoking, but Shane just extends his phone. 

“It’s Rose,” he says, and Ilya blinks, like he’s not sure he just heard what he just heard. “I don’t wanna say anything she doesn’t want me to about it, but I asked if she would tell you that the sex was bad and she has no interest in ever doing it again.” 

Ilya blinks again. 

Shane lifts his phone again in an offer, insistent. 

“You are not serious,” Ilya says. 

Shane judges the distance to the neighbors and then puts the phone on speaker. 

“Rose, you’re on speaker and we’re outside so nothing too bad, but what did I call you to say?” 

“You called–oh, hi, by the way, Ilya!–so I could tell him that you’re very sweet and tried very hard to be heterosexual for me, but the less said about us in bed together the better.” She sounds perfectly happy with this, which does a good bit in not hitting Shane’s pride too hard. 

“Here,” Shane says, taking it off of speaker and handing the phone to Ilya. “Talk to her. Ask her whatever you want. I said she can tell you whatever she’s comfortable with.” 

“What are you doing?” Ilya asks, looking truly thrown as he catches Shane’s wrist before he can walk away. 

“I don’t want you to worry about me leaving you one day because I secretly want someone else,” he says. “That sounds fucking miserable. I want you to know that it’s you and me, always. There’s nothing with Rose because there’s nothing with anyone else. Me being with Rose was upsetting for you. I want to fix it, if I can. I don’t want you to ever doubt how much I love you. Because I do. A lot.” 

Ilya is still for a moment, and then he pulls Shane into a kiss with enough passion behind it that it’s lucky Ilya is holding his phone because Shane thinks he would have dropped it otherwise. When he’s finally released, he’s a little dizzy, but he can hear Rose’s voice coming through the phone, tinny and indistinct. Still breathing heavily, he lifts it to Ilya’s ear. 

“Talk to her,” he says, pulling back. When he’s almost to the door, he turns back. “And be nice.” 

“I’m always nice,” Ilya tells him before standing straighter, adjusting how he’s holding the phone. “Hello, Rose Landry,” he says, business-like and official. “I hear you have fucked my boyfriend.” 

Shane snorts and leaves them to it. 

*

He doesn’t startle when arms wrap behind him about twenty minutes later, when he’s pulled things out for dinner and started chopping vegetables. Ilya moves with him easily when he reaches for a bell pepper and starts slicing it into neat strips. 

“Well?” He prompts, when Ilya doesn’t offer anything but his continued presence at Shane’s back. 

“Poor woman,” Ilya says, nuzzling behind his ear and then pressing a kiss to the skin there. “At least you are enough of a gentleman to eat her out, but she must have been very confused when you wouldn’t even look at her while fucking. Very rude to do a lady.” 

“Fuck you,” Shane says, feeling his ears heat. 

“Mmm,” Ilya says, pressing his hips into Shane’s ass and grinding there. “Yes, please. I think it will end much better for me than her, yes?” 

“You think so, huh?” Shane asks dryly, setting his knife to the side and turning, letting Ilya boost him up to sit on the counter. 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees solemnly, tipping Shane’s head to the side and kissing along the column of his throat, biting gently, not enough to leave a mark but enough to feel the threat of teeth on sensitive skin, making Shane shiver. “I am not poor Rose Landry.” 

With that, he hauls Shane up, Shane’s legs wrapping around his waist automatically. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Shane says, laughing, as he’s dropped backwards on the sofa. 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, stripping his shirt off in one motion and then leaning forward. “And yet you love me anyway. This is very embarrassing for you, I think.” 

“Yes, it-” Shane’s sass cuts off when Ilya slots his leg between both of his, pressing up until there’s enough pressure to be distracting, backtalking becoming suddenly much less important that grinding against his boyfriend’s thigh as Ilya presses hot kisses up his neck, one hand slipping under his shirt and moving up towards his chest. 

He decides knocking Ilya’s cockiness down a few pegs can wait. 

(At least until he’s made use of the cockiness that isn’t annoying.)

Chapter 4: to have and to hold: ilya's reflections on his father as a husband

Chapter Notes

post this is based on: https://www.tumblr.com/penandinkprincess/811707044902174721/forever-thinking-about-what-ilya-has-to-be

mind the updated tags! deals with past abuse and ilya thinking about complicated family dynamics and complex feelings about those dynamics.

It’s Shane dropping a glass jar of juice that shatters on the tiled floor of their kitchen that first sparks the thoughts, just a few weeks after their marriage. 

“Son of a bitch,” Shane hisses under his breath, stepping back carefully to avoid the juice spreading back towards his white socks while also trying to avoid stepping on glass, Anya thankfully safe in the yard for the moment. 

“Is okay,” Ilya says, already reaching for paper towels. “Just an accident.” 

“Well, yeah,” Shane says, tilting his head in the way that says Ilya’s said something he doesn’t quite follow. “I definitely didn’t do it on purpose.” 

Ilya starts to speak, to say…what, exactly? There’s tension in his shoulders, and he doesn’t quite know why, but he’d been assuming that it would be the same for Shane, that he would be upset, that Ilya would need to tell him it was alright. 

But Shane seems…fine. Annoyed at his own uncharacteristic clumsiness, certainly, and probably already thinking about how he’ll have to go back to the store for more juice at some point, but Ilya can speak Shane’s body language as well as he can his mother tongue at this point, and there’s none of the tension there that Ilya feels in his own body. 

“Are…you okay?” Shane asks, brows furrowing a bit in concentration. “It was your juice.” 

“It’s fine,” Ilya says, and he doesn’t know what it is that he feels inside after Shane says that. It was his juice, yes, but the idea that Shane might even think Ilya would be upset about it makes him feel a little ill. “It wa-careful!” 

He stops Shane coming closer when his foot lands perilously close to a shard of glass Ilya can only see because his angle towards it makes the light reflect off of it. Shane looks around himself at his slowly shrinking island of unjuiced tile and seems to make an executive decision, lining himself up and then making a jump for the counter, landing with a bit of a slide and then sliding himself down further until he can hop off the end. Apparently feeling funny, he gives Ilya a gymnast's salute at his dismount, and Ilya smiles, giving him an appreciative clap. 

“Good to see Canada turning out some gold medal potential for the next games. Their hockey team certainly isn’t looking good.” 

“Go fuck yourself,” Shane says over his shoulder with a middle finger. “I’ll grab the broom.” 

When Shane is out of the room, he lets his smile drop, rubbing at the strange, foreign tightness behind his breastbone. 

Then he kneels and starts spreading paper towels over the mess, red juice blooming on white like blood on snow. 

*

He’s still thinking about it late that night, when Shane is a heavy, warm weight on his shoulder, breath moving in slow, steady bursts of air over his skin, normally enough to soothe him to sleep along with him. 

But not tonight, not when the memory of panic without a purpose is still so fresh. 

He remembers the rush to fix broken things as a child, to hide burned food, to fold clothes left in the laundry basket before his father returned home and found them still undone. He remembers the near-desperate work ethic his mother had in trying to make the house perfect, a never-ending cycle of trying her best and being found wanting anyway. 

Shane makes a soft noise in his sleep, drawing Ilya’s attention. His eyebrows are drawn together like he’s upset about something, and Ilya reaches out with his free hand, stroking his fingers gently through his hair, trying to press as much love and calm as he can in the touch. 

“Shh,” he soothes. “Is alright.” 

Whether from Ilya’s efforts or just the natural progress of a dream, Shane’s expression smooths, his husband letting out a deep sigh and managing to somehow settle even closer, wriggling close until his face is pressed fully to Ilya’s neck, as if he’s trying to burrow right into him. He makes another noise in his sleep, but this is a content thing, like he’s so happy even in his sleep that it has to make itself known somehow. 

Ilya loves him so fiercely and completely that it sits in his chest like a physical thing, as real and tangible as Shane’s weight against him. 

It’s a stupid thing to think, and he knows it, but his mind spins together a story in the darkness of their bedroom, about what his father would have done in his place tonight. It’s an exercise in making himself angry for no reason, but he can’t quite stop himself from thinking it anyway.  

Stupid, stupid, he can imagine his father saying, one of the things most often directed to his mother by her husband. You think the money for this just appears? I work to give you a life and you throw it to the ground?

Ilya would put someone in the ground if they spoke to Shane the way his father spoke to his mother. He knows it without a shadow of a doubt. 

…so then why did his father find it so easy? 

It’s something that’s slowly begun prickling in the back of his mind since becoming a husband, as if stepping into the role has demanded that he seek answers about how his father did it. 

He hasn’t found any. 

He wonders if his father ever laid in bed watching his mother sleep the way he likes watching Shane. He wonders if his father felt the same surge of “I would burn the world down for you” that he does. He wonders if he ever heard the noise of a bad dream and soothed it away because the idea of someone he loved suffering even asleep was intolerable. He wonders if his father ever held his mother in his arms and understood that it was his entire world he was holding. 

He wonders, in the worst moments, if his father ever loved at all. 

*

“You okay?” Shane asks the next morning, after Ilya has managed maybe two hours of sleep, and even that broken up by hazy, dark dreams that were half dream and half memory. 

“Fine,” Ilya says, ruining the lie when he immediately yawns despite his best efforts at resisting it. 

“Yeah,” Shane says flatly. “I can tell.” He pushes a cup of coffee–dosed with enough sugar and creamer that Ilya knows his husband barely resisted a shudder as he made it–towards him, and Ilya accepts it with a smile of gratitude, taking a sip. It tastes perfect, the proportions exactly right, prepared according to the measurements Shane has in his notes app that he thinks Ilya doesn’t know about, recorded after careful observation and written down for future use. 

It tastes like being loved by someone enough to be known by them. 

“You sh-oh.” 

Whatever Shane was about to say is cut off when Ilya pulls him into a kiss that backs him up against the counter. Confused or not, he responds the way he always does, letting Ilya boost him up and then wrapping his legs around him tightly. He feels it when Shane smiles into the kiss, and he forces himself to let up only when he starts to get a little light-headed from lack of air and not just plenty of Shane. 

“What was that for?” Shane asks, amused and flushed and happy and so beautiful in the morning light of their kitchen that Ilya almost feels the need to look away, the sight is so overwhelming. 

He kisses him again instead. 

“Because I love you,” he says against Shane’s mouth in a brief pause between kisses. “So much.” 

By the time they part, Shane has apparently been reassured of Ilya’s wellbeing, and he hops off of the counter and passes Ilya with a teasing slap to his ass as he starts making breakfast. 

Ilya watches him at work and wonders if this kind of peaceful contentment ever existed in the kitchen of his family home. 

(He tries very hard not to let himself know that the answer is no.)

*

Hockey is a rough game. No one goes into the sport without knowing that, and no one plays the sport for any length of time without learning it firsthand. 

It doesn’t make it easier to see his husband in a hospital bed, though. 

“Heeeey,” Shane says, head lolling to the side with a goofy smile. “I missed you.” 

“I was gone for maybe five minutes, malysh,” Ilya says, smiling back and crossing the room at the beckoning of a hand making grabbing motions at him. “As requested,” he says, holding out the cup and keeping partial custody of it even after Shane tries to take clumsy ownership of it. “Let me hold it.”  

“I can hold it,” Shane protests, looking grumpy and young and wildly high on painkillers. “It’s my hot chocolate.” 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, keeping his hand below the cup as Shane brings it to his mouth and misses on the first attempt, “and you’ll be wearing it if you aren’t careful, and you have enough problems.” 

“Mmm,” Shane argues around his mouthful of hot chocolate, apparently savoring every mouthful of a treat he only ever has when injured, even if this one came out of a vending machine, something Ilya is sure a non-drugged Shane would be turning his nose up at on principle. 

Shane-on-painkillers-after-having-his-shoulder-dislocated-from-a-bad-check seems perfectly at peace with it, though. 

Ilya keeps his hand cupped under Shane’s despite his husband’s protests, a steady support just in case. He huffs out a breath of a laugh when Shane lets out a content hum and leans back against his pillows, eyes closed, apparently not noticing that he nearly tips his cup onto himself in the process, saved only by Ilya controlling the angle of it. 

It’s little enough to help ease his residual nerves after seeing Shane go down and then fail to rise on his own on his first attempt, but it’s something, at least. 

Mostly. 

It’s not like doctors aren’t in their lives often enough to be mundane. Between physicals and routine checks from the physicians the team keeps on standby after rough games, he’s been seen by plenty over the years and seen Shane looked over as well. 

And yet…

It’s something he hasn’t thought about in years because it’s too painful, the handful of times his father hit his mother hard enough that she needed a doctor. He’d had connections, of course, doctors paid handsomely to come by the house and never say a word about it afterwards, and even they had only been summoned when it had gotten bad enough to need stitches or to check to make sure a bone wasn’t broken. He never heard the fights, but he’d had nightmares as a child that had driven him to seek his mother’s bed afterwards, the comfort of her soft arms and the soothing sound of her voice. 

It was the only reason he’d ever seen the aftermath, those midnight seekings of his mother only to find her being patched up by men he didn’t know. He hadn’t understood then, had believed her when she’d laughed and stroked his hair back and said, “I tripped, Ilyushenka. Very silly of mama, yes?” 

It wasn’t until he was older that he’d been able to understand that his mother’s occasional injuries had nothing to do with clumsiness and everything to do with the ring on her hand, tying her to a man who would raise his own to her without a thought if he got angry enough. Soon after he’d finally understood, though, she’d been gone, and his understanding hadn’t been worth anything at all. 

Not when he couldn’t do anything about it anymore. 

It’s not as if he and Shane haven’t banged each other up a bit over the years, not with their line of work. Misjudged checks, shoulders driven in too hard in the heat of a game, they’ve both left hurts they’ve made amends for later. They haven’t all been bad, the bruises they’ve left on each other. Shane certainly never protests when Ilya presses his lips to the ones he’s left behind, souvenirs of facing each other on the ice and working for a victory, and in the safety of the cottage in the summer, he offers only token protests against Ilya leaving behind new ones, little lovebites and hickeys, proof that Shane Hollander is his written in blue and purple. The idea of trying to hurt Shane on purpose, though, to be the reason he needs to be seen by doctors, to ever raise a hand to him with the intention of causing real damage, to-

“Hey,” Shane says, and llya blinks, reorienting himself from dark rooms in Moscow to a dim hospital room in Ottawa, the overhead lights turned off because Shane hates fluorescent lighting and the streetlights through the window provide enough light to see from. He’s pretty sure the medical staff will make them turn all of the lights on again when they come for another check, but for the moment, he can provide this small amount of comfort to Shane. 

Which is what a husband should do, he thinks with a directionless kind of venom, nudging at Shane’s hand to prompt him into taking another sip of his hot chocolate. Shane resists, though, bleary but clearly trying very hard to focus now that he’s concerned. 

“You look sad,” he observes. 

“I’m fine, luchik,” he says, nudging at Shane’s hand again. “Finish your hot chocolate.” 

“You’re not the boss of me,” Shane says. 

Still, he obeys. 

*

The problem, Ilya thinks a few nights later, as he sleeplessly watches over Shane’s rest while his husband is carefully propped on his side against pillows in the safety of their bed, is that he knows his father could love. He knows it. There were moments he felt it. His father patting him on the back after a hockey game won 8-0 when he was young. His father bringing him his favorite candy bar when he came home from work late one day and stopped by a convenience store on the way, knowing that it was Ilya’s favorite. His father taking him to his tailor for the first time for his first suit. His father cutting a drumstick off of a roast chicken at a dinner and handing it to him before serving anyone else because it was Ilya’s favorite piece. Little things, maybe, but real things, things Ilya knows had some love in them because he could feel it. He knows he could. 

But if his father could love, then how could he have ever done the other things he did? 

How could he have once also been a new husband laying next to his new spouse but also eventually been the husband wearing his wife thin until she had nothing left to hold onto? How could he have stood at an altar and sworn to love and protect the person he married and then become the husband he was instead? Was his father once also a new husband in bed thinking “I love you so much that it almost hurts but in a way I want to feel every single day for the rest of my life"? How could his father have felt even half of what Ilya does in his marriage and still acted the way he did? How could he have ever looked at Ilya’s mother and been filled with anything but fierce, all-consuming love? 

He remembers how hard his mother tried to please his father, how careful she was in her appearance at all times, remembers her standing appointments at the beauty salon, where Ilya usually sat near her feet with a book or a toy when he was little, giggling when she slipped off her shoe and nudged him with her toes and then looked away quickly like she hadn’t done anything, repeating the game until Ilya would take hold of her foot and laugh as she playfully kicked it around, jostling him in the effort. She always did a spin for him when she was done, asking if she was pretty now. 

“You’re always pretty, mama,” he’d always said, both because it pleased her to hear and because it was true. She was the most beautiful woman in the world to him, always. 

Not that it seemed to make any difference as soon as they crossed the threshold into their home. 

Did she do it out of love, the hair appointments and painting her nails and putting on makeup and always so carefully picking out her clothes? Was it out of a desire to look good for her husband’s enjoyment, the way Ilya likes dressing up just to see the look on Shane’s face when he does? 

Or was it just an effort to try and control what her husband would have to criticize? 

Did his mother ever feel love without pain in it? Was it ever pure and beautiful and good, the way it is with him and Shane? Did she ever feel her husband hold her and know that there was nothing but love in the touch? Did she ever know a love that was inside jokes and stolen jackets and fights over stupid, inconsequential things that are nothing but a reason to be playfully loud and conversations held with a single wordless glance and automatically taking the other person’s olives because they don’t like them? Did she have that kind of love and lose it, somehow, somewhere? Or did she never have it at all? 

And which would have been worse? 

Ilya hasn’t found an answer by the time the sun starts sending golden fingers of light under the edge of the curtains. 

*

He knows the most logical option to talk about this with is Galina. It’s part of her job, after all, helping Ilya figure out how to smooth out the tangles in his head. 

But every single time he starts to, he stops, the thoughts both too formless and too painful to offer up, even after everything else he’s put into her keeping. 

Perhaps ridiculously, he tells himself that it’s because she isn’t a husband, that she doesn’t have the insight to understand where his logic keeps tripping. Even in his own head, he knows it’s probably a little sexist, but he gives himself a pass for it, defending this one painful little thing under what’s probably just an empty excuse. 

But he needs to discuss it with someone. He knows he does. Since he started thinking about it, he hasn’t been able to stop, and he knows he’s worrying Shane with his random sleepless nights. Shane’s started trying to stay awake until Ilya goes to sleep first, which has just made them both tired, and as lovely as afternoon naps with his husband are, he knows it’s not a sustainable situation. 

In a real gesture of trying to help, Shane has even started allowing Anya to sleep in their bed, which is how Ilya knows he’s really worried. 

Under the logic of his own thoughts, he needs a husband to discuss things with, but he can’t quite make himself offer it up to Shane, not yet, not when Shane is tangled up in it through no fault of his own. It’s not Shane’s fault that Ilya’s love for him has introduced painful questions, but he knows Shane would try to shoulder the blame anyway. 

Which means he needs a husband who isn’t Shane but is still trustworthy enough to hold something painful. 

It’s a tall order. 

*

He chooses his moment to strike when he and David are working on their latest puzzle, the other Hollanders currently happily having a battle of wills about things that should go to his and Shane’s house and what can remain in storage here at Shane’s parents’. He doubts his husband is going to win the fight, which means he’ll probably be called into service soon to load things into the car. 

But it does give him the chance to ask something he’d rather not have an audience for, if only he could find the right opening to get into the conversation. 

In the end, it’s David who finds it first. 

“Sorry if I’m overstepping here,” he says, calmly, carefully lining up another edge piece, “but it seems like something’s on your mind. You want to talk about it?”

Well. That’s probably the best opening he’s going to get here. 

“It-” He cuts himself off. He wishes he had thought about what he actually wanted to ask. He wishes he’d had a childhood that wouldn’t have left him with things he had to ask. He wishes he could just love Shane and be married to him and not have it raise impossible questions that he doesn’t even know how to find answers for. 

“Hey,” David says, shifting his chair a little closer and resting a hand on Ilya’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “You want to talk, we’ll talk. You don’t want to, we won’t. But if you do, I’ve got a pair of ears that still work most of the time.” He winks, smiling, and Ilya feels the knot in his chest loosen just enough to speak. 

“My father was not a good husband, I think,” he says, plainer than he meant it to come out but maybe the best path forward. “Now that I am a husband, too, it makes me…wonder.” 

“About him?” David asks. 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. 

“That’s normal, I think,” David offers, and when Ilya dares glance up, he’s glad that the other man’s focus has remained on their puzzle, though his tone is thoughtful when he speaks. “Not so much when I was first married, but I thought a lot about my own father when I became one. Sometimes it’s easier to understand someone when you’re in their shoes. Gives you some fresh perspective about them.” 

“I don’t understand, though,” Ilya says, before he even means to, like popping the bubble of tangled, ugly things in his chest has made it all want to rush out faster than his hesitance can try and stop it. “I am husband now, and it just makes less sense now, that he could have been husband, too, and still treated my mother-” He stops himself. David looks up now, and his face is kind and patient and open, but Ilya has spent too many years holding his mother close in his heart, protecting her from the opinions of people who never knew her but would have thoughts about her anyway, to offer things up freely now, even to someone who has also started to feel like a parent to him. “Badly,” he manages, shifting the attention back over to his father. “Not the way a husband should treat the person they’re married to.” 

David nods, thinking, and his expression is so like Shane’s when he’s turning something over in his head that Ilya feels his shoulders lose at least a little bit of tension. He leans down slightly to pet Anya in her place at his feet for the excuse to look away, and he’s still looking at her, scratching behind her ear, when David speaks again. 

“People are complicated,” he says, handing Ilya an edge piece to put it on his side as if giving him the chance to keep avoiding eye contact if he wants. 

(Really, sometimes it’s so clear that this is the man who raised Shane that Ilya almost feels the need to laugh.) 

“And sometimes there’s reasons for it, and sometimes there’s not.” 

This seems like a deeply unsatisfying answer, and David must read it on Ilya’s face because he leans forward and rests a hand on his shoulder again. 

“You’re allowed to feel complicated things about your father,” David says, squeezing gently. “It’s okay.” 

Embarrassingly, the puzzle starts looking a little blurry in front of him in a way Ilya really wishes it wasn’t. 

“I didn’t know your father, Ilya, but I do know you.” Another squeeze to his shoulder. “I don’t know if he should get any credit at all for it, you’d have to tell me that, but I know he ended up with a kind, caring, loving son. No matter what kind of man your father was, you are a good man, Ilya. I know it. I’ve watched it. I see it every single day.” 

“I think you are just saying this so you won’t have to do puzzles alone,” Ilya tries to joke, but his voice is rough, and he, embarrassingly, has to scrub his hand over his cheek quickly when a tear manages to make its way out despite his best efforts to stop it. David doesn’t mention it, just squeezes his shoulder again, jostling him gently with the hold. 

“I’m saying it because it’s true,” he corrects. “If your father wasn’t a good husband, Ilya, that was from his own choices. You haven’t made the same ones, or we wouldn’t be here right now. You love Shane, and Shane loves you. You would never hurt him.” 

Ilya shakes his head, beyond words for a moment but needing David to know that it’s true, to know that Ilya would choose death before he’d choose hurting Shane the way his father hurt his mother. 

“You get to choose your own life, Ilya. You decide. Not your father, not me, not even Shane. You make your own choices, Ilya, and let me tell you, I think you make some damn good ones.” 

The uncharacteristic swear, mild as it is, startles a choked half-laugh out of him, and David grins. 

“Not just my wife who knows the naughty words,” he teases with a wink. 

“Yuna is a bad influence,” Ilya manages, picking at the edge of a puzzle piece just for the sake of fidgeting with something. 

“Probably,” David agrees cheerfully, clapping his hand to Ilya’s shoulder in a light, affectionate slap before releasing him and sitting back. “But I’m in it for the long haul anyway. I’ll get her saying darn eventually.” 

“No, you won’t,” Ilya says, and now he does laugh, even if it’s a little tight coming out of his chest and even if his eyes still feel a little too damp. 

“No I won’t,” David says, not seeming bothered. “But I love her anyway. I think that’s what marriage is about, really, finding your person and loving them through anything that comes along after.” David’s face goes a little more serious. “And maybe your father couldn’t do that, Ilya, for whatever reason, and I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry you didn’t get to watch him love how he should have. But I know you, and I know that you love better than almost anyone I know.” 

“Hm, yes,” Ilya agrees, feeling a strange mix of heavy and light at once as he offers David a piece for his side of the puzzle. “I even let your son feed me spirulina smoothies and don’t ask for divorce.” 

David shudders. 

“You’re a braver man than me,” David says. “He tried to make me drink wheatgrass when he was a teenager, and I almost left him at an orphanage.” 

Ilya smiles, settling back into building their puzzle one piece at a time. 

*

Ilya sleeps like a rock that night, Shane held tight to his chest, warm and real and his, to hold and kiss and protect and tease and love. 

He wakes before him the next morning, the sun just starting to peek around the edges of the curtains to say hello, lining them in soft gold. Shane is still completely out, slack and trusting and disheveled, hair a mess all around them, a strand trying desperately to find its way into Ilya’s mouth. He moves enough to avoid swallowing his husband’s hair but otherwise stays as he is, studying Shane’s familiar, beloved face. 

His father never did this, he knows with a finality that doesn’t hurt the way it might have in the past, never knew the peace of laying beside the other half of his heart, never let himself be soft enough to have something soft in return. 

But Ilya does. 

And he has. 

And he will. 

Til death do them part. 

Chapter 5: what comes around: anya helps shane get a little justice

Chapter Notes

mind the updated tags and rating! these two got a lil spicy at the start of this one.

inspiration post: https://www.tumblr.com/penandinkprincess/811974808829116416/laughing-about-the-idea-of-ilya-doing-one-of-those

“You’re going-oh, oh fuck, Ilya, pozhaluysta, r-radnoy, pozhal-oh God,” Shane pants out, pressing up ineffectually against the strong, unyielding arm pinning his hips against the bed as Ilya does his best to suck his soul out through his dick, the fingers of his other hand working diligently inside of him, making it hard to focus on things like when Ilya should be leaving for a weekend of work in LA.

Which is–Shane thinks blearily after a glance at the bedside clock when he tosses his head to one side, overwhelmed with sensation–about fifteen minutes ago. Ilya really needs to go. 

But first, Shane thinks as a sound he doesn’t mean to make is wrenched from deep in his chest at a particularly wicked twitch of Ilya’s fingers inside him, he needs to come. 

“Ah, ah,” Ilya says, pulling off of his cock to tut at him as Shane’s hands move without any conscious direction from him to try and push his husband’s head down to chase more sensation. “Back above your head, milyy mal’chick.” He leans his head back down not to return it to where Shane wants it but to nip at the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, Shane’s legs splayed wide around Ilya like the frame of a truly obscene picture. “Only good boys get treats, yes?” 

Shane whines through his nose, hips trying to twitch insistently, but he obeys, moving his hands back over his head, even capturing one wrist in the hand of the other to demonstrate how very good he is. Ilya hums approvingly, licking a stripe up Shane’s cock in reward before closing his mouth over him again. Shane moans when the fingers within him spread apart, leaving his prostate in favor of stretching him open. They don’t have enough time for actual sex, he knows, and it feels like Ilya may or may not be thinking about the fact that there will not be enough time for parity here. Ilya’s done it before, of course, yanked Shane into bathrooms or closets at events, driven him up and over the edge without receiving anything in return in the moment, looking pleased at Shane’s pleasure and always kissing him gently as he pants in the aftermath with whispers about receiving his own turn “with interest” later. He’s never done it before they’ll be apart for a whole weekend, though, which feels like a big mistake on his part. 

In the moment, though, Shane couldn’t give less of a fuck if he tried. 

“Oh shit,” he all but yelps, feeling the first little tingles of orgasm starting in his toes, legs starting to shake slightly. “Oh, fuck, Ilya-” 

In this moment, obedience slips away from him, lost to the rush of pleasure, and one of his hands descends to get a grip on Ilya’s curls, ready to hold on for the-

Ilya pulls away, fingers slipping free of him carefully but completely and his other hand moving to gently remove Shane’s hand from his hair, Shane releasing him automatically even under his lust-tinged bewilderment, his need to come almost painful when he’s so close. Ilya tsks, patting Shane’s thigh affectionately but shaking his head with regret as he stands, wiping his mouth with the back of one wrist.  

Shane stares at him. 

“Only good boys who listen to instructions get treats,” Ilya says disapprovingly, a smile trying to break through his mock-severity. He turns and walks to the bathroom, and Shane hasn’t managed to find a response by the time he’s returned from apparently washing his hands. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He demands, voice slightly hoarse, as Ilya bends to pick up his bag, settling the strap on his shoulder. 

“See you Sunday, dorogoy,” Ilya sing-songs, blowing him a kiss before turning and shutting the door behind himself. 

It takes a full ten seconds of processing before Shane can even comprehend what the fuck just happened, and then he’s scrambling up, throwing clothes on at random and ending up with both legs in one leg of a pair of sweatpants and sending himself to the floor in a crash when he trips, cursing and flailing angrily until he frees himself, putting them on properly and then whipping the door open, not bothering with a shirt. He charges down the stairs just as the front door closes, Anya still wagging her tail after saying goodbye to Ilya. When Shane bolts to the window and wrenches the curtain to one side, she joins him, standing on her back paws and resting her front ones on the sill next to his hand, both looking outside to watch as Ilya drives away. Anya yips as they watch him go. 

Shane growls. 

*

Shane’s opportunity for revenge after Ilya’s petty ass little game comes even faster than he dared hope. 

It turns out dogs are indeed man’s best friend. 

“-moya rybka, I am sorry, sweet girl-” Ilya is saying, on his knees in the middle of their living room and patting the rug near him with what looks like devastation on his face as Anya continues to ignore him, curled up on Shane’s lap instead. Fresh off of several stacked events to fit them into a weekend–because Shane’s mom is nothing if not efficient when it comes to the deals she makes–Ilya got home only a few minutes ago, still in the outfit he’d left his Buzzfeed puppy interview in, which Anya had clearly not appreciated, sniffing him suspiciously after her initial excited greeting and then retreating to Shane immediately when he patted his thigh in welcome. 

Shane is trying not to be obviously enjoying Ilya’s turmoil as much as he is, shifting Anya to lay on her back like a baby in one arm and cooing at her. 

“I know, huh? Papa left and played with who knows how many other dogs, and the whole time you were here missing him. I bet he wasn’t even thinking about you, huh?” 

“Hollander!” Ilya says, sounding scandalized. “Do not tell her that! Is not true!” 

“I bet he even told them they were the prettiest girls,” Shane says, rubbing it in even more and booping Anya’s nose, getting an affectionate little lick to his finger as he does and resisting the urge to immediately wipe it off against his jeans. He has a performance to put on, after all. 

And a husband to punish.

“You sat at the door for hours waiting for papa, and he was playing with other dogs the whole time.” 

“Anya!” Ilya interrupts, still on his knees. “Do not listen to him! Daddy is evil and he is lying to you, malyshka.” He gives Shane a glare. “This is not joke, Hollander. She is upset. She thinks I have betrayed her.” 

“You’re so upset, huh, honey?” He coos to Anya in response, ignoring how strange the pet name feels in his mouth in favor of continuing to floor it on this guilt trip. “Papa leaves you here without him and comes back smelling like other dogs? How could he?” 

“Holl. And. Er.” Ilya says in despair, taking hold of the rug with both hands like he needs something to hold onto as he drags Shane’s name out in dismay. “You are not helping!” 

“I’m not helping you,” Shane corrects. “I’m helping poor little baby Anya, who is so, so sad now because her papa doesn’t love her anymore.” 

“Hollander!” Ilya cries in disbelief, loud enough to make Anya jump. 

“Poor baby,” Shane says, rubbing it in. “Papa comes home after betraying you and then he gets loud?” He looks back to Ilya, shaking his head in disapproval. “She’s going to pack her little doggy suitcase, and she’s going to run away to live on the streets.” 

“Shane!” Ilya protests, looking truly distraught at the thought in a way that Shane would feel bad about if he wasn’t busy getting revenge. Ilya looks back to Anya. “On lzhot, moya lapochka. Was just work. You are still my only baby.” 

“It sounds like he’s saying something, but we can’t hear cheaters, can we, Anya?” Shane says, nuzzling Anya’s face before jerking his head back when he almost gets a dog tongue to the mouth. “You waited so patiently for papa so you could show him your new trick you worked so hard on, and he was probably teaching other puppies how to sit. He probably even taught them how to shake paw.” 

“I did not!” Ilya protests hotly.

Shane picks up one of Anya’s paws–which she obediently offered in a little wave after hearing “shake paw”–and mimes wiping away tears from her face before resting her leg over her eyes, like she can’t even stand to see Ilya in front of her, ignoring Anya good-naturedly gnawing at his fingers in protest of her foot being held.

Ilya drops forward, head bowing to the floor. 

*

“Are you fucking serious?” 

Shane grins, unable to help it, but he doesn’t look away from the salad he’s working on for an early dinner, picking up the cutting board and sliding the chopped cucumbers into the salad bowl as he hears Ilya approaching, the susurration of paper on the floor meaning that he has to be dragging the stapled-together banner Shane made in a rush of giddy adrenaline while he was in the shower.

The banner reading “WELCOME HOME, CHEATER” with a hastily-drawn pawprint at the end that Shane had managed to get tacked up over the door to their room before he heard the shower turn off and sprinted back downstairs to feign innocence while finishing up dinner. 

“Is not funny,” Ilya growls, pressing his face to Shane’s neck and then closing his teeth down gently with the threat of a bite. “Our daughter is upset.” 

“Well, yeah,” Shane agrees amiably. “You whored it up with other dogs and came home smelling like them.” 

He flinches and then laughs when Ilya’s hands dig in at his sides. 

“Do not use such language around her! Her little baby ears are too delicate!” 

On the floor, her head resting on one of Shane’s feet like a warm, fuzzy slipper, the dog herself doesn’t seem interested in much besides waiting for another vegetable scrap to come her way, but Shane doesn’t mention that. 

Not when he has more important things to circle back to. 

“It probably made her think of being in the shelter,” Shane muses. “I wonder if she thin-” 

“Shane, Jesus Christ,” Ilya moans, dropping his head to his shoulder. “You are breaking my fucking heart.” 

Knowing that that was indeed a little too far, Shane leans back into the contact, turning his head enough to press his cheek against Ilya’s briefly in silent apology. The kiss he receives to his temple when Ilya lifts his head tells him it was understood and received, and he straightens up again. 

“She probably just thought you were cheating on her with younger, hotter dogs,” Shane says in mock-consolation. He looks down at Anya sympathetically. “I’ve been there, Anya. He used to really be a slut. He’s fucked his way through at least half of North America. At least the dogs won’t post about it on Instagram and tag him in thirst traps later or come up to you in bars and ask if you’re up for a threesome.” 

Ilya shakes him in frustration, groaning. 

*

“It’s natural for kids to favor different parents at different times,” Shane says later that night, when Anya has picked his lap on the couch and not Ilya’s, leaving Ilya on the other end of the sofa looking like his heart is actively breaking. 

Shane picks Anya’s head up in his hands, jostling her affectionately as she lips at his thumb, tail thumping against his leg.

“You just prefer the one who didn’t go play with a bunch of other dogs instead of you, isn't that right?” He asks her rhetorically. “You prefer loyal daddy and not slutty papa, huh?” 

Ilya picks up a pillow, clearly to sling it at him in frustration, and Shane lifts his brows, looking down to Anya briefly to remind his husband of his canine shield at the moment. 

Ilya drops back down, the pillow instead pressed over his face, curling into the back of the sofa and moaning in frustrated despair. 

Shane watches him placidly, stroking over Anya’s soft head calmly and feeling just a little bit like a supervillain in a movie. 

It turns out being slightly evil to his husband is pretty fun. 

Who knew? 

*

Shane finally lets the bit drop late that evening, and Anya and Ilya apparently make amends as Ilya prepares her dinner–an amalgamation of about fifty different things meant to create peak health and wellness in canines because Ilya is insane about his dog in a way Shane sometimes he wishes his husband was about himself–and even lays down on her dog bed in the living room when she’s finished eating, patting the plush fabric until she finally jumps off of the couch and joins him, curling up against his chest and resting her head on his bicep, sighing heavily in contentment and closing her eyes, like all is right in her doggy world again. Shane, feeling appropriately revenged for being blueballed, just smiles and leaves them to it, getting up to get ready for bed. 

(And covertly dropping the handful of treats he still had in his pocket from Anya’s obedience class earlier in the day back into their bag in Anya’s drawer in the kitchen.) (He hadn’t originally remembered they were there when Anya kept sticking to him like glue even after Ilya’s return, but after remembering, it had been too valuable a weapon to discard.) 

(What Ilya doesn’t know won’t hurt him, after all, he thinks with satisfaction as he heads upstairs to get ready for the night.) 

(...and to get ready to remind his husband that other members of the household missed him while he was gone, too.) 

*

For the crime of laying down on a dog bed and accumulating Dog Germs as a result, Shane makes Ilya take another shower and change clothes before he’s welcome in their bed, and Ilya rolls his eyes but obeys. 

Shane makes it worth his while, stripping out of everything but his boxer-briefs and laying himself out on their bed for when he returns. 

From the look on his face when he emerges from the bathroom in nothing but a towel around his waist, he thinks Ilya probably finds the trade worth it. 

“You know,” Shane says, deliberately lowering his voice in a way that makes Ilya’s eyes go just that little bit darker with want, “I think I’m feeling a little abandoned, too. My husband didn’t make me come and then left me for a whole weekend. Maybe he doesn’t love me anymore.” 

“Oh,” Ilya says, voice from coming deep in his chest in a way that gives Shane little shivers of delight even as he holds his pose, “believe me, he does.” 

Before Shane can respond, Ilya is across the room, fingers slipping below the waistband of his boxer briefs, tugging them down impatiently and then flinging them over his shoulder carelessly. Shane considers making a fuss about it when the laundry basket is right there, for fuck’s sake, but the feel of Ilya’s lips starting a path from his ankle up to his inner thigh makes things like the neatness of their bedroom much less important. 

Much, much less important, he thinks as he feels Ilya’s mouth start trailing over his hip, hand moving from the other side to meet in the middle. 

It’s his last coherent thought for quite some time. 

Chapter 6: neither snow nor rain (nor husband): how ilya and shane end up in a mail-based face-off

Chapter Notes

HI HI HELLO

so i originally saw this post (https://www.tumblr.com/penandinkprincess/811807845405327360) by meebles over on tumblr talking about ilya racking up parking tickets like nobody's business and in my tags i had fun with it and then got this ask (https://www.tumblr.com/penandinkprincess/811816605913858048/in-the-universe-where-shane-ends-up-in-boston-and) about shane getting his first parking ticket, and then fic happened

enjoy

In Shane’s defense, it makes sense in the moment. 

He is way too warm because he layered up against Boston in December but also misjudged the heat in the car once he was inside, he’s hungry because the errands he needed to run pushed him into staying out past lunch and even trying to think of a place that could meet the requirements of his diet was more exhausting than it would have been worth, he’s thirsty because he forgot his water bottle at home and then forgot to buy some water in the last store he was in that had a beverage case, and he is about at his goddamn motherfucking limit for the noise of honking horns and loud tourists and brusque, straight-forward Bostonians who seem to have the standard city person’s lack of awareness for personal space. Really, if someone bumps into him with an elbow or stands so close in line that he can feel their breath on his neck one more fucking time, his attempt at suprising Ilya by buying his gifts without him is going to be ruined when his husband has to bail him out of jail. 

So when he’s on round five of circling the block for the last errand he needs to run before he can finally return to the safety of his and Ilya’s house with Christmas presents including his husband’s secure, he reaches a truly dark place-

-and he pulls into the first place he can park his car that isn’t an emergency lane, knowing that the price of this salvation will be whatever the City of Boston decides to charge him via parking ticket. 

Even after he’s put the car in park, his hand hesitates around his key before he commits to turning the engine off. It’s not that he can’t afford the ticket, of course. He knows he can. It’s not even necessarily knowingly breaking the rules, either. He doesn’t love the idea of it, naturally, but as rules go, “hey, you can’t park here” is at least a relatively victimless crime. No. 

What stalls him instead is the memory of his last fight with Ilya when his husband received a grand total of nine–nine–parking tickets within a month and didn’t seem to understand why that was a fucking insane number of parking tickets to receive within a month. 

“Is just the cost of doing business, dorogoy,” Ilya had said, waving his hand dismissively. 

“What business?” Shane had demanded, aghast that anyone would be so fucking calm about being faced with doing the wrong thing so many times. 

“The business of not being trapped in parking garage with terrible drivers who don’t know what the fuck they’re doing,” Ilya had said, leaning back against the counter, still completely unbothered. 

“You’re the one with nine fucking tickets in a month,” Shane had said, waving them for emphasis. “I’d say you’re the terrible driver who doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.” 

“No, no, no,” Ilya had said, as if Shane was the one being ridiculous. “My driving is perfect. Is my parking the City of Boston has problems with for some reason.” 

“That reason,” Shane had said, slowly and deliberately, frisbeeing the tickets to Ilya down the counter one by one, “is that you park in places that aren’t parking spots, Ilya.”

Ilya had made a dismissive noise, picking up one of the tickets and holding it out for Shane’s inspection. 

“Look,” he had said. “You can see right here, is picture of my car parked perfectly. Parallel parked, even.” 

Shane had dropped the rest of the mail to the counter and left to do a lap of the house instead of responding. 

The memory of it now and the knowledge of how delighted Ilya would be to find out that Shane knowingly earned a ticket of his own has Shane starting to put the car in drive-

-and then a group of day drunk, shrieking college students passes by, the noise of it grating on his already-frayed nerves like broken glass. 

He drums the fingers of his left hand on the wheel of the car. One more errand and then he can go home, can finally get something to eat and drink, can put on his oldest, most worn-soft clothes and curl up with his husband on the couch, Ilya’s warm weight pressing him against the cushions of their sofa until he’s less ready to claw his way out of his own skin. So close to ending this whole day. One little ticket in exchange for salvation. It’s not like Ilya would need to know, even. What’s one little secret about parking in a marriage, after all? 

Fuck it. 

He turns the car off and gets out before he can change his mind. 

Just one little ticket as payment for making the hell of this round of errands be over. 

Worth it, he thinks decisively, tucking his chin down into his scarf and walking with purpose towards the last store he needs to check off of his list. 

*

He returns to his car feeling calmer with the end of the day in sight, ready to snag the ticket from the windshield, scan the code, and pay u-

There’s no ticket on his windshield. 

And yet there's no way he could have gotten that lucky, not in the holiday season when parking enforcement is probably out more than ever.

With a horrible, sinking feeling, he remembers the tiny little detail that all of the tickets he’s seen of Ilya’s have been mailed, caught on camera or not issued until after he drove away and thus sent to their house instead. The house where Ilya lives with him. The house where Ilya also sometimes brings the mail in. The house where Shane has repeatedly told his husband off for doing the exact same thing he has just done, the foolishness of his decision settling in now that the initial overwhelm of the moment has passed. 

The house where Ilya is going to be absolutely insufferable when he finds out what Shane has done. 

…fuck. 

*

“Have fun on your mysterious errands I wasn’t allowed to go on?” 

Shane nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of Ilya’s teasing voice as soon as he walks in the door, and when he turns, his husband is approaching slower than he usually would, eyebrows raised. 

“Are you alright?” He asks, seeming half amused and half concerned. Of the two of them, after all, it’s usually Ilya who’s jumpy. Shane’s startled him more than once by accident after walking so softly that Ilya doesn’t hear him until he’s right next to him in a room. He can’t remember if Ilya has ever done the same to him before. 

But this time he has something to be jumpy about. 

“Fine,” he says, barely resisting the urge to make a face at himself when the word comes out way too chirpy. 

From the way Ilya’s head tilts slightly, a bemused little grin on his face, he notices. 

“You are sure?” He asks. “You seem-” 

Shane decides immediately that he cannot let Ilya finish that observation or pursue this line of questions any further. It’s not like he’s ever been a good liar to start with, and he’s especially not a good liar to Ilya. So. Tried and true distraction method it is. 

At least Ilya doesn’t seem to have any protests when Shane backs him into a wall and starts kissing him like he’ll die if he doesn’t. 

(Imagining Ilya’s smug face if he finds out about the ticket, Shane thinks he might.) 

*

“Not that I’m complaining,” Ilya says later, lazily, after they’ve both cleaned up a bit with a rag from the kitchen that Shane makes a mental note to bleach before putting it back in the rotation and started making dinner together, “but is there reason you needed to jump me as soon as you got in the door?” 

“I need a reason to fuck my husband?” Shane asks, looking at the onion he’s chopping and only the onion he’s chopping. 

“Mmm, no,” Ilya says, bumping him gently with his hip in passing and giving Shane a wicked little grin when he looks up, claiming a kiss before he returns to his own vegetable chopping after retrieving a bell pepper from the fridge. “But is near Christmas. You usually need some time when we come home before you can even hear me breathing too close to you again when crowds are crazy like now.” It’s said without judgement, without complaint, just a simple observation that comes of living with and loving someone enough to know them and know them well. It almost makes Shane feel guilty about keeping something from someone who clearly cares about him enough to even know when he needs to unplug from being a person for a while after running errands. 

…almost. 

“You looked good,” he hedges. “It’s not my fault.” 

“Mmmm,” Ilya says, coming close again to press close to Shane’s back, pinning his hips between Ilya’s and the unyielding edge of the counter. “I always look good. So do you.” When Ilya presses forward and grinds slightly, it becomes abruptly much more difficult to focus on chopping his onions into perfectly neat little squares. Ilya, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin behind his ear and then beginning to venture down, doesn’t appear to care very much for the sanctity of Shane’s onion symmetry. 

When his husband moves a hand to his hip and slips his fingertips beneath the waistband of his jeans, Shane finds it hard to care very much, either. 

“No distractions,” Ilya suddenly says briskly, grabbing a proprietary palmful of Shane’s ass despite the words before he steps away. “Is time for dinner and I am hungry. Stop distracting me, Hollander.” He returns to his own vegetables. 

“You’re the one who came and invaded my section over here,” Shane complains, returning to chopping with much less enthusiasm now. 

“Hm, no, I remember differently,” Ilya says easily. “Was your fault. Definitely.” 

Shane rolls his eyes. 

Yeah, there’s no way in hell he’ll be doing anything to make Ilya even cockier than he already is. 

*

For a city constantly talking about their budget, Shane learns in the three weeks following The Incident, Boston sure likes to take its sweet ass time sending out parking tickets to add some money to the revenue. If he wasn’t currently experiencing the same stress as a fugitive on the run from death row, he might write to a city council member about it. There has to be a more efficient system for this, surely-

“Anything interesting?” 

Shane slaps the mail down on the counter, keeping his hand on top of it. He’d glanced through the stack briefly, but he’d like at least one more shuffle through before he trusts that the ticket hasn’t been snuck in between junk mail pieces. 

When he looks over his shoulder, Ilya is looking at him in a way that lets him know there was probably a more subtle way of doing that. 

“Have we gotten bomb threat?” He asks, and Shane frowns. 

“What?” 

Ilya looks down, tilting his chin at the letters in indication. 

“You have been acting strange about the mail for weeks, and now you slap it like it has insulted your mother.” 

“I would punch someone if they insulted my mom,” Shane says, a desperate attempt at distracting Ilya from the existence of mail and Shane’s interactions with it. Damn him, anyway, for suddenly being so fucking interested in how Shane does boring household tasks like mail sorting, anyway. It’s not as if Ilya created and instituted their mail ordering system anyway. Why should he care now? 

“Well, we’d both be burying a body after Yuna was done with them herself,” Ilya says, but he’s still looking between Shane and the mail like he has questions about the connection between the two. 

Shane cannot allow him to have questions about the connection between the two. 

“Like she couldn’t do that herself, too,” Shane says, forcing himself to let go of the mail but immediately moving to intercept Ilya’s path to it, resting his arms lightly on his shoulders and leaning his weight into him. Predictably, Ilya’s hands settle at his hips, squeezing affectionately. 

But Shane still catches the glance past his left ear back at the mail. 

He puts a hand on Ilya’s cheek and turns his attention back, making sure he has it by drawing him into a kiss. Ilya responds, but he doesn’t use any tongue, so Shane knows he’s going to pull back at any second and insist on looking through the mail Shane hasn’t double-checked. Alright. Time for Plan B. He slowly drops to his knees, reaching up to Ilya’s belt buckle while smiling up at him as flirtatiously as he can and-

Ilya stops him. 

Shane freezes, unsure how to proceed from here. He’s not sure…he’s not sure Ilya ever has stopped him before. 

“What is going on?” Ilya asks, brushing Shane’s hair back. He looks far, far too concerned and serious for someone turning down a freely offered blowjob from his husband. 

“Is it not obvious?” Shane manages, mind still in freefall about being rejected for the first time. It’s not that he’ll push–he would never–but he doesn’t really know where to go from here if a sex-based distraction is off the table. It never has been before. 

Ilya’s hand moves to cup his chin gently, pulling him up with the gesture, Shane obeying in a slow, stuttery kind of motion, not entirely sure how to proceed in a situation he has absolutely no script or precedence for. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, and Ilya blinks, surprised. 

“Am I okay?” Ilya repeats. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“You don’t want…” Shane trails off with a little gesture of his hand meant to indicate Ilya’s still-unsucked dick. 

“I do want-” Ilya starts, and Shane starts to sink to his knees again in response, but Ilya stops him with a sigh that sounds the way it does when he’s frustrated at not being able to find the words he wants in English. He holds Shane’s shoulders, squeezing gently. “I always want, luchik,” he says with a small smile. “But you are acting strange, so I am…concerned.” 

“I’m not acting strange,” Shane lies. “You’re the one saying no to sex.” 

Ilya’s eyes are searching in a way that Shane always feels sees right through him, and he flails wildly for a way to distract him without sex being on the table. Food? No. It’s not a mealtime. Going…out? Uncharacteristic and thus suspicious, and it’s also two in the afternoon. Shopping? For what when he just said last night that he was glad they already had all of their Christmas shopping done? 

“Moya lyubov,” Ilya says, and now there’s a thread of genuine concern in his voice, one of his hands moving to cup Shane’s face, “you are not acting like yourself. You are jumpy now, and you have-thing with the mail-” 

“I don’t have a thing with the mail,” Shane tries to scoff. 

Ilya gives him an unimpressed look. 

“So you will not care, then,” he challenges, “if I start getting mail instead of you almost robbing the nice mail woman every single day to grab it first?” 

“What?” Shane tries to joke. “Expecting some love letters you don’t want me to see?” 

“Talk to me,” Ilya says, completely ignoring his attempt. “I know you are worried. I can tell. It makes me worry, too.” 

“I’m fine,” Shane says. And he will be. 

Just as soon as he gets the ticket, pays the ticket, and can thus ensure that Ilya never finds out about the ticket. 

“I’m good,” Shane says, pulling free of Ilya’s grasp only to lean in and give him a chaste kiss. “Seriously. I think I’ve just been in a weird mood recently.” A weird mood because Boston is taking their sweet ass time to send him his bad decision fee. “It’ll pass. I’m good. We’re good.” 

Ilya still looks unconvinced. 

“Seriously,” Shane says, kissing him again. “Stop worrying. I’m sorry if I’ve been acting weird. I’ll do better.” 

“No,” Ilya says, and now he sounds frustrated. “Is not-if you are not okay, this is okay. I do not want you to act okay if you are not okay. If something is wrong, I want to help.” 

Tragically for this very sweet declaration, Shane knows that this is not something his husband can help with except by letting it go and never finding out about what overstimulation reduced Shane to in one frustrated sweep of poor decision making. 

“I’m good,” Shane says. “I promise.” He brushes a curl back from Ilya’s face, trailing his hand down to rest his palm lightly against the warm skin at the side of his neck. “Ya tebya lyublyu. Ya v pora-pora-something.” 

“Poradke,” Ilya offers idly, still scanning Shane’s face in a way that feels like his husband is trying to look into his fucking soul. “If you’re sure…” 

“I am,” Shane says, smiling and then leaning up for one more kiss before he leaves the kitchen. 

He makes sure to take the mail with him. 

*

Ilya watches Shane sleep and tries not to let his thoughts spin out to the places they’ve kept gravitating towards these past weeks. 

Pill bottles and doctors throwing terrifying words around and hospital visits and-

He closes his eyes, breathing through memories that want so badly to become predictions in his head. When he’s banished them as far as he can, he opens his eyes again, tracing them over the familiar, beautiful sight of his husband beside him, soft and lax and lovely in his sleep. His hair is a spill of ink over his pillow, and Ilya can’t resist the urge to brush his fingers over it, soft beneath his fingers and cool in the air of their bedroom, always kept cold because Shane read in a magazine years ago that it makes for better rest. 

Right now, as he has for the past few weeks, Ilya is feeling pretty fucking restless. 

“What is going on with you?” He asks Shane’s sleeping face, barely louder than a breath. 

Shane shifts slightly at the sound of his voice, even quiet as it is, and Ilya stays still until he’s settled once more, letting out a content little sigh and shifting closer, forehead pressed to Ilya’s arm, body curling around it like a stuffed toy. Despite the worry sitting heavy in his chest like lead, Ilya can’t help but smile at the gesture. He brushes Shane’s hair back from his face where it shifted when he moved, resting his palm against the soft, warm skin of his cheek, thumb stroking gently over the much-loved freckles there. 

The problem is that there hasn’t been something he hasn’t been able to coax from Shane before. There’s never been something so big he wasn’t eventually willing to hand it over to Ilya to hold with him. Even back in their early days, before they were really a they at all, it usually only took a few kisses and a few judicious applications of pressure to sensitive places to have Shane spilling every new, filthy thing he was curious about, every little kink and turn-on that he wanted to try out with Ilya. Ilya had always obliged happily, and with time, Shane’s shyness had gradually burned away. He still gets flustered, now and then, when there’s something especially deviant that he’s been turning over in his mind while building up the courage to ask for it, but even that usually just takes turning the lights off and pressing Shane under the weight of his body to get him talking. 

He’s ironically–and endearingly–a little shyer about the quirks specific to him outside of the bedroom, his preferences about food and clothing and noise, all of the little “rules” he’s invented for things that wouldn’t normally have rules at all. Most of what Ilya knows of these things is from observation, from watching and learning and listening, making a careful study of the most important person in his life until he knows when to step forward and when to step back, when to quietly take something objectionable off of Shane’s plate at a dinner or when to add something from his own that Shane wants but won’t ask for, when to hug Shane tightly enough that someone else would complain about it hurting while Shane just goes limp and calm, when to touch the back of Shane’s neck with iced drink-chilled fingers in warm rooms when he starts getting twitchy, when to turn off the overhead lights at home and turn on a lamp instead. They’re little things, but they’re important things, and Ilya has diligently gathered as many as possible, even when Shane hasn’t offered them openly. Ilya knows him, knows him in a way he doubts anyone else on earth does. 

Which is why it’s so fucking frustrating that Shane is suddenly acting in a way he doesn’t understand. 

It’s not a sex thing, Ilya is pretty sure, his confidence aided by the fact that Shane keeps basically attacking him with sex every single time he starts asking questions. It’s sex with his gorgeous husband, so of course he almost always takes the bait, but just because the blood rushes from his brain briefly doesn’t mean he just forgets. It’s not a team thing, either, Ilya is also pretty confident about. Shane’s hurt about how things ended with Montreal took time to settle, but it has. The Boston team might be a little loud and a little rough and a little handsy in a way Shane doesn’t always enjoy, but they’re loyal and they’re friendly and they embrace Shane like he’s always been one of them. 

Even Boston itself is something that he can’t imagine Shane having a new problem about. It had taken time for him to settle in and find his new routines, yes, but he had found them. He has set running paths based on how long he wants to run. He has a set coffee shop he visits on Mondays because he and Rose always send each other texts to celebrate Matcha Monday, something Ilya initially found obnoxious and suspicious as a shared activity between exes but has come to appreciate as something that Shane enjoys. He has the kitchen organized according to a system that he insists makes sense as the most logical option and Ilya does his best not to disrupt. He has a standing appointment every other Thursday to collect more books from the library “because Friday might be busy and this way I’ll have something new for the weekend, Ilya.” He even has a craft store he likes to run past on game days because they have a cat he stops to pet for luck. He’s settled and he’s happy and he’s content. 

Except now he’s not, and Ilya has no fucking idea what’s causing it. 

The only thing he’s been able to think of is unfortunately the most terrifying thing he’s been able to think of: Shane’s sick and trying to hide it. 

It doesn’t fully make sense, not even in his head. They might skip getting checked over after standard hits on the ice, but it’s not as if they’d be able to hide anything from the doctors the team keeps on staff for any real length of time. They also both had their annual physicals before the season started and been cleared to play, and Shane had seemed fine then. 

But what if he’d later developed concerns about something he hadn’t wanted to worry Ilya about until he had answers? What if he’d sought out those answers and gotten potentially bad news in return? What if he had then not wanted to worry Ilya with what he’d found out? What if his newfound possessiveness of taking in the mail is an attempt to keep bad news from a doctor’s office or hospital test away from him? 

What if Ilya is at risk of losing the love of his life, the first stable, reliable thing that’s ever been his, and he isn’t even allowed to know it until it’s too late? 

The thought makes him pull Shane closer reflexively, enough force behind the movement that Shane startles awake, pulling back and blinking around in a way that’s partially alarmed and partially confused. Ilya presses his face down against his shoulder, resting his chin on the crown of his head. 

“What’s-” Shane starts to ask, voice rough from sleep, but Ilya just shakes his head, shushing him and pressing a kiss to his hair. 

“Nothing, I’m sorry,” he says, gliding his hand along Shane’s back slowly. 

“What’s-” 

“Just a bad dream,” Ilya says. “Is okay now. Go back to sleep, luchik.” 

“M’kay,” Shane says around a yawn, wriggling slightly until he’s comfortable again, his breath a faint tickle against Ilya’s throat with each exhale. “Love you,” he says sleepily, moving just enough to press a clumsy kiss to Ilya’s jaw. “No more bad dreams.” 

“I love you, too,” Ilya says around the way his throat feels too tight. He kisses Shane’s head again, trying to press his love in with the touch. “Sleep now.” 

With a sigh, Shane heeds him. 

If only he’d answer Ilya’s questions as easily. 

*

With Shane providing no answers on his own, Ilya decides a couple of days later, there’s only one thing left to do: getting to the mail first. 

The complication with this being, of course, that Shane is also trying to get to the mail first. 

Well, it’s not as if Ilya has ever shied away from competing with him before. 

*

“What are you doing?” Shane asks the first day Ilya makes his move, making up excuses to linger near the front door the same way his husband is. 

“Organizing the shoe rack,” Ilya says, putting his sneakers in a cubby for about the thirtieth time. 

“For an hour?” Shane asks, clearly doubtful. 

“You have complaints about our home being organized?” He shoots back, knowing he’s got Shane there. “What are you doing?” He volleys back. After all, Shane hasn’t even bothered to come up with a reason he’s lurking like a mail-seeking gargoyle. 

“Nothing,” he says. 

“Then I am also doing nothing,” Ilya responds. 

Shane gives him a disgruntled look but apparently doesn’t have any further argument to make. 

Ilya returns to organizing the same set of shoes for the sixtieth time. 

*

Ilya’s first miscalculation on Mail Watch: sitting down when Shane is already on his feet, his husband darting out as soon as the mail woman appears while Ilya is still rising. By the time he makes it outside–not running only because who knows what the neighbors would have to say about that–Shane has already flipped through the letters twice. When he reaches him, then, Shane offers them over with no problem, looking smug at beating him. 

“Here you go,” he says sweetly, shoving them to Ilya’s chest. “All yours.” 

Ilya barely resists the urge to trip him as he walks past. 

*

The less said about the day Ilya is reduced to wrestling his husband over the fucking mail, the better. 

He nurses his bruised shin and his bruised ego equally, consoled only by the fact that he managed to grab a handful of letters that Shane had been mad about him having, immediately trying to take them back. He’d sorted through them and found nothing but junk mail and a save the date from an old friend of Shane’s, and he’d eventually handed it all back feeling vaguely cheated. 

Shane had not offered the courtesy of an exchange of his own pile until he’d looked through it twice. 

Ilya had tripped him as he walked past then. 

*

The first day Shane stops meeting him at the door for their increasingly stupid mail face-off, he is worried. 

The second day, he is suspicious. 

The third day, he is annoyed. 

The fourth day, he is ready to shake his husband down and demand to know where their mail has suddenly gone. 

Instead, because he is a good and loving husband even when he wants to check his husband into walls for reasons other than taking a puck from him, he waits to catch the mail woman on her way by to ask why they’ve suddenly stopped being contacted by apparently everyone all at once. 

Including potentially the doctor’s office or hospital that’s going to send a letter about Shane’s impending death. 

“Oh, n-no,” the woman says, seeming confused and then a little nervous about the question. “Your husband, um, Mr. Hollander? He started having all of the mail held at the post office for pickup.” 

Oh, okay, he thinks calmly, thanking the woman and returning inside. 

So it turns out that Ilya is going to be the thing to kill his husband. 

*

It’s a dirty trick, and he’s aware of it, but in the end, Shane is the one who has reduced him to dirty tricks. 

(Especially when he started doing them first, Ilya thinks spitefully, tying knots with perhaps more satisfaction than he usually would.)

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane nearly whines, hips pressing up up up in his quest for more sensation, limited in his movement by the crimson red silk cords carefully binding his wrists to the headboard, a matching blindfold over his eyes ensuring that the only thing Shane can possibly experience right now is whatever Ilya chooses to give him. 

“So good for me,” he murmurs into Shane’s ear, feeling a shiver go through his husband in response. He adjusts the angle of his fingers, working steadily within Shane’s body, and Shane lets out a choked near-squeak in response, flushed and sensitive and so ready for everything Ilya has to offer him. 

Ilya imagines he’s probably going to regret that in about ten seconds. 

“Such a good boy,” he says, accepting the way Shane turns his face to him desperately as the request it is and granting him a deep, lingering kiss, not fully pulling back when they part for air. He nudges at Shane’s cheek with his nose, and Shane obeys the silent instruction, facing forward again and letting Ilya whisper in his ear once more. Ilya sees his opportunity to strike and takes it. “Now tell me what you’re expecting to come in the mail.” 

Shane thrusts his hips up twice more before he registers that what’s just been said is beyond the usual scope of the pretty things Ilya tells him in bed. 

“What?” He asks, still sounding half out of it, clearly doubting if he just heard right. 

“Keep being good, and tell me the truth about what you’re expecting in the mail,” Ilya says calmly. 

“...you cannot be fucking serious,” Shane says, voice still breathy. “You want to do this–oh, fuck, right there, please–right now?” 

“Do what?” Ilya presses, kissing Shane’s cheek, his temple, his ear. He reads the signs of Shane’s body carefully, ready to pull back if he’s actually crossed a line here, but even if annoyed, Shane doesn’t seem eager to stop Ilya from winding him up further. 

“It’s not a fucking thing, Ilya, you’re-take the blindfold off. Now.” 

Ilya obliges at once, and Shane uses his newly reclaimed ability to see to glare at him. 

“You’re being weird about the mail, and you’re kind of ruining this whole thing for me right now.” 

Ilya gives a pointed look down to Shane’s still-hard dick that seems to contradict this statement, and Shane rolls his eyes. 

“Is that why you asked to do this?” He demands. “So I’m stuck?” 

“No,” he answers, and it’s not totally dishonest. He did want to try out restraining Shane again and combining it with a blindfold. He was just also pursuing a second goal at the same time. 

Really, Shane would probably be impressed by his efficiency if he wasn’t currently the target of it. 

“If you want out-” Ilya says, moving at once to untie Shane’s wrists because even for answers, he won’t ever risk breaking Shane’s trust in him, but Shane uses that lovely flexibility he’s gained in years of yoga to kick him to make him stop. 

“No,” he says, “I want to do this, and I want you to not be weird about the mail while we do.” 

“You are the one kidnapping our mail,” Ilya says, a little annoyed himself that this is getting turned around to make him the strange one here. 

“I am not-” 

“Shane,” Ilya says, and even he can hear the strain in his own voice, weeks of worry making themselves very apparent. “Please, just tell me. Whatever it is, malysh, we will figure it out. Together. I promise.” 

“Ilya-” Shane says, but he isn’t in a place to be told yet again that it’s nothing when it’s clearly something. 

“Moya lyubov, I will help you.” He kisses Shane in a way that’s frankly a little desperate, and he knows it. “I know you are trying to make me not worry, but I am just worrying more. I love you. Let me help you. Whatever it is.” 

Shane closes his eyes tightly, looking pained, and Ilya’s chest clenches. 

“There is nothing so bad you cannot tell me,” he urges, stroking his fingers over Shane’s cheek gently. “I promise, dorogoy, whatever it is, we will figure out-” 

“I got a parking ticket.” 

The words come out so fast that it takes a moment for Ilya to even understand what he was just told. 

It takes several more moments beyond that before he’s able to comprehend them. 

“What.” He asks, meaning it to come out as a question but failing, mind entirely blank. 

“I got-” 

Ilya puts a hand over his mouth, stopping him. 

He needs a moment to collect himself before he’s ready to hear it again. 

*

“-parking ticket, a fucking parking ticket. I am worrying sick for weeks, thinking-” 

From his place of being still bound to the headboard of their bed, Shane watches Ilya pace the room like a caged animal as if he’s the one who’s trapped, repeating the same set of words over and over in both English and Russian, pausing occasionally to look at Shane like he’s contemplating strangling him–sometimes even strangling the air in his direction–before resuming his march back and forth from one wall to another. Without the warmth of Ilya’s body against his and arousal pumping through his veins, Shane’s starting to get a little cold. 

Now doesn’t seem like the best time to stop Ilya and let him know that, though. 

“-fucking, fucking cancer, or-or some other fucking-” 

“Wait,” Shane says, knowing he’s perhaps risking his life in interrupting but needing clarification. “You thought I had cancer?” 

“I did not know!” Ilya exclaims, hands thrown wide. “You would not tell me!” 

“You think I wouldn’t tell you if I had cancer?” Shane demands. “You would have to know. I wouldn’t be able to play if I-” 

“Hollander,” Ilya says, voice suddenly calm in a way that is terrifying, “do not say the word hockey to me right now.” 

Well, Shane wasn’t going to actually say the word, but this still doesn’t feel like a good time to finish his intended sentence. He goes quiet again. Ilya rolls his eyes and then stalks towards the bed again, mumbling under his breath in a stream of Russian that Shane wishes he understood. 

If only to know if he should be nervous or not as Ilya gets closer. 

Instead of moving from strangling the air to strangling him, though, Ilya just deftly unties the silk binding him to the headboard. Even angry and frustrated, his hands are gentle when he catches Shane’s wrists, rubbing at the faint marks gently and checking the blood flow with a gentle press of a finger to each hand. 

“Okay?” He asks, clearly restraining himself from the anger Shane can still see simmering below the surface.

Unsure what to say in the moment, he just nods meekly. Ilya makes a face, even as his hands stay gentle. 

“Words, Hollander. For this, I need words. You are okay?” 

“Yes,” Shane says. 

“Good,” Ilya says with a nod-

-before he drops Shane’s hands abruptly and resumes pacing the room, winding himself up once more. 

Free now to do it under his own power, Shane curls himself up in the comforter and waits. 

*

“You are fucking ridiculous person,” Ilya tells Shane for what is probably the twentieth time tonight, after he’s calmed enough to return to bed with his husband to hold him close and tell him what a fucking idiot he is. 

“I just thought if I paid the ticket in time, then you wouldn’t know, and I wouldn’t have to…tell you.” Shane is clearly doubting his own logic even as he says it out loud, and Ilya is torn between equal urges to shove him out of their bed and kiss him until they’re both breathless. 

In the moment, he settles for continuing to hold him close and rolling his eyes. 

“Why do you think I care?” He demands. “Get a thousand tickets. It does not matter to me. You are the one who is always-” 

Ah. 

Now he thinks he gets it. 

Slowly, he starts to smile. 

“Mr. Follow The Rules got a parking ticket,” he says, the words almost a coo, and Shane groans at his tone. “Mr. Responsible Driver broke traffic laws-” 

“Okay, I don’t think it’s a law-law-” 

“-and probably ran over three old ladies and four girl scouts just to park illegally.” 

“I didn’t run over anyone!” Shane protests. “It wasn’t even a super illegal parking spot, either. I just parked at the end of a row of cars where the ‘No Parking’ lines started.” 

“And you ignored them?” Ilya gasps in mock horror. “Mr. ‘Ilya, The Lines Are There For Good Reason’ ignored the precious, sacred lines?” 

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane says, and now he struggles to get away, clearly annoyed and embarrassed. 

Ilya refuses to release him, considering it partial reparations for making him think he was going to become a widower for such a stupid fucking reason. 

“No,” Ilya scolds, “if you can break the precious car laws of the United States of Ameri-” He flinches when Shane plays dirty and digs his fingers in where Ilya is ticklish, making him flinch away just enough for Shane to get loose. 

Ilya pursues him, attempting to tackle him to the mattress in a move that sends them both to the floor instead, knocking the air out of Shane as the unfortunate crash pad and giving Ilya enough of an advantage to pin him to the ground for further punishment. 

“Rule breaker,” he says, kissing Shane’s cheek. “Rule breaker,” he repeats, kissing his forehead. “Rule breaker. Rule br-” 

“Stop!” Shane says, trying to get his legs up to kick like a cat and pushing at Ilya with enough force to lift his hands up a few inches before Ilya tips his weight forward to shove them back down, the leverage his only advantage with how equally he and Shane are matched in strength. “Get off!” 

“Rule breaker. Rule breaker. Ruler breaker,” Ilya repeats, interspersing each declaration with another kiss. “I am telling your mother on you. Naughty, naughty rule breaker.”

“I’m not a rule breaker,” Shane says, clearly on the edge of sulking. “It was-” 

Ilya ignores him, continuing to kiss him between declarations. 

“Rule breaker. Rule breaker. Rule breaker. Rule brea-” 

*

“Here to steal the coffee machine?” 

Shane rolls his eyes at Ilya’s question, able to hear the grin in it without even needing to turn around. 

A week into the bit, and Shane is more painfully aware than ever that he should have just kept lying. 

“Keep it up, and I’m spitting in your coffee,” he warns. 

Ilya mock-gasps. 

“This is violation of health code!” He cries, and Shane already knows what’s coming next before Ilya even puts on a fake considering tone. “Though you are godless rule breaker now. Perhaps I should know be-” 

Shane walks out of the kitchen and takes the whole pot of coffee with him. 

*

The ticket does indeed eventually come in the mail. 

Ilya frames it and puts it on the wall.

Chapter End Notes

they're so in love but also so stupid, your honor

Chapter 7: common property: how ilya makes shane's hoodies two-person garments

Chapter Notes

hi friends y'all ready for some cavities?

based on this post (with bonus very cute art): https://www.tumblr.com/cinematicvests/812493522844434432/i-know-you-meant-stretched-more-in-the-forward

Ilya is no stranger to being on top of Shane. 

And not even for what other people might expect, though he certainly enjoys that, too, and will gladly have Shane pleasure-drunk and making beautiful noises under him at every opportunity. 

It wasn’t even strange the first time it happened, really, during one of their early hookups, back when they were still strictly Hollander and Rozanov to each other, the first time he’d fucked Shane past what he thought his limits were and managed to coax a second orgasm out of him despite his whimpered, pleading claims of “can’t-I can’t, fuck, Rozanov, c-can’t-” that had been proven false when he did, fully collapsing to the mattress after it hit him, trembling like a leaf, reaching blindly to wrap a shaky hand around Ilya’s wrist like he needed to hold on or risk being swept away. Drunk on the sight, Ilya had followed him over the edge immediately, catching his weight on an elbow before he crushed Shane under him when he was already shaking hard enough to rattle his bones together, not pulling his wrist free of Shane’s hold and instead just leaning his weight further back on his forearm. It was normal for them even then, Ilya stroking Shane gently to bring him down in the aftermath of their really intense times together, a firm hand over his hair or over his side and hip, grounding, reassuring, sometimes sweet words that had no business being said whispered in Russian when Shane was out of his head enough that he wouldn’t be able to recall them enough to look them up later. Ilya was well-used to the routine by then, gathering a slack-limbed Shane close and curling him up, back to his chest, bringing him back to earth and soaking up a little of the sweetness for himself in the process, too, enjoying the plausible deniability for what was absolutely snuggling, Shane usually too strung out on pleasure to notice or too inexperienced with other people to know. 

Ilya had never bothered to ask, too loathe to risk the delicate balance between them. 

He’d started to do the same then, pressing kisses gently to Shane’s neck, his shoulder, little pinpricks of pressure, a signal that he was about to shift them slightly. He’d pushed Shane harder than he ever had before, edging him to the point of tears and then pushing him past his own self-imposed limits, and he’d been half-wondering if this would mean an even longer stretch of time of holding him in his arms, with Shane shaking so hard. Just when he’d started to gently tip them to the side, though, Shane had made a small, plaintive noise, eyes still scrunched shut, and Ilya had frozen immediately, afraid he’d been too drunk on the moment himself to notice that he’d hurt him. 

“Okay?” He’d checked, resting his free hand at Shane’s hip and squeezing gently. He’d started to move again, this time to pull away and check Shane over to see if there was any damage, but Shane had let out a longer whine then, moving a clumsy hand back and sinking his fingers through Ilya’s hair to rest right against his skull. 

“Down,” he’d said, the word a little slurred and trembling a bit with the way he’d still been shaking. He’d pressed on Ilya’s head, then, with his hold, flattening himself against the mattress more as if trying to demonstrate something. 

“Down?” Ilya had repeated, still holding himself up carefully. At another insistent–if weak–press from the man beneath him, he’d taken a guess and slowly started lowering his weight on top of Shane, ready to pull back the instant it seemed like Shane was uncomfortable. 

Shane, though, had just let out a long sigh not dissimilar to the one he always made when Ilya first got his mouth on his neck and gone fully limp. 

“Okay?” Ilya had checked, still needing confirmation that he wasn’t smothering Shane under his weight, and he’d gotten a quiet, content noise in response, Shane flexing slightly as if just enjoying the limitations on the motion before going slack again, releasing a breath so heavy that Ilya had felt himself move with the motion as Shane’s chest deflated before filling again on the next breath. 

Careful not to block Shane’s face when he did so, he’d just laid his head down on the same pillow and closed his eyes to soak in the warmth until Shane was ready for him to get up. 

*

Shane had been a little flustered after, the way he always used to be after getting something new he wanted in bed or discovering something new he liked in bed, something Ilya always found almost hazardously endearing. 

“Sorry,” Shane had said, giving the buckle of his belt far more attention than it had needed, cheeks flushed rosy pink.

“For what?” Ilya had asked, just to be an asshole, still naked and stretching back and linking his hands behind his head from his place still on the bed. “When you were so good for me?” 

He’d grinned when it sent a visible little shiver through Shane then, and he’d only grinned wider when Shane then glared at him with all of the ferocity of a hissing kitten. Always so happy to be called good in bed and always so mad about it later, a delicious opportunity to chirp that Ilya even now can’t resist. 

“For-” Shane had made a vague, flustered hand gesture, but there was only one thing he could have been talking about, and Ilya decided to take mercy on him. 

(Partially because there wasn’t enough time to take advantage of winding him up.) 

“For playing blanket?” He’d asked. 

Shane had nodded, still not making eye contact. 

“It didn’t make you feel…” Ilya had searched for the right word. “Trapped?” 

“No,” Shane had said, shaking his head as he checked himself over in the mirror. “It felt, like…” Then it was his turn to search for words, eyes going distant for a second in the reflection. “Like getting pushed back into my body, I guess? Does that make sense?” 

It hadn’t, really, but the slight edge of doubt in his tone had been a signal that it wasn’t something to tease him about for fear of him not trying to put things to words in the future, so Ilya had just nodded. A lie, sure, but a necessary, harmless one. 

“Because it was a lot?” He’d checked, and though he’d meant it genuinely, trying to make a note for next time, Shane had just made a face. 

“Don’t get a big head,” he’d dismissed. “I just didn’t expect it.” 

“But you liked it?” Ilya had asked, and though he’d made sure to keep the question light, joking, he had wanted the answer, still learning Shane at that point. 

Shane had ducked his head a bit, face flushing a little darker, but he’d nodded. 

Catching his eye in the reflection, Ilya had winked, laughing when it made Shane roll his eyes. Shane had taken his leave then, and Ilya had simply filed “squish Hollander like a sandwich in a press when he comes hard enough to almost pass out” away for future reference. 

*

It becomes normal for them, over the years, Ilya squishing Shane back into his body when he needs it, Ilya’s bulk put to service for Shane’s benefit for things beyond just holding him down the way he likes while fucking. It’s satisfying, even when it’s not coming after Ilya’s work in taking Shane out of his body, and he does it gladly, thrilled to be useful, to be needed, to be able to give Shane something that no one else can. With time, he doesn’t even need Shane to ask for it, reading the line of Shane’s shoulders well enough to know when a day has been bad enough that Ilya’s weight on top of him will make him breathe easier, will make the day sit lighter. 

“Sorry, I know this is so fucking weird-” Shane starts on one of the times he hadn’t even greeted Ilya before tugging him over to the couch with him and pulling him down like a throw blanket, tension leaving his shoulders like water wrung from a sponge as soon as he’s trapped, Ilya two hundred pounds of unmoveable muscle on top of him.  

“You wear socks while we fuck,” Ilya interrupts, neither wanting nor requiring Shane getting weird about asking him for the things he needs. “Trust me. Is way weirder.” 

“Asshole,” Shane says, shifting enough to elbow Ilya gently but settling, then, breaths going slow and steady, Ilya closing his eyes to enjoy it with him. They’ll get to fucking, he knows, because they always do, but in the meantime, what Shane needs of his body is just this, just being there, just giving him what feels good and makes him feel better, no different than sex, really, just intimacy in a different font. 

Ilya gives it gladly. 

*

Maybe that’s just what love is, Ilya reflects when they’ve come far enough that he can think the word without feeling the need to run from it: seeing a need and filling it. 

*

It’s really Shane’s fault that it happens. 

He’s laying on the couch in the cottage wearing a worn-soft old hoodie and his glasses, radiant in the light pouring in through the window in the golden hour, reading a book and looking soft and beautiful and relaxed. It’s been another long day of doing nothing much in particular for both of them, and Ilya has just woken from an unexpected post-sex nap in the bedroom to find himself missing a husband, and now he has found himself in possession of a husband once more but a husband looking so happy and content that Ilya almost feels the need to bite something just to manage the feeling his chest. 

Instead, he heeds the first other thing that pops in his head, nonsensical but compelling enough that he’s in motion before he’s even decided to be. 

“Hi,” Shane says, looking up when the movement catches his eye. He smiles when he says it, and the warmth of it hits Ilya like a physical thing.

Really, he has been left no other options. 

“Did you have a go-oh my God, what the fuck are you doing?” 

Ilya ignores the question, already choked by laughter, just like he ignores the hands trying to stop him as he lifts the bottom of Shane’s hoodie and starts army crawling his way under, feeling the fabric stretching tight across his shoulders as he does. 

“What are you doing, you fucking weirdo?” Shane demands, but he’s laughing as he asks it, and the slaps he’s aiming to Ilya’s back aren’t hard. 

“It’s good to share,” Ilya says from inside the hoodie. “Is nice to share with people, Hollander. Did your parents never teach you?” 

“Yeah, they did,” Shane says, sounding amused. “They also taught me about personal space.” 

Ilya makes a dismissive noise as he keeps wriggling himself higher, until the top of his head meets resistance at the shoulder of the hoodie. 

“We are married now,” Ilya says, settling down and worming his arms under Shane’s back with the dual purpose of hugging him and also making it harder to remove him from his newfound place inside the hoodie with him. “There is no more personal. Everything is ours. This was a promise when we signed those many papers, yes?” 

“I mean technically we have a pre-nup,” Shane observes dryly, and Ilya feels a little draft of cooler air when his husband adjusts the collar of the hoodie enough for him to have an easier way to breathe. “So we have joint property, but we-” 

“And hoodie is included in pre-nup?” Ilya asks, raising his eyebrows even though Shane can’t see. 

“No,” Shane says. “Who the fuck would include a hoodie in-” 

“Then there is no problem. Hoodie is ours, and I am taking my turn with it. Is within my rights.” 

“And you have to take your turn with it at the same time as me?” Shane asks wryly. 

“Da,” Ilya agrees. “Much nicer as shared experience, I think.” 

“You’re so fucking weird,” Shane says, but the warmth in his voice is palpable, and the arm that settles around him as he apparently goes back to reading is a warm, grounding presence against Ilya’s shoulders. 

*

As much as it started as just a way to be a little annoying when his husband was looking too beautiful to be left undisturbed, Ilya finds it’s strangely…soothing, being inside the hoodie at the same time as Shane, ensconced in a shared little bubble of warmth that smells of Shane’s body wash and lotion and his cologne still lingering on the fabric of the hoodie even after being washed. Shane’s heartbeat is close by, thrumming beneath his ear, and pressed close like this, he rides along with every movement of Shane’s chest as he breathes, even more than when he’s playing blanket for Shane’s benefit. Everything else is muffled, distant, even light barely filtering through the forest green cotton. 

Within the safe little cocoon of the hoodie, there is nothing in his world but Shane. 

And what, Ilya reflects as he starts drowsing, a beautiful world it is. 

*

Ilya wakes from a nap he didn’t mean to take feeling a little overly warm–a hazard of combining body heat with another large man while in a house with the air con turned off–but content, and he yawns, stretching as far as he can while still contained in shared fabric. 

“You awake?” Shane asks, voice soft, rubbing at his shoulder gently with the fingertips of the arm still around Ilya’s back like he’s helping him rouse. 

Ilya makes a noise of affirmation in response that’s half a yawn and then settles back down, head on Shane’s shoulder-

-right before he snakes a hand up through the collar of the hoodie, patting at Shane’s face in confirmation, grinning when Shane tries to slap his hand away in response. 

“Alright, asshole,” Shane says, sounding much less soft and gentle now as he gets his hands on the top of Ilya’s covered head and starts shoving, “get the fuck out of my hoodie now.” 

“We are sharing, Hollander,” Ilya whines, but it’s broken by laughter when Shane changes tactics, reaching down to grab the back of his shirt to start pulling. 

“We were sharing,” Shane corrects. “Now you’re being annoying.” 

Ilya returns to slapping at his face gently, laughing when he feels Shane’s teeth close over the side of his hand in a threat. 

“Ow!” He complains when the weight of Shane’s book knocks against his head, but there’s almost no force behind it, the blow more noise than actual sensation. “Abuse!” 

“Eviction,” Shane corrects, tapping him on the head twice more. “Get out. Give me my hoodie back.” 

“Our hoodie,” Ilya corrects one more time, just to be annoying, wrapping his arms around Shane again and squeezing tightly. 

“No,” Shane says, giving him a quick series of taps with his book again. “It’s only our hoodie when you’re not being annoying.” 

Ilya gives him two more slaps to the face before he finally admits defeat, wriggling his way out from under the fabric. Shane snorts when he’s free. 

“Your hair looks crazy,” he says fondly, reaching out to smooth one frazzled curl away from his face. 

Ilya smiles, leaning in to kiss him-

-and giving him one more pat to the face before he launches himself off of the sofa before Shane can manage to respond. 

When a throw pillow hits his back, he laughs. 

*

It’s not the last time he makes himself at home in a hoodie with Shane. Stupid as he knows it is, it’s also strangely nice, reducing his world to only what’s contained by fabric in a space that feels and smells like the love of his life. Ridiculous as he knows it is given his age and size, it makes him feel small, almost, in a way that feels nice, like he can hide himself away in a tiny world that’s just Shane, safe from where anyone or anything else can find him. It’s childish, probably, enjoying hiding himself away like this as much as he does, and from the time Yuna stopped by the cottage when he and Shane were both out cold on the couch sharing a hoodie and took a picture, he knows it looks absurd, a hoodie stretched to its limits by trying to contain two massive hockey players, him a lump under the fabric covered up to midback, a stray curl or two poking through the collar where Shane twisted it enough to make sure he wouldn’t smother himself. He’s embarrassed, frankly, when he first sees the picture, despite the way Yuna had seemed charmed when she showed them. 

“You guys are so cute,” she’d said, pinching Shane’s cheek until he complained and shook her off and then turning the same teasing gesture on Ilya, who had playfully squared up like a boxer just to make her laugh. 

Still, he brings it up with Shane later, as casually as possible, when they’re curled together in bed and sharing nothing but each other’s warmth. 

“Think we’ll be seeing the picture on TMZ any time soon?” He asks, keeping his voice light and teasing. 

“Hmm?” Shane says, well-fucked and already half-asleep as a result. Ilya gives him a few extra seconds for his brain to understand that he was asked a question. “My mom wouldn’t do that.” 

Ilya, safe from observation, rolls his eyes. Always so literal. 

(God he loves him so fucking much.) 

“She’d make good money off of it,” he says, nuzzling at the back of Shane’s neck, trying to press closer, as if he can meld them together if he just tries hard enough, melt them together until they can never be separated again, until there’s no Shane and no Ilya, just a unified them. They’re already close, but it’s never close enough, not really, not with how much he loves Shane, how much peace and rightness he feels with him. Pressed close to Shane is the first place he’s ever felt truly safe, truly understood, truly accepted, ugly things and all, and it’s an addicting feeling, something that only grows stronger with each day they’re together. He’d climb inside Shane’s ribcage if he could, make himself a place to rest right in the middle of the love of his life, let himself be subsumed completely in Shane. 

(It’s a wildly intense thing even only in his own head, and he almost cringes at the depth of his own feelings if he thinks about it too long.) 

(...it doesn’t make them less real, though.) 

“Maybe,” Shane says around a yawn, sinking back against Ilya a little more, melting into his bodyheat. “She wouldn’t, though.” 

“Hm,” Ilya had hummed. “Good, probably. I would be chirped to death if anyone sees.” There’s a request under the words that he’s not sure Shane is going to hear, but he can’t ask it directly, can’t bear to get a yes or no to his actual questions of, “Do you think it’s weird that I do that? Do you want me to stop?” 

“Who’s gonna tell them?” Shane asks, yawning again, clearly not nearly as worried as Ilya is about it and thus barely resisting the urge to nod off in the middle of this conversation. 

“What?” Ilya teases, trying to approach from another angle, knowing he’s fighting an especially uphill battle by trying to present subtext to Shane’s beautiful, straightforward brain when it’s already trying to power down for the day. “You won’t sacrifice me to save your precious hoodies?” 

“Most of ‘em are already stretched out,” Shane says, rubbing his face against the pillow in a way that Ilya knows means he really wants to stop talking and go to sleep.

Still, he can’t quite let it go, not when he’s now seen photographic evidence of how stupid he looks while doing it. 

“You could buy more,” Ilya says, squeezing Shane’s hip and rubbing a thumb gently over the bone there, not to seduce, just to rouse enough to keep picking at this conversation with him. “And-” 

“Can you,” Shane yawns, “just ask me whatever you’re trying to ask me without asking? I’m too tired to speak subtext.” 

“Like you do better when you’re awake,” Ilya teases, getting a donkey kick to the ankle for it. He presses an apologetic kiss to the back of Shane’s neck. He decides to just ask it and get it over with. Even if the answer hurts his feelings, he’ll have all night to get over it without worrying about Shane’s reaction. “Does it bother you?” 

“What, you climbing inside my hoodie with me?” Shane asks, yawning hugely enough that his whole chest moves with it, making him arch away slightly. 

Ilya makes a noise of affirmation. 

“Why would it?” Shane asks, sounding genuinely confused as he relaxes back from the yawn, wiggling slightly to get comfortable again. He starts to turn to face him, but Ilya holds him in place gently. He doesn’t want Shane trying to read his face and answering accordingly. 

“It’s…silly,” Ilya says. The word isn’t quite right, isn’t quite as harsh as the ones that more immediately come to mind–mostly in his brother and father’s voices–but if Shane hasn’t thought them already, he doesn’t want to provide them. 

“So is rock paper scissors for who has to take the trash out,” Shane says. “And we still do that.” 

“And you lose every single time,” Ilya points out, a little smug. 

“Because you always change at the last second when you see what I picked,” Shane complains, “even though it’s fucking cheating-” He seems to catch himself before he picks up the argument where they last left it. “Do you want to stop doing it?” 

“...no,” Ilya confesses, tucking his chin a bit even without Shane looking at him, feeling young and stupid in a way he thought he had long outgrown. “But if you want me to-” 

“I don’t,” Shane says. “I like the weight, you like being a weird hoodie mole. Perfect teamwork.” He picks Ilya's hand up to give him a high five. “Go team.”

Like it’s that simple, that easy. Like nothing else in the world matters but them enjoying it. Like it doesn’t matter that Ilya hiding away from the world in his husband’s hoodie is objectively ridiculous. Like his father wouldn’t have torn him to shreds for doing it even when he was young, let alone when he’s a full grown man. Like nothing matters but that Ilya likes it. Like that’s the only thing Shane needs to think it’s completely fine. 

It should be impossible, there being a way to love Shane even more after so many years together, and yet he still manages to make it happen. 

Always such an overachiever. 

“I love you,” Ilya says, quietly, a little shyly. 

Shane grabs the hand at his hip and wraps Ilya’s arm around himself more securely. 

“Love you, too,” Shane says, the last word broken with yet another yawn. “Now can I go to sleep,” another yawn, “or do you want to keep asking me weird questions?” 

Ilya, smiling, fakes a snore. 

*

With the advantages of a stable homelife and medication and therapy, Ilya has far, far more good days than bad now. 

But that doesn’t mean that the bad don’t still sometimes manage to find him, no matter how hard he tries to keep them away, away from him, away from his home, away from Shane, who doesn’t deserve to be stuck with a husband who sometimes goes distant and remote instead of staying present to enjoy the beautiful, impossible thing they’ve found together. 

And yet. 

He’s been doing his best to keep up appearances in this latest stretch of his brain going thick and claggy, like the honey that drips down the side of the bottle and half-dries there, sticky and annoying. It especially drives Shane crazy, him touching it by accident when he moves it out of the way to get to his tea in the back of the cupboard. He always makes a disgusted noise and rushes to wash his hands before returning with a damp paper towel to wipe the bottle down, usually grumbling unsubtle things about other people in the house who could keep things neat if they really tried. 

He wishes his husband could so easily take a damp paper towel to his brain, could wipe away the stupid, sticky things that make him slow and bad to be around, the things he tries so hard to keep from touching Shane. 

Not that it stops Shane from noticing anyway. 

“Hey.” 

Ilya stops in his shuffle from the bedroom to the kitchen at the sound of Shane’s voice, turning to blink blearily at his husband on the couch in their living room. Fresh off of an after-work nap he shouldn't have needed and couldn't even offer an excuse for, he’s groggy, not feeling any more refreshed than when he laid down, and it takes him a moment to register that Shane is wearing a different hoodie than when Ilya last saw him, this one stretched out and-

Oh. 

“C’mere,” Shane says. “I’m cold.” 

Ilya’s eyes burn with equal parts shame and love. It’s an excuse for his benefit, he knows, an open palm offering something he wants under a thin veneer of being for Shane. The heat is on and working just fine. Shane isn’t cold. 

He’s just something beautiful that Ilya doesn’t deserve. 

“You don’t have to-” He starts, unwilling to risk getting his depressive stickiness any closer to Shane, unwilling to make his problems Shane’s, not when he should be fine, not when this shouldn’t even be fucking happening anymore, not when-

“You’re going to make me use a hoodie alone?” Shane asks, raising his eyebrows. “We’re married, asshole. We’re supposed to share them.” 

The laugh that escapes Ilya is half laugh and half shuddering little breath, and he presses a hand to his eyes, embarrassed. Shane doesn’t comment, though, doesn’t even get up from the couch, doesn’t walk out the door even though Ilya is being fucking ridiculous and would deserve Shane leaving him until he can get his shit together. 

All he does is hold up the edge of the hoodie when Ilya gets close, making it easy to slip under into the safe, quiet warmth beneath, the world trapped back behind soft, navy fabric, nothing within but Shane’s smell and warmth and heartbeat. Ilya tucks himself inside as far as he can get, not even bothering trying to get fresh air and only receiving a little trickle of cooler air at all when Shane adjusts the collar and tips Ilya’s face up slightly with a hand at his cloth-covered chin. Ilya shoves his arms beneath Shane’s body, wrapping them around him securely, cheek pressed tight to his shoulder. 

Contrary to the way he’s now tucked away in fabric, he finds his breaths coming easier, his weakness hidden, his neediness tucked away in the safety of Shane all around him, a soft, steady shield between Ilya and the rest of the world. The voice in his head that tells him this is bad and pathetic and foolish even gets quieter, like it can’t make it through the fabric, like being wrapped up like this makes Ilya small enough to hide from it despite the way most of him is still outside. There’s no judgement here, in the sanctuary of the hoodie around him, just the silent offer Shane’s made him: Come be needy and pathetic if you want. I’ll hold you anyway. 

Ilya presses his lips over Shane’s heart the way he imagines other people would kiss holy relics. 

Overwhelmed by it, unable to process being held so gently when he’s being such a burden, he feels the need to scuff the moment, to damage the shine just enough that it won’t blind him, and he reaches a hand up through the collar to pat at Shane’s face. 

“Okay, now you’re pushing it,” Shane grumbles, but when he captures Ilya’s hand, he just presses a kiss to the back of his fingers, the center of his palm, pressing it to his cheek before he lets Ilya pull it back into the safety of the hoodie with him, curling the hand into a loose fist like he’s capturing his husband’s kiss inside and resting it near his chin, right over Shane’s breastbone. Ilya feels the muffled sensation of Shane kissing the top of his head, even muted through the fabric. “Ya tebya lyublyu.” 

Ilya shuts his eyes tightly. If Shane feels it when a few tears escape to drip onto his t-shirt, he doesn’t mention it, just keeps holding Ilya firmly, making himself something safe and steady to lean on until Ilya can get his feet back under himself to stand up on his own once more. 

“I love you, too,” he says, pressing a kiss over Shane’s heart again. 

He falls asleep to the lullaby of its steady percussion beneath his ear, his world reduced to something familiar and warm, small enough to rest on him gently. 

Chapter 8: intermediary: ilya does end up going after david to try and explain

Chapter Notes

WHAT UP FAM. so i got an ask on tumblr about what if ilya HAD gone to talk to david in 1x06 and then i had thoughts and then this happened. inspiration post: https://www.tumblr.com/penandinkprincess/812296130101673984/your-tags-on-that-post-about-ilya-offering-to-talk

“Do you want me to…?” Ilya offers, barely even knowing what he’s saying until he’s said it, too distressed by Shane’s distress to focus on anything but trying to find a way to make it stop. Shane’s breathing is too shallow, too quick, his panic increasingly clear. Everything about him is screaming WRONG WRONG WRONG and making everything in Ilya scream FIX FIX FIX in response. 

“It-I-” Shane squeezes his eyes shut, teeth gritted. “Fuck. Fuck.”

The way his voice breaks on the last word is enough of an answer to call Ilya to action. With a quick, gentle hand to Shane’s face, a little gesture of support to tide him over until Ilya can return from fixing what’s scaring him, he’s in motion, chasing after David Hollander just as the man makes it down the front steps. 

It’s not until Shane’s father is turning to face him that Ilya realizes he hadn’t actually thought about the small detail of what the fuck he’s supposed to say. 

*

It’s fumbling his keys that ends up being David’s downfall for getting away in time to let Shane have as much privacy as he still can about this. 

He’s straightening up and resisting an uncharacteristic curse at his own clumsiness when there’s the sound of feet on the gravel behind him, and he winces pre-emptively, ready to turn and tell his son that he hasn’t seen anything Shane isn’t ready for him see and that no one will hear different from hi-

“Mr. Hollander.”

…oh. 

Not the voice he was expecting to hear. 

He turns to find Ilya Rozanov right behind him, shirtless and in swim shorts and slides but clearly trying to make his posture as presentable as possible, even with a towel still held around his shoulders like a cape. 

Rozanov appears to remember this last detail at the same time as him, releasing the towel on reflex but then remembering that his hands were holding it in place, having to snatch it out of the air to the side when it slithers down his shoulders. There’s a barely-restrained grimace on his face at the forced fumble, and he straightens up once more with his shoulders held even tighter, back straighter, towel folded across his arms like a waiter with a napkin. He looks like a man getting ready to make a plea in court. He looks like an eight year old Shane trying to look brave while confessing to breaking Yuna’s mother’s wedding gift to them, a vase lost to an eight year old stuck inside on a rainy day with a hockey stick and about ten minutes of no direct supervision. 

If anything about the memory softens something in his face, there’s no sign of its reflection on Rozanov’s face, still looking determined and as poised as it’s possible to be with this particular combination of factors working against him. 

“We…” Rozanov starts, but he appears to stall after that. 

Given what the “we” were just doing, David thinks with embarrassed sympathy, that’s not entirely unexpected. He’s not sure he’d do any better if someone walked in on him and Yuna, after all. Whatever Shane and Rozanov might be, it’s certainly not something they would want someone witnessing when they weren’t expecting it. 

Which is why he really, really wishes he had been able to make his getaway in time to give Shane the space to figure out what to do next. 

He’s not entirely sure why Rozanov stopped him, really. The man appears to be panicking a bit, honestly, trying and failing to figure out what to say. It’s not as if they’ve ever had a conversation, after all, and this certainly isn’t the best set of circumstances to do so for the first time under. He doesn’t know why Shane wouldn’t have stop-

“Is Shane okay?” He asks on a guess at why it’s his son’s maybe-rival maybe-something-very-not-a-rival and not his son in front of him right now. 

“He is…” Rozanov trails off, looking like he’s trying to search David’s face for what answer he should give. He’s afraid, David realizes in a quick rush of understanding, afraid of what David will do here. They don’t know each other, after all, and even from what little David knows of the political climate in Russia, he knows it isn’t a very safe place to be gay. And yet here he is anyway, standing in front of David, on the frontline of something he has every reason to be cautious of at best and afraid of at worst. 

Ostensibly to protect Shane from being the one who has to do it. 

David knows with a quiet kind of certainty in that moment that he likes Ilya Rozanov. He also knows with a parent’s kind of certainty that it’s possible his attempt at a retreat might not have read as the offer it was meant to be. 

Rozanov watches him a little warily as he approaches, but he doesn’t retreat, keeping himself as an obstacle between David and the way back to Shane. His look is calculating, not confrontational, and David tries to be easy to read, to make it very clear that whatever worst case scenario Rozanov might be thinking won’t happen here. 

“Probably wasn’t the best idea,” he offers, a little chagrined now, “trying to race off like that, was it?” 

“It was…a little concerning,” Rozanov says carefully. David nods. 

“After you,” he offers, gesturing Rozanov ahead of him but keeping slightly to the side to remain easy to see, non-threatening. He follows him only after Rozanov is two steps ahead of him, careful not to make it seem like he’s trying to crowd him. 

Shane has managed to move into the living room in their absence, but he catches one look at David from the corner of his eye, says “fuck” like he’s taken a blow to the stomach, and then doubles over, dropping to the floor in a crouch, head tucked down. On autopilot, David starts to go to him, to sit on the floor by his boy and let him know that whatever catastrophe he’s managed to create in the five minutes he’s had to do so is just that beautiful mind he got from his mom going too fast on too little infor-

-but Rozanov moves first. 

“Wait, please,” he says, barely glancing back at David as he moves to Shane like a magnet pulled home, lowering himself to the floor more gently than Shane did, hand hovering at his back but not touching. 

“-is okay-” he catches Rozanov saying, voice so low David hears it more as an indistinct sound than words. Whatever question he was asking is answered by a sharp, jerky nod from Shane, and then Rozanov is resting a hand on Shane’s back, gliding it up to squeeze at the back of his neck gently, his other hand moving to press over his head, fingers threading through his hair. 

“Fuck,” Shane says again, harsher this time, the way he sounds after he really pushes himself on the ice, like he can’t quite catch his breath yet. 

There’s still the urge to go to him, to curl him close the way he did when Shane was little enough to fit on his lap, his hurts little enough to be solved with a cuddle or an explanation that sometimes other people don’t mean to say mean things or a promise of ice cream after practice the next day. This hurt, though, seems big enough to be nearly crushing his son to the ground, and David’s first urge is still to go to him, to still try to wrap him up like he’s capable of shutting the world out for a little bit. 

Before he can even take a step, though, Rozanov is picking Shane up from the ground, an arm around his back, another at his chest. David doesn’t miss that Rozanov keeps himself between them, even when it involves making his task harder with the angle he has to try and lever Shane up from, and he knows it’s because of him when Rozanov gives him a quick glance over his shoulder, as if making sure he hasn’t moved unexpectedly. 

Who taught you that you had to look at someone like that? is a brief question that pops into David’s head, a little pang of pity there and gone again, a father’s observation of someone else’s child, but it’s not something to pursue right now, even if he and Rozanov were remotely on terms to make it possible. 

Right now, his son needs his attention more. 

“It’s okay, buddy,” he calls to Shane. “Really-”

Shane, though, just shakes his head like he did as a kid when he got water in his ears, and his face is hidden when he presses it to Rozanov’s shoulder, Rozanov’s arm moving to cup the back of his head, bowing over him in return and saying something too low for David to catch. It’s…tender, is the only word that offers itself up. It’s tender, the way Rozanov is handling his son, careful and gentle and attentive. It’s the way he’s always wanted to someone to handle Shane, the thing every parent hopes for, for their baby to grow up and find someone who will hold them with such care. It is unfortunate for the achievement of the moment that it’s coming from the most confusing person possible, but perhaps this is the price he pays now for Shane always being such a relatively easy child and teenager: a side swipe in adulthood just to keep things interesting. 

He is Yuna’s child, after all. 

“Dad.” 

Shane’s voice snaps his attention back to him at once, but there’s only one brown eye peeking at him past Rozanov’s face, and it immediately disappears when Shane shifts again, letting out another “fuck” that’s quiet but carries. Rozanov leans forward again, low voice a quiet, soft murmur, and then he nods in response to one from Shane, looking back but still keeping Shane deliberately in front of him. 

“One second, please. Don’t leave. We’ll return.” 

He seems to be waiting for something, so David offers a nod that Rozanov then returns before nudging Shane into motion towards what David knows is Shane’s bedroom here. He watches them go, standing very still to avoid spooking either of them. 

And then he lets out a sigh and moves to take a seat on the couch. 

Should have upgraded my phone when Yuna said to, he thinks with equal parts chagrin and amusement, knowing this will be yet one more successful “I told you so” from his wife for the books. 

*

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Shane says, knowing he should probably be coming up with other words but currently unable to, even with his dad in another room and him now sitting on his bed with Ilya in front of him, hands steady and reassuring on his knees and shoulder holding up Shane’s head from where he’s folded forward, leaving Ilya to support almost all of his weight so he doesn’t tumble off of the mattress. 

Ilya doesn’t mention it, just presses his cheek against Shane’s a little harder. 

“Is okay,” he says, voice quiet in his ear but the vibrations of it carrying up through his chest and into Shane’s forehead. He tucks his face a little closer to Ilya’s neck, chasing the reassurance of the warm skin there, still smelling of sunscreen–which required a fight to get Ilya to submit to–and lake water. 

We should be eating hotdogs right now, is a crazy, near-giddy thought that flits through his head, and if his world wasn’t currently crumbling around him, he might laugh in a way that would probably come out more than a little hysterical. 

As it is, he just tries to press himself impossibly closer to Ilya, his one steady thing when everything else seems to be spinning. 

“Fuck,” he says again, with feeling, and he feels the motion when Ilya moves enough to press a kiss to his ear, his cheekbone, his temple, one of his hands leaving his left knee to grip the back of Shane’s neck again, soothing and familiar, if usually applied under different circumstances. 

(He’d much rather be feeling the grounding pressure of it with Ilya’s cock in his throat instead of with his life in fucking pieces at his feet, but that train has already kind of left the fucking station.)

“Shh,” Ilya soothes, squeezing gently and kissing his face again. “Is okay, dorogoy, just breathe, yes?” 

Shane is distantly curious at the word in the middle–the meaning unknown but the cadence suggesting a petname, which is sweet and also very new for them outside of bed–but no part of him is up for a Russian lesson right now. 

“This is my fucking nightmare, Ilya,” he moans into the safe haven of the curve of Ilya’s neck, and Ilya’s face returns to rest next to his, pressing gently, hand still at Shane’s neck and holding his head in place. 

As if he was going to be going anywhere. 

“I know,” Ilya says. “But maybe it is time to wake up, yes?” 

“No,” Shane says, feeling panicked and petulant as a result. “Just fucking-knock me out or something.” 

His head bobs with the motion when Ilya lets out a snort, squeezing his neck with palpable affection. 

“When your headaches have just started getting better from your last concussion? You would regret it, I think, if I gave you another one now.” 

“Still better than this,” he says, pushing his eyes harder into Ilya’s neck. It probably has to be hurting him at this point, or at least be super uncomfortable, putting strain on the muscles there, but Ilya doesn’t mention it, nor does he move at all. He just tsks, moving the hand at Shane’s neck up enough to rub gently at the base of his skull. 

“And you say I am a baby,” Ilya chides, and Shane’s head snaps up, feeling angry and betrayed at taking a hit when he’s already on the goddamn ground, and Ilya gives him an apologetic half-smile, reaching out to smooth his hair back before leaning forward to kiss him, sweet and chaste. “Sorry, bad timing.” He cups Shane’s face, thumb smoothing over his cheekbone soothingly. “You are not a baby right now, I know. This is just scary.” 

The affirmation feels good, but it also makes him feel shy, and he folds forward again to hide his face against Ilya’s shoulder. He slips forward off of the bed so he can wrap his arms around Ilya, and Ilya returns the gesture, squeezing him firm and steady, making it a little easier to breathe inside the safe cage of Ilya’s embrace. 

“Is he mad?” He asks, and he feels the motion as Ilya shakes his head. 

“No, no, no,” he says, moving to kiss his hair before returning his chin to its place on Shane’s shoulder. “He is not mad. He is…confused, I think? Maybe? But mad? No. He would not still be here if he was mad.” 

“He tried to not be here,” Shane points out, voice small. 

“Maybe is family-” Ilya stops himself three words into what sounds like a joke he reconsidered, and it takes a second, but Shane manages to find the threads of what he must be thinking: Shane’s own freak out and flee move, all those months ago in Boston. 

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” he says, voice muffled with his face tucked against Ilya so tightly. “Sorry, by the way. It feels like shit on this side of things.” 

“Is okay,” Ilya says easily. “I do not need sorries. Is already over, and we are here now. You cannot run from your own cottage. I would hide your keys. Or throw them in the lake, maybe.”

Despite himself, that makes Shane laugh, just one rush of air that leaves him a little bit like he’s taken a hockey stick to the stomach, but it does make him feel a little better in the aftermath. 

Or maybe that’s just down to how Ilya’s holding him.  

“What did he say?” Shane asks, now a little more ready to hear it. 

In a move that’s not reassuring even a little bit, it’s now Ilya’s turn to stiffen a bit, and Shane pulls back, terrified, afraid that even now his dad is in the living room ready to tell him to never talk to him agai-

“Hey, no, no,” Ilya says, framing Shane’s face in his hands. “Stop that. Don’t start over with panicking. We have already almost gotten it over with. Put it down.” 

“You just-” Shane starts, a little outraged that he’s getting in trouble when it was Ilya’s reaction that set him off again, but Ilya shakes his head, looking a little…embarassed? 

“I, ah,” he says, “I didn't actually say much.” 

Shane blinks. 

“Was harder to think of something than I thought it would be, maybe,” he says, face going a little pink. 

Shane can’t help it. 

He laughs. 

Ilya physically startles at the sound and then looks at him like he’s a little afraid that something in Shane’s head has actually broken, but after Shane just lets out an exhausted breath and leans forward again, Ilya relaxes, laughing, too. 

“Sorry,” Ilya says, but the word is soft, amused, “you were the smart one, maybe, waiting to actually think of something to say.” 

“I still haven’t found it,” Shane says dryly. 

“Eh,” Ilya says, “keep looking. We have probably a while before he gets tired and leaves. You have a nice couch, and he has seen you on ice before. He knows you are very slow.”

“Asshole,” Shane says, pinching Ilya’s side. Ilya flinches but doesn’t pull away. He flexes his arms around Ilya a little tighter and feels something in him settle when Ilya hugs him tighter in response. He closes his eyes, centering himself by blocking out anything that isn’t Ilya. “I’m scared,” he confesses to the safe darkness of Ilya’s neck against his face. 

“Yes,” Ilya says, moving one arm just to rub his hand up and down his back in a slow, grounding glide. “It’s scary.” 

So simple, just three words, just an agreement to what Shane has already said, and yet he feels something in him let go in response, something tight and painful relaxing under the simple acknowledgement that what he’s feeling is understandable, that someone else sees it, too. Somehow it makes him feel just a little less scared, like Ilya seeing it, too, has made it lighter. 

Or like seeing it means that Ilya is helping him carry it. 

*

Ilya holds on until he feels Shane pull back. 

“Fuck,” Shane says yet again, but this time it’s more tired than anything else, like he’s worn out the panic and been left with quieter acceptance. 

“Fuck,” he agrees, and Shane huffs a laugh before closing his eyes and leaning his forehead to rest against Ilya’s. 

Ilya keeps his eyes open, even if his field of view is currently mostly Shane’s eyelids and nose. When Shane moves his hands up to grasp his shoulders, Ilya mirrors him, squeezing gently and feeling the muscles relax a little under his hands. He wouldn’t wish this on Shane for the world, wouldn’t ever put him through this if he had a choice, but he’s also happy that at least it happened with him here, so he could be steady and stable until Shane was ready to stand on his own again. He’s glad, too, that they’ve already had their hardest conversations with each other, that they’ve been able to strip away the last few layers between them to leave only softer things behind. He’s glad beyond words that it’s made him able to be soft for Shane now, to give him somewhere to land gently. 

Now if only he’d been able to find a way to make the still-necessary conversation he needs to have be over. 

“God,” Shane says, tapping his forehead against Ilya’s twice, gently, eyes still closed. “It had to be when you were copping a feel. It couldn’t have been when we were, like…playing checkers or something.” 

Ilya, because he is kind and loving and very strong, bravely restrains the urge to make fun of Shane for choosing checkers of all possible things they could have been doing. 

From the look in Shane’s eyes when he opens them, though, it would appear he heard the joke even without Ilya saying it, narrowing his eyes with grudgingly amused annoyance. 

“It’s a normal game, Ilya.” 

Ilya just lifts his eyebrows doubtfully, knowing Shane feels the movement even if he’s not far enough back to see it. 

Shane rolls his eyes but sits back, sliding his hands down Ilya’s arms until he can hold his hands. Ilya mirrors the squeeze he receives, keeping his eyes on Shane’s face even when Shane keeps his on their joined hands. It takes three false starts of drawing breath before Shane commits to what he wants to say, but Ilya waits him out, content to let him move at his own speed. If he can’t make the situation go away, he can at least give Shane what control there is to give him over it. He bides his time and studies Shane’s beautiful, beloved face, wishing he could smooth the stress there away, could mold it back into the beautiful smile that’s been there so often in their days here together. 

On his fourth attempt, Shane finally manages to get his words out. 

“I should talk to him,” he says, like this is news to Ilya. Shane glances up, like he’s checking his work on his conclusion, and Ilya nods, once. “He’ll…he’ll listen.” 

Ilya nods again. 

“He seemed…not super mad, at least.” 

Ilya nods once more, and this time Shane gives him a look. 

“Enough with the bobblehead routine,” he says. “I need you to agree with me, please. I’m kind of talking myself into coming out here. I could really use some moral support."

“You should talk to him,” Ilya says. “He’ll listen. He seemed not super mad.” He tilts his head in question, smiling faintly. “Happy?” 

“Smartass,” Shane says flatly, but there’s a smile flirting around the edges of his mouth, and when Ilya leans forward to coax it out with a kiss, he’s successful. When Shane leans back, he looks more settled, his smile small but present. He squeezes Ilya’s hands. “I’m really glad you’re here.” 

“I’m glad to be here,” Ilya says. Selfish as he knows it is, there was a part of him, a part he tried to ignore but wasn’t quite successful at doing so, that worried that this would scare Shane off, that he’d run away, put distance between them again, tell Ilya he was sorry but the reality of it was too frightening and he couldn’t live like this. 

Bad as he knows it makes him, there’s a part of him that’s relieved that when he was scared, it was Ilya that Shane reached for. 

“Okay,” Shane says, and there’s a decisive quality to his voice now. He starts to rise, and Ilya rises with him, steadying him when he’s up. “Let’s go. I have to do this now or I’m going to freak out again and then puke.” 

“Sexy,” Ilya teases, brushing Shane’s hair back into some semblance of neatness. 

“Do not say the word sexy when my dad is in the next room,” Shane says, looking scandalized in a way Ilya can’t resist poking at. 

“Is it next room?” He asks, pretending to think. “There is landing space outside door and then hallway and then staircase-” 

“I will lock you outside and let the loons eat you,” Shane threatens, but he can’t avoid smiling while he says it. Ilya smiles back. 

“I will make friends with them all and teach them how to break into cottages. We will be entire loon crime syndicate and rob Canada blind.” 

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Shane says. His expression goes just a touch more serious. “I love you.” 

Ilya wonders if hearing those three little worlds will ever stop sending a bubbly rush through him like champagne, going right to his head. 

He hopes not. 

“I love you, too,” he says, leaning in to kiss Shane once more and then stepping back. “Now, we put on shirts before facing your dad again.” 

He teasingly offers his Boston shirt up for Shane and has it nearly slapped out of his hands in response, and he’s smiling as he slips it over his own head. Shane puts on a plain gray t-shirt and then shrugs into a flannel shirt over it, and Ilya is hopelessly endeared by the way he knows it’s because Shane feels a little safer snuggled into the soft cotton. 

(Really, if it weren’t for one of Shane’s parents being very close by and also actively waiting to talk to them, there’s almost no way Ilya wouldn’t have immediately stripped Shane back out of his clothes.)

He stalls when he’s ready, considering for the first time that Shane might not actually want him to do this part with him, especially not when Ilya failed so spectacularly on his own first attempt at doing it. When Shane makes it to the door, though, he glances back, like he’s confused by Ilya not being right at his heels. He sees it dawn on Shane that Ilya might be leaving him to do it on his own, and the quick little flicker of panic that he tries to conceal immediately has Ilya in motion before he decides to be, reaching out to squeeze Shane’s hand in his and press a supportive kiss to his shoulder and then his cheek. 

“We’ll be okay,” Shane says to the door. 

“We’ll be okay,” he says to Shane. 

After one last deep breath, Shane opens the door. Ilya steps out behind him and then takes his proper place.

Right at his side. 

*

If Shane didn’t look like he was about to either make an escape attempt of his own and/or vomit, David might find it funny, the way the two young men approach him looking like kids about to either ask for a sleepover or confess to accidentally breaking a window with a baseball. 

As it is, he just tries to make himself look soft and open and welcoming, keeping his place on the couch. 

“Um,” Shane says when they’ve reached the couch. He makes a slightly awkward hand gesture to indicate the man at his side. “This is Ilya. Rozanov. But you…knew that.” 

Rozanov nods at him slightly and then gently nudges Shane back into motion enough to sit on the couch. From how pale his son still is, he thinks Rozanov might also be a little worried that Shane is going to pass out otherwise, and he’s grateful for Rozanov’s gentle handling. 

“I’m sorry to have-” David cuts himself off, not sure how to end that sentence in a way that will allow him and Shane to continue looking each other in the eye in the future. He switches tracks. “I left my charger here, the old one that works with my phone. I tried texting to ask if I could swing by, but you weren’t picking up. I thought I could just stop by and grab it. I didn’t mean to…disturb anything.” 

Shane is nodding in a way that says he’s not really listening to any of those words because he’s busy coming up with his own. 

“Are you enjoying your time in Canada?” He directs to Rozanov, who looks briefly surprised to be the one being addressed before he recovers. 

“I-yes. Very much so. Shane is a good host.” 

“Good,” David says, nodding. It’s a way out, this little exchange, an easy way for Shane to say that Rozanov is just visiting if he wants to. They can just pretend that David hasn’t seen anything that couldn’t be explained by two guys getting to know each other at All Stars and finding that they liked each other enough to want to hang out for a bit during their summer break. 

And if it’s liking in a way that goes beyond just handshakes and video games and playing football in the yard, he’ll let Shane find his way to sharing that in his own time. 

Shane, though, gets a look on his face that is so like Yuna that David’s chest feels warm with all of the love that swells in it, and he knows his son is about to do something he’s very scared of but determined about. 

“I’m gay,” Shane says, swallowing hard after it’s out. “And I’m-” He falters, just a bit, and David’s eyes flicker down just briefly when there’s motion in his peripheral vision, finding Shane pressing his foot to Rozanov’s, Rozanov pressing back. David looks back up before Shane notices him noticing. “We’re…” He gestures to Rozanov. 

“Lovers,” Rozanov offers when it seems like Shane can’t find a word on his own. 

“No, Ilya, that’s gross,” Shane says, making a face. “We’re, um…” 

Rozanov takes the correction graciously but also looks a little less keen on helping out with finding a word this time since Shane didn’t like his first attempt. Even under the lingering awkwardness of the moment, it’s an effort not to smile. 

“Seeing each other,” Shane decides on. “That’s why he’s here. We…wanted some time together.” 

David can’t lie and say there isn’t any part of him that isn’t hurt that his child didn’t think he could come to him with any of this, but that doesn’t help him or Shane now. That’s something he can think about on his own time, talk over with his wife, maybe. It’s not something Shane needs to try shouldering when he’s already trying to carry enough. 

It’s only when Shane fidgets slightly that he realizes he’s expecting a response to what he said. 

“Thank you for telling me,” he says. “Even if it wasn’t how I think either of us would have wanted it to happen.” 

“I’m really sorry,” Shane says, and now David frowns, pretty sure that should be his line when he was the one who interrupted what seems like their first vacation together. “I know it’s, like, not-not what you and mom expected or anything, and I tried, I promise I did, but I didn’t-” 

David’s heart breaks a little when he realizes what his son is trying to apologize for. 

“Hey,” he says, cutting Shane off short. “It’s okay, Shane. You don’t have to apologize for who you love. Not ever, okay? That’s not something you ever have to be sorry for.” 

Shane’s eyes fill, and he looks away briefly, clearly embarrassed, scrubbing at his face quickly. 

David notes that it’s towards Rozanov he turns, and he glances to find the other man watching him, like he’s gauging David’s response to this. He decides to give Shane a moment to catch his breath. 

“Rozanov-” 

“Ilya,” Roz-Ilya corrects. 

“Ilya,” he says, trying to repeat the pronunciation exactly. “Sorry. Habit.” Ilya nods, accepting the apology easily. “It’s nice to meet you in person, finally. Even if not under the best circumstances.” 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “Not ideal.” 

Shane lets out a breath that’s almost laugh and turns back, eyes still a little red but dry now. 

“Are you going to tell mom?” He asks, and he manages to keep his voice even. 

“If you want me to,” David says. He won’t look forward to keeping a secret from his wife–especially not a secret like this–but he also won’t shove Shane into something he’s not ready for. 

(Not on purpose, at least.)

“But if you’re not ready-” he starts, but Shane shakes his head, looking at his coffee table instead of anyone else in the room but still looking determined. 

“No, I-I want to tell her. I’m tired of keeping secrets. I want-” He twitches just slightly, chin tucking a bit, looking a little shy. “I want you guys to meet the person I love.” 

Ilya taking a slightly too-sharp breath makes David look to him, and he can’t help but smile faintly when he sees his expression, more open than he’s seen on his face in the years of watching him on the television. Ilya’s eyes are focused on Shane, and the look on his face makes it seem like Shane has just handed him every star in the sky. Even without him saying it back, David knows, sure and certain, that the feelings are reciprocated. 

As if everything else about this afternoon hadn’t already made that plain. 

“Is dinner tonight too soon?” He asks, and Shane looks up, seeming a little surprised. “I can tell mom you’re bringing someone with you, give her a little heads up so she won’t be too surprised.” There’s not really any version of events in which Yuna is going to accurately guess who this special guest is, but she’ll at least know someone is coming. 

Shane looks to Ilya, as if he’s the one making the calls here, which is unfortunate when Ilya was already looking to Shane to follow his lead. They seem to have a quick, silent conversation between themselves, and David watches the movement of head jerks and eyebrows like he’s watching a tennis match. Not a new thing, then, he thinks, not if they can speak to each other like this. 

So maybe the started at All Stars timeline isn’t quite right. Hm. 

He’s not sure who wins or loses in this silent debate of theirs, but Shane pulls a face that Ilya returns with an arched eyebrow, and then his son turns back to him, looking decided. David tilts his head slightly in question. 

“Yeah, dinner works.” 

“And do you want me to tell mom the news?” He offers. Shane looks like something in him settles at the offer, but he shakes his head. 

“No, I-I’ll tell her. I want to. It should be me. Just tell her that someone’s coming with me for dinner, and then I’ll…” He trails off, fingers on his right hand flexing in something that’s half a gesture. 

“Would you like us to bring anything?” Ilya asks, and David is mildly surprised at such a display of good manners from someone with such a reputation for being such a terror on the ice. 

“Just yourselves,” he answers. “Does six work?” 

Another quick little exchange of looks between Shane and Ilya. 

“Yeah,” Shane says, only looking back after he’s answered. “Six works.” 

“Could be earlier,” he offers, knowing that he’s giving his son a good two and a half hours to potentially freak himself out again. 

“No,” Shane says, shaking his head. “Six is good.” 

When a silence that starts to get painful immediately begins to settle over them, David rises, prompting the other two to rise as well. Slowly, giving Shane time to move away if he wants, he steps closer to fold his son into a hug, pulling him close. Shane settles into it, holding him back tighter than he has in years. 

“I love you,” he tells Shane quietly, though with Ilya still so close even after taking a step away, it’s perfectly audible to the other member of this conversation, not that that bothers him. The whole world should know how much he loves his son. “So, so much, Shane.” 

“I love you, too, dad,” Shane says, voice sounding a little tight. “I’m sorry-”

“Uh uh,” David says gently, shaking his head. He pats Shane’s back softly, the same way he did when Shane was little, the same way he used to soothe a restless, tiny Shane to sleep. “Not for this.” 

Shane hugs him a little tighter. 

*

Ilya is mildly surprised when he’s offered a handshake as David leaves, but he takes it. Shane has gone to retrieve the previously-forgotten charger when it was almost forgotten again, leaving them both standing in the gravel driveway, so he’s a little relieved to have something to do, honestly. 

“Nice meeting you, Ilya.” 

“Nice to meet you as well,” he says, resisting the urge to make a face at going hyper-polite without meaning to. He feels the sudden, mildly insane need to offer something up, to prove something, to present some kind of evidence that he’s good enough to be with this man’s son. So far in front of this man he has frozen like an idiot, shuffled his son out of sight briefly in a way that may or may not have been polite, and then sat on the couch like a living statue, saying almost nothing. He’s not exactly making the best impression of someone who can take good care of this man’s child as a partner. 

He’s just not sure how to fix it. 

“Thank you,” David says, releasing his hand, and Ilya barely catches the urge to frown in confusion, wondering if his reputation is bad enough that Shane’s father didn’t even think he would accept a handshake. David looks back at the house briefly as if to indicate the Hollander still within it. “That was hard on him. I’m glad he had you to help him.” 

Ilya very desperately hopes the way his face feels a little warm doesn’t show up too obviously. 

“I love him,” he says simply, the only answer he can offer that won’t be either too little or too much. 

David smiles like what Ilya’s said was exactly what he wanted to hear. 

“Good,” he says, and Ilya can’t help the way he feels a little warm under the praise. “He loves you, too. I can see it. I’ve never seen him look so comfortable with someone before.” 

Ilya desperately needs Shane to return right now before he does something very embarrassing like ask David Hollander to repeat himself just for the joy of hearing it again. 

“Got it,” Shane calls, jogging down the stairs to meet them, charger in hand, as if he’s heard Ilya’s silent call for help. 

“Thanks,” David says, taking the charger and then pulling Shane in for a one-armed hug. “I’ll see you in a few hours, alright?” 

Shane nods, stepping back to Ilya’s side when he’s released from the hug, and Ilya pretends he doesn’t feel as pleased as he is, this automatic return to him, like he and Shane are planets in orbit with each other, like it’s natural for Shane to seek his side again. 

Especially notable in this case for the fact that it’s happening in front of someone else. 

“It’ll be okay,” David says, resting a supportive, affectionate hand on Shane’s shoulder. “I promise.” 

Shane just nods. 

When Shane’s father is back in his car, Ilya brushes his pinky finger against Shane’s gently, not expecting anything, just offering the reminder that he’s there in case the departure of his father is leaving Shane the space to start panicking about what’s next. To his surprise, though, Shane’s response to the brief brush is to take Ilya’s hand in his, lacing their fingers together. Hand in hand, they watch David Hollander drive away, the man giving them a small wave in the rearview mirror that Shane returns with his free hand. When the car has disappeared down the driveway, Shane lets out a heavy breath, turning to rest his forehead against Ilya’s shoulder. 

“So that just happened,” he says lightly. 

Ilya snorts, resting a hand at the back of Shane’s head gently. 

“Now I get to wait a few hours and then do it all over again,” Shane says, sounding exhausted now. He leans against Ilya a little more heavily. “Jesus Christ.” 

“Hmm,” Ilya says thoughtfully, leaning forward to kiss Shane’s hair and then resting his cheek over the spot. “We could probably find something to do to pass the time faster.” 

Shane pulls back and gives him an incredulous look. 

“I have literally never been less turned on in my fucking life, Ilya,” he says, scowling. 

“I am saying we can have a snack,” Ilya says with fake innocence. “What are you implying, Hollander?” 

“You suck,” Shane complains, punching him lightly and then pulling away to start walking back to the house. 

Ilya catches up easily, wrapping his arms around him from behind and tucking his chin over his shoulder. 

“So do you,” he says, kissing Shane’s neck. “Quite well.” 

Shane groans, but he doesn’t shrug his way free, just leans back against Ilya. 

“I have literally never been less horny in my life, dude.” 

And yet despite the words, Ilya is amused to note, he doesn’t protest when a hand presses over his chest and squeezes gently. 

“I can fix this, I think,” Ilya says thoughtfully, moving to nip at Shane’s neck playfully, feeling a little shiver move through him. 

Grinning, Ilya nudges him gently to get him in motion once more. After all, they’ve got a few hours to kill, and there’s no sense letting Shane wind himself up during them. Better to give him a distraction. 

Ilya offers one gladly. 

Chapter 9: making a splash: only child versus youngest sibling

Chapter Notes

hello friends. please to enjoy an only child discovering that mom can be a weapon for the first time lol.

inspiration post: https://www.tumblr.com/penandinkprincess/813727351058956288/cackling-about-the-idea-of-shane-who-has-only-ever

Even though they might have disagreements with each other, Shane has always known he’s lucky to have his mom. She’s always been his biggest supporter, his most vocal fan, his most diligent promoter. He’s been glad to have his dad to rein her in a bit now and then, of course, but he knows he got lucky with his mom, especially now that he’s able to share her attention with Ilya, making it a little easier to breathe when she now has a second person to momager. Right now, though, he’s grateful for her in a slightly different way. 

Namely that sitting right beside her during this family lake day means that Ilya won’t dare splash him the way he always does when he has access to water. 

He can tell from the near-pouting looks Ilya keeps shooting him that he’s well-aware of what Shane is doing here, and the amused glance he got from his dad earlier says he’s caught on as well, but Shane’s had a lovely day of finally not getting water in his face from his asshole husband. He’s even helpfully held out a towel a couple of times just to really rub it in, making sure to stay firmly next to his mom while doing it to make sure Ilya couldn’t take revenge for the provocation. 

If his mom finds it strange that he’s seemingly being so clingy out of nowhere, she doesn’t comment, even when she took a break from swimming earlier to float on a lounger and had Shane still right by her, one hand on the float. He did have one moment of risk when his mom laughingly accepted Ilya’s challenge of a swimming race, but Shane had been declared judge, taking over his mom’s float for the duration and cheering along with his dad, observing from his place on the dock with his feet in the water, before calling it for his mom despite Ilya’s victory. 

Ilya had grumbled and clearly wanted revenge, but Shane had given up his place on the float to return it to his mom before remaining right by her, smugly safe from revenge splashing. 

When Ilya rolls his eyes, Shane just smiles, towing his mom along at her direction to get her drink back from his dad, making sure to keep her between him and his husband all the while. 

*

“You okay?” His mom asks later, when they’ve returned to the little seating area by the dock and left Ilya in the water, retrieving the old diving targets they’d dug up from storage earlier while looking for his mom’s float, Shane’s dad timing how fast he can get them after tossing them out for him. It’s silly and childish, and Shane is so happy to see Ilya so happy, loose and relaxed and enjoying himself. 

And, Shane thinks contently, completely unable to ruin the good vibes by shaking his hair out on him later so long as Shane stays by his mom on the loveseat. 

“I’m good,” he says. 

“You sure?” His mom presses. “Everything okay?” 

“Everything’s great,” he says honestly. Feeling a little guilty for apparently worrying her in the process of making himself untouchable with her as a shield, he nudges her with his arm. “What? I’m not allowed to miss my mom?” 

“Awwww,” his mom coos, clearly teasing him, and he groans and struggles when she gets her arms around him, kissing his head obnoxiously. “My baby misses me.” 

“Mom, stop! Gross!” He cries, laughing, trying to get free without hurting her. 

“But you’re my baby,” she teases, laughing, too, and pinching his cheek. 

Shane rolls his eyes and gently pushes her hand away from his face. Really, if she wasn’t his ticket to not getting splashed, he’d move seats just to make a point. 

As it is, he submits to the teasing. 

It beats being wet, after all. 

*

When Ilya and his dad join them, Ilya breathing heavily from exertion but smiling, Shane smiles back-

-and then rests his head on his mom’s shoulder, taunting Ilya with still being untouchable, smiling wider when it makes his mom put an arm around him, emphasizing her presence beside him. 

Ilya rolls his eyes, resentfully toweling his hair off and then looking annoyed when he realizes he can’t even throw the damp towel at Shane with his mom so close. 

Shane takes a sip of his ginger ale, completely content with the state of the world. 

*

Not that he ever says it–not after playfully teasing Shane about it once when he wasn’t sharing a throw blanket made Shane overly reflective and self-conscious for days afterwards–but there are times that it’s very clear that Ilya’s husband is an only child. 

The way he fails to keep track of his mother while using her as a shield is one of those times. 

By the time Shane’s head comes up from looking at his phone and he’s begun to register Yuna now halfway up the staircase to the cooler still sitting on the landing above them, Ilya is already in motion. Shane swears under his breath and tosses his phone to the side to try and scramble for an escape, but even if their playful wrestling tapered off with age and growing resentment, Ilya has had plenty of experience with his brother growing up, and he has his arms around Shane’s chest before he’s managed to get even two steps away. 

“Let go!” Shane hisses, clearly trying not to make a scene when his parents are just above them, his dad scraping the grill clean from dinner and his mom refilling her glass of wine from the bottle in the cooler. 

Ilya grins, wrenching them both towards the dock and ignoring the way Shane tries to trip him along the way. They’re equally matched in strength–something they’ve proven in how many draws they’ve had to call in arm wrestling matches–but Ilya has better leverage right now, and he marches Shane right to the end of the dock, far away from the ladder to climb back up to slow how fast Ilya will face consequences for this. 

Another point to him, he thinks smugly, for growing up with a sibling: better foresight. 

“You motherfu-” Shane’s growl is cut off when Ilya slings him into the water, pausing just long enough to make sure his head pops back up over the surface and then booking it back to the seating area. 

He swears in his head when he sees Yuna still at the top of the landing, laughing at something David said, and he hasn’t decided on an excuse to go join them when he hears the slap of wet feet behind him. He starts to move first and decide later, but Shane’s goddamn tote bag trips him, slowing him enough for his husband to catch him, hands gripping him inescapably tight and turning them to face each other. He cringes back, knowing what’s coming-

-and then has a moment of inspiration when he sees Yuna start descending the stairs from the corner of his eye. 

He barely resists the urge to laugh in triumph when Shane starts whipping his head back and forth, spraying Ilya with water. 

“Shane!” He cries, making his tone as injured as possible. “Stop, I said I was cold!” 

“Shane!” 

Ilya has to duck his head to hide his grin when Yuna’s voice makes Shane freeze at once. 

“I just got dry,” he complains, sounding wounded, shrugging his way free of Shane’s now-slack hold. He flicks his hands to get some of the water off, milking the moment for all it’s worth. 

“Shane, that is not nice,” Yuna scolds, handing Ilya a towel from the tote and rubbing her hand over his shoulder briskly when he drapes it around himself like a cape. When she turns to look at Shane’s stunned face, Ilya sticks his tongue out at him, knowing he’s safe from consequences with Yuna between them. “You should go change. You know how cold it gets when the sun goes down up here. Getting Ilya wet too was mean.” 

Mean, Ilya mouths over her shoulder, making Shane’s eyes flash before he looks back to his mom. 

“But he-” Shane starts, clearly astonished by being outmaneuvered, but Yuna is already turning away, nudging Ilya with her. 

Ilya goes easily, grinning at Shane over his shoulder as his husband glares daggers at him before resentfully making his way up to the house. 

*

David sets up the firepit in the middle of the seating area because apparently all Hollander men are secretly pyromaniacs to some degree, and after grabbing a drink from the cooler, Ilya descends back down to join them. He starts to take his earlier seat, but the grumpy look on Shane’s face when he emerges from the house gives him a moment of inspiration, and he instead sits down at Yuna’s feet, resting his back against the arm of the loveseat and stretching his legs in front of him. The position leaves his shoulder resting against her leg, but when he starts to shift away, to give her more space, her hand descends to scratch the back of his shoulder gently, an affectionate gesture he’s seen her do to both Shane and David before, and one that’s even been offered to him a few times by now, too. 

It feels as nearly-overwhelmingly good as it always does, and he feels himself relaxing without meaning to, pressing more firmly against her leg like a very pathetic dog looking for more scratches. Yuna doesn’t comment, just brushes his hair back the way she does Shane’s now that it’s long enough to get in his eyes. 

Absurdly, Ilya feels his eyes sting at the easy affection of the gesture, and Shane kicking his ankle unsubtly as he passes by with a fresh ginger ale is a welcome distraction. 

“Ow,” he complains, pulling his ankle up to press his hand against it, as if it wasn’t barely enough to hurt at all. 

“Shane,” Yuna tsks. “What’s gotten into you today?” 

When Ilya grins and slouches enough to rest his head against Yuna’s knee, he actually thinks for a moment that Shane is going to do something beyond just lightly kick him. Under the threat of his mother’s presence, however, Shane just drops onto the sofa, outsmarted and resentful about it. 

Ilya smiles at him contently. 

*

Ilya didn’t actually intend to stay in his place at Yuna’s feet for very long. He’d done it to annoy Shane and use the threat of Shane’s mother against him in a way it apparently didn’t occur to Shane to do, but he hadn’t actually planned to remain there, sitting on the ground and leaning against her leg like a needy child. 

When he’s there, though, he finds himself strangely reluctant to give it up. It’s a little silly, being the only one on the ground, but the conversation moves around him easily enough, and when he has to tilt his head back to address Yuna, she half-smiles in a way that makes him feel like he’s a little tipsy, especially when she laughs at what he says and presses a hand to his shoulder or the top of his head. 

In slow degrees, he finds himself getting drowsy, yawning through his nose for the sake of not making it obvious and risking breaking things up when the moment feels so comfortable. The conversation has swung around to the construction of a new house in the area, and Shane and David are busily discussing the progress and what they’ve guessed about the final design from the foundation, Yuna chiming in now and then but largely just listening. Ilya, who has no interest in the subject at all, is half-asleep when he feels Yuna’s nails at his shoulder again, scratching gently but clearly meant to get his attention, and blinks awake to find her leaning forward slightly, voice soft, the other Hollanders busily debating windows. 

“Do you want to head up to the house, honey? You can sleep in the guest room until Shane’s ready to go if you want.” 

“No,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “I’m good here.” Something occurs to him suddenly, and he sits up, a little embarrassed when he realizes exactly how much of his weight she was supporting. “I can-” 

Yuna just presses him back down, giving him a small smile and then turning back to the conversation, as if Ilya dozing off at her feet is completely normal. Throat stupidly tight over such a little thing, Ilya rests his head against her knee again. 

He falls asleep to gentle scratching at his shoulder. 

*

He pays for his tricks later, when Shane drives them home, lures him into the shower, and cranks the water to cold before jumping out and holding the door shut, laughing when Ilya swears dire vengeance in Russian before recovering enough to flip the water back to warm, barely managing not to laugh while scowling at Shane as he smugly makes his exit, even flipping the lights off as he goes. 

“I’m filing for divorce!” Ilya yells after him. 

Shane flips the lights back on just long enough to give him a middle finger. 

Chapter 10: regulate: ilya's temperature preferences versus shane's lack of thermoregulation

Chapter Notes

so this was actually sparked off of another post of mine about ilya and shane having a playful fight over trying to accomodate the other person's preferred home temperature, and an asker let me know that russian homes stay VERY warm in winter, which presented the very funny idea of a conflict centering around ilya being very used to the heat being super high in winter versus shane's autism meaning he's very sensitive to temperatures: https://www.tumblr.com/penandinkprincess/813636550293438464/omg-just-btw-russian-houses-are-warm-its-mostly

When Shane was in elementary school, he had a friend–well, he had a classmate his mom wanted him to be friends with enough that she arranged regular playdates between them–named June, who had a pet bearded dragon named Phillippa. He and June hadn’t had much in common besides what Shane suspects now was a shared “otherness” that meant they both didn’t quite fit with other people–probably the reason their moms wanted them to fit with each other so badly–but he remembers having fun playing with Phillippa, at least as much as someone can play with a lizard. He remembers her warm, textured body, bumpy with scales, and the spikey ridges around her head, the way her belly spread out against his palms when June carefully put her in his hands, Phillippa’s beadlike little eyes inspecting him right back. Besides a betta fish he’d shared custody of with his dad, he’d never had a pet, nor a desire to have one, really, content to give Bertie the Betta a few minutes of attention now and then and call it good enough, strangely soothed by Bertie’s long fins moving through the water but more interested in hockey than anything else that might take up his time. 

Pitching in to help with Phillippa when he was at June’s, then, was novel. June had been able to rattle off lizard facts as easily as Shane could hockey, and he’d been content to listen and do what June had trusted him with. He’d liked watching Phillippa crunch away on her “salad” June carefully portioned out into her bowl even if watching her eat crickets and hornworms had been gross, and he’d laughed when he fed her a strawberry that made it look like she was wearing lipstick when she chomped at it. He’s forgotten most of what June so diligently taught him, but he remembers that bearded dragons live in terrariums with a heat source inside, remembers sticking his hand in and feeling the ambient warmth against his skin, almost tangible in a way he hadn’t particularly cared for. It’s something he hasn’t thought about in years. 

Not until he walks into Ilya’s house in December and it feels like walking into a terrarium. 

He’s distracted, briefly, by a shirtless Ilya pressing him against the wall, reaching down to hitch his leg up to wrap around his hip and pressing them together in a way that makes his head go a little fuzzy. He grins into the kiss when Ilya lets out a low, hungry noise and ducks enough to get the leverage to pick him up, Shane wrapping his legs around his waist in a move he’s got down to an art after so many years, thrilled as ever to feel the strength behind it when Ilya carries him around like he weighs nothing. He laughs in a way that’s damningly close to a giggle when he’s flopped backwards onto the couch, Ilya crowding down over him in short order, hands to either side of his head and thigh slipping up between his. 

“Ya skuchal po tebe,” Ilya breathes when they part for air, and Shane smiles, brushing a stray curl back. 

“Well,” Shane says, stomach tightening when the firm muscle of Ilya’s thigh presses right where he needs it, “you definitely said ‘I.’”

Ilya laughs, kissing along his cheekbone and to his ear. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t learn Russian, after all,” he teases, pulling back to smile down at him like Shane is the most precious thing he’s ever seen. He’s so beautiful that it almost hurts to look at him, like trying to look right at the sun. “I won’t be able to keep secrets from you.” 

“I wouldn’t worry,” Shane says, pulling Ilya down for a brief kiss, Ilya chasing the gesture with a playful nudge of his nose against his. “So far all I’ve got is ‘Privet, menya zovut Shane,’ and I think you already know that.” 

“Such a good student,” Ilya coos playfully in his ear, and Shane can feel his smile when it’s pressed to his cheek. “I think you deserve a reward for such good studying, yes?” 

Shane conveys his agreement with a frantic shimmying-down of his jeans. 

*

In the aftermath, Shane is slick with sweat (...among other things), enough that he slides against Ilya when he shifts in a way that’s absolutely disgusting on this side of horny, especially when the air around them still feels like someone breathing against his skin. Before he can say anything, though, Ilya apparently reads the distaste on his face, stretching his head up enough to kiss his temple affectionately. 

“Go,” he says. “Go shower so you can stop making sad kitten faces at me.” 

“I have to shower by myself?” Shane teases, unable to help it even while wildly uncomfortable, which is an occupational hazard of having a sexy as fuck boyfriend, he’s learned. “What if I get lonely?” 

Ilya nips at his neck but nudges him into motion. 

“Let me throw dinner in the oven and I’ll join you.” He gets up, tugging his sweatpants back into place. 

Shane barely notices a temperature difference in the absence of his body, even with him still fully naked. He opens his mouth to ask if they can turn the thermostat to something a few degrees below hellfire, but he stops himself before he speaks, painfully aware of the way things ended the last time he was on this couch. 

In this second attempt at staying at Ilya’s house for the night, bolstered by a summer of practice, Shane is determined to make everything go perfectly. They’re used to living with each other now, and Ilya’s even had a couple of weekends up in Montreal in addition to overnights after games, but construction work in Svetlana’s apartment building has meant her staying with Ilya until it was over, making this the first time Shane’s returned the favor. 

(And the first time he’s learned that Ilya apparently likes living in an oven in winter.)

“Don’t use up all of the hot water, yes?” Ilya teases over his shoulder. 

Shane smiles and chooses not to share that he’s never wanted a hot shower less in his life. 

*

The relief of a lukewarm-bordering-on-cool shower is almost painful to give up when he hears Ilya in the bedroom, but he makes himself turn the temperature up to avoid questions he doesn’t have easy answers for, the water hitting him like a physical blow when he’s barely started to get almost comfortable again. Ilya joining him is a nice distraction, though working up to another round of sex certainly does nothing for not ending up sweaty even while still in the shower. They both towel off afterwards while impeding each other’s progress with kisses and playful, wandering hands, and they stumble down the stairs together as if they’re drunk, buzzing off of love for each other and the surreality of this time together. 

(And possibly heat stroke, Shane thinks a little bitterly as he passes a vent that blows hot air at him in a way that makes him twitch slightly in a way Ilya thankfully doesn’t notice.) 

*

“Cuddle me,” Ilya whines playfully later, nudging him with his foot when Shane returns from the bathroom (primarily to splash cold water on his face and hold his cooled hand to the back of his neck until he felt just a little less like crawling out of his own skin) and purposefully takes a seat at the other end of the couch, trying to get what little relief he can by avoiding sharing Ilya’s bodyheat. He’s refilled his water bottle with plenty of ice cubes and even briefly went shirtless until the feeling of Ilya’s couch against his bare skin was too much when he’s already on edge from the heat, but he still feels like he’s stifling under the almost physical weight of it, settling on him like unwelcome hands. 

“Needy,” Shane manages to tease back, playing through the pain because he’s not a quitter and also not rude enough to start making demands about how his boyfriend keeps his home. 

Especially when he already fucked up their first attempt at doing this, he reminds himself sternly. 

“So mean to me,” Ilya pouts, pushing himself up and crawling closer. 

Shane barely resists the urge to grimace in anticipation of so much bodyheat against him. He’d normally welcome Ilya’s bare skin against him, the soothing weight of his body over his own, but now he can feel himself go stiff as Ilya lowers down, nuzzling at his neck with a playful kind of affection. 

Shane only realizes he’s holding his breath when Ilya pulls back, looking concerned. 

“Luchik?” He asks, and Shane can’t even enjoy the pet name the way he usually does when it’s accompanied by Ilya’s hand against his cheek, his palm feeling like a scorching brand when all of his nerves are already screaming about how unbearably fucking hot he is. 

“What’s wrong?” Ilya asks, looking concerned. 

Looking the way he did when Shane bolted the last time he was here, he realizes with a sick little surge of guilt, hurt and confused and worried. Shane forces himself to smile and pulls Ilya down into a kiss, even when it presses more of their bodies together in a way that feels like nails driven into his skin with the extra heat it brings. 

“I’m fine,” he says, nudging his forehead against Ilya’s. “Just twisted wrong, I think.” 

“You’re hurt?” Ilya asks, still sounding concerned but not pulling away. Shane grits his teeth against the urge to push him off, forcing himself to breathe and act like an adult. He draws a breath for strength and then tucks Ilya’s head down against his shoulder. 

Immediately, the heat of Ilya’s breath against his neck is too much. 

“I’m fine,” he says, willing himself to make it be true. He’s an adult. He can handle this. He’s a grown adult in a grown adult relationship, and he can survive being a little too warm. He can do it. He can. 

“You are sure?” Ilya asks, and Shane squeezes his eyes shut when a hand sneaks its way up under his shirt, the sensation of hot skin on his heinous even if he knows it’s meant to be affectionate. Really, where the fuck does Ilya get off running so goddamn hot? “Where does it hurt?” 

I love him, Shane tells himself firmly. I love him. I love him. I love him. I am not going to snap at him to get the fuck off of me because I love him and only a crazy person would do that to the person they love. This is fine. It’s fine. 

“I’m good,” he says, reaching down to pull Ilya’s hand from under his shirt. 

In a display of iron-willed self-control, he even manages to press a kiss to it instead of slapping it away. 

*

In his extensive research about building a good relationship and how to be a good boyfriend, Shane came across an article that talked about the importance of patience and adaptability in relationships. It was written by some kind of relationship expert who interviewed couples who had been together for 30+ years, and two common themes were the importance of patience and adaptability. He can do that. He’s Shane Hollander, NHL professional, grown man, and good, supportive, patient, adaptable boyfriend. 

“You are sure you are okay?” Ilya asks again later, when they’ve playfully fought over cleaning up the kitchen after dinner, and Shane has managed to win loading the dishwasher by conceding Ilya the right to first blowjob afterwards. 

Shane breathes deeply instead of shuddering when Ilya presses close to his back, nuzzling at his neck. 

“Fine,” he says, the safest thing he can manage when he has felt himself slowly wound tighter bit by bit with every minute he’s spent in Ilya’s sauna of a house. Really, the amount this man must spend on electricity every winter has to be fucking insa-

“Talk to me, moya lyubov,” Ilya coaxes. “I know something is wrong.” 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Shane says, managing to keep his tone even through sheer fucking willpower. He wonders if there’s a way he might be able to make an excuse to go outside, to soak up some Boston winter to reset his nerves. 

For the first time, he thinks a smoking habit might actually have its uses. 

“You are not acting right,” Ilya says, kissing along his shoulder, each touch landing like a slap to the face. Ilya jostles him slightly, and Shane grits his teeth against the urge to snap. “I am your boyfriend, Shane, if you are upset-” 

“I’m not upset!” 

He winces after it’s out, and he turns immediately, resting his forearms on Ilya’s shoulder, careful not to drip dishwater on him as he leans in for a kiss. He nudges his forehead against Ilya’s, ignoring the way he feels hypersensitive to even that little bit of contact. 

“I’m good,” he says, and if it’s a lie, it’s only a little one, meant for the sake of preserving this second attempt at being together here. He will not freak out and ruin it again. He will have a shared good memory of them together in Ilya’s house if it fucking kills him. 

Patience and adaptability, he reminds himself. Ilya’s done it plenty, been patient with him from the start, been adaptable to Shane and all of his little quirks. He even looked up a recipe to make one of Shane’s favorite meals as a kid, even adapted to fit his dietary requirements now, a gesture so sweet that Shane thinks he might cry about it when he can feel things other than on the verge of losing his mind inside this Florida summer of a house. He’s owed some reciprocity. Shane can do patience and adaptability, too. 

“You are lying, I think,” Ilya says, but it’s not accusatory. He kisses Shane, soft and chaste, and then nudges their noses together. “But fine. I will not push. If you want to talk, I will listen, yes?” 

“Okay,” Shane says, even managing to smile. 

“Okay,” Ilya repeats, smiling back and kissing him once more before blessedly releasing him, taking his body heat with him, thank God.

Patience and motherfucking adaptability, Shane reminds himself as he returns to loading the silverware section. 

He can do it. 

He can. 

*

Shane very abruptly reaches his limits with patience and adaptability. 

This happens when he wakes up at 2 in the fucking morning sweating, Ilya making it worse by being a long line of solid muscle next to him radiating warmth that he does not fucking want. 

In retrospect, he will probably feel guilty about his resulting flailing fight for freedom. 

In the moment, he’s just about to crawl out of his fucking skin if he doesn’t get cooler right fucking now. 

The feeling of sweat-damp sheets against his skin just makes everything worse, and he shoves himself up completely, kicking the sheets down and only getting angrier when they twist around one of his ankles, trapping him, damp cotton sticking to his skin in a way that makes him understand why animals in traps gnaw their own legs off. Beside him, Ilya shoves himself upwards, alarmed and still half-asleep, saying something in Russian that Shane can’t even begin to understand when he’s wound up and too hot and sweating and-

“-what’s wrong, dorogoy?” Ilya asks, waking up enough to switch to English and reaching out for him. 

His warm, gentle palm is like nails against a fucking chalkboard. 

“What’s wrong is you live in a fucking lizard enclosure,” Shane snaps, pulling away and slapping Ilya’s hand away from him-

-and freezing the moment he realizes his thoughts just came out as words. 

In an instant, he’s torn between fleeing and apologizing, pulled between both impulses equally. The idea of running out on Ilya again, though, edges him towards apologizing, and he turns, mouth open-

Only to be met with Ilya’s laughter. 

“I’m sor-” He starts, but Ilya just shakes his head, flopping back down. 

“‘Fucking lizard enclosure’?” Ilya repeats, grinning. He stretches a bit, lacing his hands behind his head. 

‘It’s-uh…” Shane can feel his face heating, and the sensation when he’s already still too warm threatens to make him temporarily insane again, but Ilya takes pity on him, reaching out and plucking at the edge of his t-shirt. 

“Would not be a problem if you wore less clothes,” he says with a wink, and Shane rolls his eyes. 

“It wouldn’t be a problem if you didn’t live in a reptile terrarium,” Shane shoots back before he can catch himself. 

Ilya snorts and then shoves himself upright, flicking the sheets away carelessly. 

(Shane is distantly annoyed by their obedience to Ilya when they fought him so fiercely.)

“Where are-” He starts, but Ilya doesn’t look back, just responding over his shoulder. 

“To make temperature better for boyfriends and not lizards,” he says, sounding amused. 

Shane flops back down and then immediately recoils away from damp cotton, shoving himself upwards and heading for the shower in the bathroom. 

*

Ilya is smoothing down the comforter over what appears to be fresh sheets when Shane emerges from the bathroom, wildly embarrassed now that he’s cooler and clean. 

“Better?” Ilya asks, glancing up before he flips up the edge of the covers and climbs in, patting the bed beside him. 

“Yeah,” Shane says, sheepish and glad for the summons instead of being left to hover like a jackass who yelled at his boyfriend for no reason. He notes that the window is cracked, blessedly cool air slipping in in a way that feels almost sinfully good, and the relief of it unwinds the last bit of tension in his shoulders. Ilya leans over to kiss him after he settles, and Shane is newly embarrassed when he realizes that he’s being careful not to touch him anywhere else. Shane leans in and moves Ilya’s hand to his waist, pulling back just briefly to speak. “I’m sorry I-” 

“Sh,” Ilya says. “Already forgotten.” He feels Ilya’s lips curl into a smile against his own. “Or maybe not. I think I will always remember ‘fucking lizard encl-’”

Shane grabs a pillow and shoves it over his face. 

*

“This is what made you upset, yes?” Ilya asks later, when the cracked window has made the room a survivable temperature again, enough for Shane to curl up with his head on Ilya’s shoulder the way he’s learned over the summer that he sleeps best. He’s wildly embarrassed now that he’s back in his right mind, and he’s also glad for the excuse to hide his face. “The temperature?” 

“I-yeah,” Shane says, shoulders hitching slightly, feeling defensive. “I don’t do great when it’s. Hot.” 

“And yet you like hot places,” Ilya asks, and it’s both a statement and a question. 

“I mean, hot places usually have great aircon, so yeah,” Shane says dryly. “I can handle heat if I can get out of it when it’s too much.” 

“Hm,” Ilya says, brushing a kiss to his head, “but not in ‘fucking lizard enclosure’?” 

Shane punches him, gently, but doesn’t pull away. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have-” 

“Is fine,” Ilya says easily. “Now I know.” 

“If you like it hotter,” Shane persists, feeling even worse about being accommodated so easily after he was an asshole for no reason just because he got a little warm, “you can-” 

“I like when you are comfortable,” Ilya says. “I like my house warm, yes, but I like you being comfortable more.” He sighs dramatically. “If I must put shirt on, I will.” 

Shane snorts, tilting his head up to kiss Ilya’s jaw. 

“Such a tragedy,” he teases. 

“Hm, yes,” Ilya agrees. “But luckily I have very hot boyfriend to keep me warm.” 

“Lucky you,” Shane says, curling up closer but not making any move to initiate, not with a game tomorrow. They’ve already lost enough sleep. 

(...but he does put a pin in the thought for tomorrow.) 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, sounding softer now as he gently shifts Shane to hold him just a bit closer, “lucky me.” 

Shane falls asleep smiling. 

(In a room that is a much, much more survivable temperature.) 

Chapter 11: praise be: how shane learns something new about his husband

Chapter Notes

what up fam. had a thought about how praise would hit ilya like a mofo with how much he gets satisfaction out of taking care of people et voila. original post: https://www.tumblr.com/gloryhollanovjah/813071581356113920/adding-penandinkprincess-tags-too-bc

In Shane’s defense–or at least in the defense he’s apparently going to have to offer in court when he faces manslaughter charges in the very near future–he was kind of just copying what Ilya does, which kind of makes it Ilya’s fault in the first place. 

In his opinion. 

Ilya has never been shy about dirty talk in bed, not since the very start. Shane has always been vocal in a way that used to feel humiliating and regularly involved Ilya pressing his fingers at the hinge of his jaw to disengage him from biting a pillow to try and muffle the noises that felt like they escaped him against his will, Ilya always purring low in his ear filthy things like, “No, no, Hollander, I want to hear” or “You will not let me have your pretty sounds? Selfish when I am being so nice to you” or “Let me hear how good you feel.” 

That last one made an appearance again tonight, actually, which also means Ilya kind of asked for it, which Shane will be bringing up to the lawyer he’s going to have to hire for this. He thinks he heard the guys making a joke one time about someone trying to argue being asked “What, are you going to stab me?” as a defense for stabbing someone. He can’t remember if it actually worked or not, but surely someone telling him to let them know how good he feels means it can’t actually be his fault, right? 

In another mark against Ilya in this situation, he’d also been edging Shane for almost an hour like a motherfucker, making up for the lost time of 48 hours apart courtesy of two conflicting commitments they had to go to by driving Shane nearly to tears bringing him to the edge over and over again but not letting him tumble over, Shane’s hands tied up and bound to the headboard to make sure he couldn’t even get himself off. Because Shane will probably have to admit to it under oath, he does have to acknowledge that he did kind of provoke Ilya on purpose by saying he’d get his dildo and do it himself if Ilya didn’t get the fuck to it when Ilya wanted to keep teasing him instead of getting his fingers inside of him, but Shane is only human, and 48 hours without any part of his husband inside of him has to count as cruel and unusual punishment under the Geneva Conventions or something, surely. He’d thought Ilya agreed with that line of thinking, in fact, when he’d first coaxed Shane’s arms above his head and tenderly bound his wrists in place, a game they’ve played plenty of times, especially when Ilya wants to be cruel in the other direction and make Shane come over and over even when he insists he can’t. 

(Primarily to provoke Ilya into proving him wrong, of course.) 

Ilya had continued to be an asshole after he had an innocent and trusting Shane bound and helpless, offering the tiniest little licks and presses and insufficient teasing stretches with only the tip of a finger before withdrawing even that because he’s a cruel bastard. It had taken twenty years–maybe give or take a bit–to get even one finger to clench around, and Ilya had been mean even with that tiny little taste of what Shane had wanted, holding still and then pinning Shane’s hips down when he’d said fuck it and tried to start getting some movement on his own. He’d made Shane beg until he was nearly hoarse for each additional finger to stretch around, and reaching the grand prize of Ilya’s cock had required making promises up to and including possibly agreeing to let Ilya knock him up. 

It’s all kind of a horny-fuzzed blur, honestly. 

After all of this, Shane is already planning to plead on his own behalf, surely he can’t be blamed for his immediate obedience to the very clear instruction of, “No, no, kotonok, let me hear how good I make you feel” that Ilya rumbled into his ear when Shane had tried to stay quiet for fear of Ilya hearing how close he was and stopping again. He was given a clear, direct order.

Which means his tentative opening of “you make me feel so good, baby” was not his fault. 

The pet name was out of character–it might actually be the first time he’s actually said it to Ilya, he’s not sure–but once again, Shane thinks he has a solid case for pleading cock-driven insanity in this situation. Ilya also hadn’t helped the situation when his response to it had been to pause only briefly before bracing himself on a forearm by Shane’s head and getting to work with his hips like he was trying to fuck Shane right through the mattress and into the floor, sliding an arm under Shane’s lower back to arch it and create the perfect angle for Ilya to hit right where Shane had needed him with every thrust. 

Which Shane–again, prompted by Ilya in the first place–had let him know. 

Because Shane is a very fair and justice-minded person, he can admit that he might have gotten a little carried away after such encouraging silent praise to keep going, but not to victim blame, but if Ilya didn’t want to get told how good his cock feels, perhaps he should have thought about that before making his cock feel so good. It has to be a two party fault situation, surely. Shane saying things like “nobody knows how to fuck me like you” and “God, you make me feel so good” and “Jesus, fuck, Ilya, your cock, Jesus” was a contributing factor to the charges he’s going to be facing, but Ilya didn’t help himself by breathing faster and faster and groaning wordlessly into Shane’s ear like Shane was the one who had to do the talking for once, which Shane had done. 

Because he is a good person and good partner. 

He’d noticed Ilya’s breathing going shallower and shallower, and part of his lust-drunk brain had thought about the times he’s gotten worked up to the point that Ilya has slowed things down and made him breathe deeper again, but those times were mostly in their early days or in their more extreme experiments now, when Shane’s brain is so consumed by novel pleasure that he focuses on greedily chasing it and doesn’t necessarily notice the burning in his lungs until a steady, gentle voice in his ear goes, “breathe, Shane, take a breath, sweetheart” until he manages to focus enough to obey, always rewarded with sweet kisses and sweeter words, praising him for being so good, for listening so well. This round of fucking hadn’t been new, really, so he hadn’t thought about the need to return the favor. Him mirroring back some of the things Ilya’s told him over the years was a new thing, yes, but they were mostly based on what Ilya says all the time, so they weren’t new, really. 

…well. 

Under oath, Shane can admit that the “Yebat, Ilyusha, ty tak khorosho obo mne zabotish'sya” that escaped him at his climax was probably novel enough to count as something new. 

But so was Ilya grunting like he took a blow to the stomach and then going completely limp on top of him in one sudden drop. 

So. 

Kind of a tit for tat situation. 

“Ilya?” He asks now, more urgent after his four earlier repetitions haven’t gotten a response. He growls in terrified frustration, tugging at his bound wrists and now regretting the day they graduated from restraints with a wooden bead he could slide to get out if he wanted to to cords that hold him firm until Ilya decides to release him. At the time, it had felt hot as fuck, a new kind of surrender, a tangible exchange of trust between them, Shane’s hands open and offering, bound up above his head with the full trust that Ilya would never use the vulnerability to hurt him, would never do anything to break that trust. 

What he had failed to consider, fucking apparently, is what this exchange of trust would mean on the day his husband experiences a fucking medical episode while still inside of him. 

“Ilya!” He snaps now, voice tight with growing panic that he tries to shove down, knowing it won’t help anything but terrified enough that it’s very hard to logic his way out of it, especially when his safe space, Ilya, is the fucking thing he’s terrified about right now. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to slow his breathing, tries to calm down enough to see if he can feel Ilya breathing or not. His heart is still pounding from a combination of just having orgasmed and now freaking the fuck out, and he tries to take slow, even breaths to make it slow and quiet enough that he can hopefully feel Ilya’s heartbeat against his chest. Ilya remaining limp on top of him, though, isn’t really fucking helpful, and Shane has to give up the effort in favor of trying to get loose. 

Which would be easier if his solid wall of muscle partner wasn’t currently completely limp on top of him, boneless and unresponsive. 

It takes three tries, but Shane finally manages to wriggle his way just enough to get free of Ilya’s weight right on top of him to tug his way up, wrapping his hand tightly around one post in the headboard and angling his head until he can get his teeth around the free end of the knot, which comes loose with one tug, freeing one hand so he can reach immediately for the knot securing the other. He’s already trying to write a story in his head, knowing he’s going to have to call paramedics for this and give them some kind of explanation that hopefully doesn’t just come out “I think I killed him with sex” and also maybe give him CPR while they wait and Jesus, the idea of naked CPR is really just the most humiliating part of this yet, and he’ll do it, of course he’ll do it, for Ilya he would do anything, but it’s not like he’s looking forward to having his dick free and loose when paramedics come running in to-

And naturally, because what the fuck else should he expect, it’s just when he’s gotten free and started to gently turn Ilya onto his back to check his breathing that the motherfucker himself starts to rouse. 

If Shane wasn’t so relieved, he’d hit him. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, the word exhaled like he took a blow to the stomach, head dropping briefly to Ilya’s shoulder. 

He feels a mildly shaky hand come up to stroke over his hair gently, Ilya’s body moving to soothe before he even understands the panic, and it’s only the sweetness of the gesture that saves Ilya from getting shoved to the floor as Shane starts to come down from from the one-two punch of post-edging-orgasm and adrenaline rush. 

“What the fuck, Ilya,” he says into the safe darkness of his shoulder. 

“Same question,” Ilya says, voice sounding a little rough. “Fuck, Hollander, you are trying to kill me or what?” 

Shane pulls his head up to glare, and in the shakiness of now after the fear of before, he can feel his eyes stinging. Ilya softens at once, moving one hand up to cup Shane’s cheek and pull him into a kiss. 

“I am okay,” he says between one kiss and the next. “You tried to kill me, ye-” He flinches when Shane slaps his side. “Shh, I am alright. I promise. I feel okay. I was not breathing enough, I think.” He tugs Shane down to curl up next to him. “Also all of the blood in my entire body was in my dick, so…” 

“Jesus,” Shane exhales. “Don’t fucking do that.” 

Ilya exhales a surprised huff of a laugh. 

“Well it was not on purpose,” he says, squeezing Shane affectionately. He strokes along Shane’s neck, down his shoulder, down his arm. “Someone tried to kill me with-” He stops, and Shane looks up to see him frowning. He opens his mouth to ask what’s wrong now and if he can wait thirty seconds so Shane can put pants on this time at least so he won’t have to risk paramedics seeing his dick, but Ilya is already lifting his head, tugging Shane’s hand up and exhaling a sympathetic hiss between his teeth. 

It’s only when it’s been brought to his attention that Shane feels the painful burning sensation around his wrists, Ilya’s thumb red from the blood welling up along the raw patches Shane managed to cause when he was thrashing in his attempt to get free. Ilya pulls Shane’s hand up and kisses on either side of the angry, damaged skin-

-and gets slammed the fuck back down to the mattress when he tries to rise. 

“No,” Shane says, immediately and decisively. 

“You are hurt,” Ilya says, a stubborn glint in his eyes now. “I am-” 

“Staying in bed before you pass the fuck out on me again,” Shane says flatly. He pulls free despite the hands grasping at him. “I can get it.” 

“Shane-” 

“No, finish catching your breath. I can-” 

“Bring first aid kit back here,” Ilya says, and it’s only because the order has the edge of a plea that Shane doesn’t snap back. Ilya pursues his advantage, leaning forward and kissing Shane’s arm once, twice. “Please. Let me fix it.” 

Shane grumbles under his breath, but he accepts the kiss pressed to his mouth and does leave the bed only long enough to wet a fistful of washcloths under a lukewarm stream of water in the sink and grab the upstairs first aid kit out of their bathroom linen closet, returning with it all to the bed, where it’s Ilya’s turn to grumble but obey when Shane insists on them both wiping themselves off first before he lets Ilya examine his wrists with gentle hands. 

“I am sorry, lyubimyy,” Ilya says quietly, dabbing at the blood carefully, eyes flicking up to Shane’s face to see if it’s hurting him too badly. 

Used to way worse from years of hockey, Shane just gives him a small half-smile and leans forward to offer a kiss that’s accepted before he sits back, letting Ilya return to tending him. In the aftermath of so much adrenaline, it’s kind of nice to just sit back and let someone else take the wheel for a second. 

Even if it’s the person who passed the fuck out from a little dirty talk. 

As Ilya gently cleans and bandages Shane’s wrists, smoothing Vaseline over the raw skin with light, careful fingertips, Shane slowly starts to smile. So busy with his task, Ilya doesn’t notice until he’s finished wrapping both wrists up and pressed a kiss to the inside of both and looked up, only to startle and then frown when he sees Shane’s smug look. 

“What?” He demands, eyes searching. 

Shane only smiles wider. 

“You don’t get to make fun of me having a praise kink ever again, motherfucker,” Shane says. 

Ilya rolls his eyes and starts to get up, apparently fully recovered now to judge from how steady the motion is-

-until Shane yanks him the fuck back down and them scrambles over him, grinning down into his annoyed face. 

“Was your fault,” Ilya says, bucking once, unsuccessfully, before giving up, knowing that they’re both too evenly matched for him to overpower Shane unless Shane lets him. “You cannot just say these things, what the fuck?” 

“It was too much for you?” Shane says in a mocking near-coo, and he sees a brief expression of alarm cross Ilya’s face at the mischief he must see in Shane’s expression. 

“Hollander-” 

“Too much to hear how good you are?” Shane asks, leaning down to say it right in Ilya’s ear the way Ilya always does to him. 

“Shane, please,” Ilya says, sounding pained. 

“So, so good for me,” Shane says in the best purr he can manage, fucking delighted with this turn of events. 

No paramedics seeing his dick, no manslaughter charges, and he finds out that Ilya has a praise kink so strong Shane can make him pass out with it? What a fucking day. 

“Such a good boy,” the words make a thin, airy whine escape Ilya, and Shane grins, nuzzling at his face with an affection so strong it almost feels like aggression, “always so good to me.” 

“You will murder me,” Ilya says, the words almost plaintive. 

Shane just smiles wider and gets to work letting Ilya know how it feels to have his begging go unheard. 

Chapter 12: put a ring on it: an alternate possibility for shane and ilya getting engaged

Chapter Notes

what up fam. i had an idea about how funny it would be if shane and ilya both tried to propose at the same time and ended up in an engagement face-off, and then this happened.

original post

 

Shane has a very clear vision for how his proposal to Ilya will go. All Stars had seemed like the perfect setting, where it started between them at each chapter of their story together, and Rose–along as his plus-one this year for the game in California–had agreed with him, even helping him decide when to do it. 

And volunteering to be their secret photographer, following after them when he convinced Ilya to go on a walk with him on the beach to enjoy the sunset. 

*

Ilya has a very clear vision for how his proposal to Shane will go. All Stars had seemed like the perfect setting, where it started between them at each chapter of their story together, and Svetlana–along as his plus-one this year for the game in California–had agreed with him, even helping him decide when to do it. 

And agreeing to be their secret photographer, following after them when he agreed to Shane’s perfectly-timed request to go on a walk with him on the beach to enjoy the sunset. 

*

So nervous after weeks of planning for it, Shane almost just immediately drops to one knee as soon as they’ve gotten on the beach he planned on this happening. Rose is thankfully hanging back and keeping Svetlana with her under the excuse of needing help fixing a buckle on her sandal, and Ilya thankfully doesn’t stay behind as well, instead slipping his hand into Shane’s and walking with him towards the sand along the little boardwalk from the parking lot. Shane can’t help his little reflexive moment of wanting to look around and check for witnesses, but the beach is thankfully empty, a few people far in the distance showing up as only little dots. For all intents and purposes, it’s just him and Ilya here. 

Just like he planned. 

“You are still wanting to see the redwoods before we leave?” Ilya asks, and Shane glances at him, realizing with a little embarrassment that he was so busy mentally preparing exactly how he wants to move and what he wants to say that he hasn’t actually been holding a conversation. 

“Y-yeah,” he says. “I promised dad I’d get some pictures since they didn’t get a chance on their last trip out here.” 

“Yes, because nothing is more exciting than trees,” Ilya teases, bumping against him lightly. 

“Hey, it wasn’t my call,” Shane teases back. “I could tell them you don’t want to go.” 

“And make them mad at me?” Ilya says, playfully offended. “I am their favorite son.” 

“Sometimes I think you are,” Shane agrees dryly. It seems like the perfect opener into what he wants to say, inviting Ilya to be a Hollander by marriage, too, instead of just by love, but before he can get his mental script together, Ilya speaks again. 

“Don’t worry, though,” he says, sounding warm. “You are always my favorite Hollander.” He pulls Shane to a stop and kisses him, slow and sweet and tender. “You are my favorite person of all, I think.” 

“You’re my favorite person, too,” Shane says, touched. God, he loves him. 

“I think even if I spend the rest of my life with you, it will not be enough,” Ilya says, and Shane can practically feel himself melting, so happy he’s about to propose to this man, so happy he’s about to tie them together forever, so happy he’s about to be able to call him his fiance and then his husband, so happy he’s about to have a claim to him that no one can ever argue with. “But I would still like to-” 

Shane realizes with a rush of horror what’s happening as Ilya starts reaching for the right pocket of his jacket, weight shifting as he starts to bend one knee, preparing to kneel, and Shane grabs him with both hands, yanking him back straight. 

“NO!”

*

Ilya’s heart drops to approximately the core of the earth. 

“N-no?” He repeats, ears ringing in a way that has nothing to do with Shane’s wildly uncharacteristic volume. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s heard Shane raise his voice, and the open horror in it now feels like a punch to the gut, the world yanked out from under his feet by Shane being clearly disgusted by the idea of marrying him, like he can’t believe Ilya would ever even think to-

Shane starts frantically trying to unzip the pocket of his jacket, fumbling in his panic as he starts to try and kneel, and Ilya realizes in an instant what’s going on here. 

Now it’s his turn to refuse. 

“No!” He says, grabbing Shane’s wrist with one hand and going for his pocket with the other. “No, I get to ask!” 

“No the fuck you don’t!” Shane says, abandoning his own struggle as he tries to pull Ilya’s hands away from his pocket and hold both wrists in one hand. 

Ilya fights back, twisting to try and get loose. 

“I asked first!” Ilya protests, trying to wriggle his way loose when Shane gets his arms around him, trying to press his hand flat over Ilya’s pocket to keep him from getting to it while still struggling with the zipper on his own. 

“No you didn’t!” Shane says, nearly knocking them both over when Ilya shoulders him to the side, trying to dislodge him enough to get to his pocket. “You didn’t! You didn’t even ask!” 

“Because you cheated!” Ilya protests, taking a page out of Shane’s strategy and slapping his hand down over the pocket the second Shane finally manages to get it unzipped. 

“No, I didn’t!” Shane says, trying to tip Ilya off balance enough to make him stagger to try and get him a headlock, his usual move when they’re wrestling. 

Unfortunately, the stakes right now are much higher than who gets to choose what to watch on Netflix, so Ilya gives as good as he gets, getting a foot behind Shane’s ankle to try and trip him. Shane staggers with a wordless cry, saving himself by grabbing hold of Ilya’s jacket, which tips him off balance, too, just enough to send them both a few lurching steps to the side before they recover. 

Shane lets out a triumphant sound when he manages to get his hand around the box in his pocket. 

“Ilya Rozanov,” he says, and his cadence is gloating, “will you mar-” 

“No!” Ilya shouts, taking his turn to refuse now and then yanking Shane’s arm to the side, away from the box still trapped in his pocket, and then pinning it to his back, hand firm around his wrist to keep it in place. With his free hand, he manages to get to his own box and pulls it free with the same sense of victory he feels when he gets a goal-winning point in just under the final buzzer. 

With a grin that almost hurts from being so wide, he releases Shane and starts to kneel. 

*

Shane sees Ilya’s triumphant smile as he starts to go to one knee, a dark navy velvet box in one hand. It’s cocky and self-certain and the same smile he’s been seeing for almost a decade facing off on the ice, bent low over a hockey stick, ready to get to the puck first. It flips the switch in Shane’s brain that controls the balance between instinct and reason, the same thing that’s earned him his reputation on the ice, the same thing that’s let him bring home the Stanley Cup multiple times-

-the same thing that now has his arm moving lightning-fast to slap the ring box out of Ilya’s hand and send it flying off to the side before he actually had time to think about what he was doing. 

For a long, long moment, he and Ilya just stare at each other, Ilya looking as stunned as he feels, hand still extended from carrying through with the slap. 

And then the corner of Ilya’s mouth twitches in an aborted smile, and it snaps the moment like a rubberband, sending Shane into laughter that sets Ilya off, too, Shane dropping to both knees in front of his boyfriend not to pop the question but because he’s laughing too hard to stay standing. 

*

He and Shane hold onto each other as they laugh, the kind of laughter that keeps starting up again in waves as soon as they catch each other’s eye, sending them off into a new round of the sort of mirth that requires clutching at something to stay upright. 

He and Shane clutch each other. 

“-f-fucking slapshot,” Ilya manages, the words coming out a near-wheeze. “You-you cannot move this fast on the-on the ice?” 

“F-fuck you,” Shane says, laughing just as hard. He gasps an inhale that squeaks, and that just sets them off further. He has one of Shane’s hands in his, not holding hands, just holding on, and the other is clutching at Shane’s shoulder while Shane holds a fistful of his jacket at his waist. “I was–God, fuck, my abs hurt from this, Jesus–I was already starting to propose, asshole. I had dibs.” 

“Is no dibs with en-engagement, Hollander,” Ilya manages, succumbing to one more round of borderline-hyperventilating from laughing before he manages to get himself together. 

Primarily by resting his forehead against Shane’s shoulder so they won’t look at each other and start laughing again. 

His sides hurt from laughing, and there are tears in his eyes. 

And he doesn’t know if he’s ever felt more happy than in this exact moment. 

*

“What the fuck, guys?” 

Shane looks up at the sound of Rose’s complaint, finding her and Svetlana making their way to them across the sand, both of them carrying a phone in one hand and their shoes in the other. 

“Even for love they cannot control themselves,” Svetlana says, sounding resigned but fond. “You had better not have lost that ring, though, Hollander. You have no idea how many hours I had to spend helping Ilyusha pick it out. Or how many text messages I had to send to talk him down from the ledge afterwards when he had enough time to start doubting himself about it.” 

Ilya snipes something at Svetlana too fast for Shane to catch enough to translate, managing “said you would not tell” and “traitor” and nothing else. It still makes him smile as he gets to his feet, extending his hands to help Ilya up as well. Ilya raises his eyebrows, not rising just yet. 

“I win fair and square to being on one knee and you will now take it from me?” 

“Well,” Shane says dryly, tucking his head to the side to wipe the tears from laughter that streamed down his cheeks off against his shirt since his hands are sandy, “you currently don’t have a ring to propose with, dude, so I don’t know what your plan is there.” 

“And whose fault is that?” Ilya asks wryly, though he accepts the help up, brushing himself off before pulling Shane into a kiss by the back of his neck. “You are ridiculous person.” 

“And yet you want to marry me anyway,” Shane taunts. 

Instead of rising to it, though, Ilya’s face softens slightly, and he tugs Shane back in for another quick kiss, short and sweet. 

“Very much,” he says. 

“Probably the repeated head trauma,” Svetlana says sagely. 

Shane gives her a look. 

She gives him a sunny smile back. 

*

“Maybe the hotel has a metal detector or something?” Rose asks a good thirty minutes into their four person search for the ring, which managed to fall out of the box and apparently disappear into the core of the earth to judge from how they haven’t been able to find it yet. 

It turns out a sunset engagement has its drawbacks when it means that any searching that happens afterwards has to be done by cellphone light. 

“Does gold set off metal detectors, though?” Shane asks. 

“How do you know it’s gold?” Ilya teases. “Maybe is a Ringpop.” 

Shane rolls his eyes. 

“I haven’t given you yours yet, motherfucker,” he says, throwing a seashell at him, which pings off of his hip harmlessly and bounces away. “Better watch it. I could still take it back.” 

“And then I win for sure,” Ilya taunts.

“Yeah, as soon as you find it,” Rose says, sitting back on her heels with a huff that blows her bangs back slightly. “I hope you didn’t follow the three months of salary rule.” 

“The what?” Ilya asks absently, reaching quickly for something that glints only to make a disgusted noise when it turns out to just be an earring. He holds it up as if comparing it to Shane’s head. “What do you think of a piercing instead?” 

“Knock it off,” Shane says, flicking his hand away. “And put that back. Who knows where it’s been.” 

“You are trying to litter?” Ilya demands. He tsks and puts it in his pocket. “Somewhere a sea turtle is crying, and it is your fault. I expect an apology on Twitter by tomorrow, Hollander.” 

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” Shane says dryly, shifting away slightly to start on a new patch for searching, carefully sifting through the sand in shallow layers with a sweep of his arm across the surface. 

Ilya bumps shoulders with him affectionately and then turns to face the other direction, copying his technique for the sand right behind him. They work in familiar silence for a while, Svetlana and Rose moving slightly further away, talking to each other quietly and complaining about how shiny seashells look at twilight, even that fading out as they get a little farther, the sound of the ocean drowning them out. If not for the activity they were all currently engaged in, it might be almost peaceful. He still startles slightly when Shane talks. 

“I’m sorry.” 

He sits back slightly and glances to him, but Shane is looking only at the sand in front of him. 

“For losing your own engagement ring?” He asks, bumping against him affectionately. “You are really hurting only yourself, I think.” It’ll be a waste, of course, if they can’t find it, but it’s not like he had given it to Shane yet, so it didn’t have time to have sentimental value, and suspecting that Shane would likely hate the sensation of any stones touching his other fingers when wearing it, Ilya had checked his impulse to want to put him in something pretty until they could go to a jewelry store together and let Shane try some on to see if he wanted any stones added to the band Ilya had settled on, a gold ring with swirls that gems could be added to but that would also still be perfectly fine if left smooth. It wasn’t cheap, certainly–Ilya loves Shane too much to ever put him in anything less than he’s worth no matter how much Shane might complain about Ilya being ridiculous–but it’s not the end of the world if it ends up being a very lucky find for a tourist in a few weeks. He can buy another. The ring isn’t the point. 

The man whose hand he wants to put it on is. 

*

“Still,” Shane says, feeling guilty now. Even if money isn’t really a problem for them, he hates the waste of something Ilya bought getting lost before it’s even used, and he also feels like a dick for losing something Ilya picked out just for him. “That was so stupid, I don’t know why-” 

“Hey.” 

He looks up at fingers turning him by the chin to face Ilya, who pulls him in for a kiss, sweet and short before he pulls back, kissing Shane’s nose, too, for good measure. 

Likely just to watch him scrunch it the way he always does after based on the way Ilya smiles, warm and fond, when he does. 

“Is just a ring, Shane,” Ilya says, moving his fingers to stroke over his cheek before settling his hand at the side of his face. “Yes, you are a sore loser for throwing a fit when I was win-” He cuts off with a laugh when Shane swats at him, but he still pulls him in for another kiss, nudging their foreheads together before sitting back once again. He’s looking at him in a way that feels so good that it’s almost overwhelming, especially when it happens out of the safety of a bed like this. There’s nothing sexual or lustful in the look, just such open adoration that Shane feels a reflexive little flicker of unworthiness to be at the receiving end of it. He leans in to claim another kiss anyway. 

“Do you want to see yours?” He offers, because he feels the need to offer something here, and the ring they’re looking for certainly isn’t making an appearance. 

“Oh, so you are blatantly trying to cheat?” Ilya asks, sounding amused. 

“Asshole,” Shane says, rolling his eyes even as he reaches for the box. “No, but if we can’t find the ring you bought tonight, you’re going to make me wait until you can buy another one before I’m allowed to propose. You might as well look at yours so you can tell me if you like it or not. Then we can just buy a new one for you, too, if we’ll be at a jewelry store anyway.” 

“So efficient,” Ilya says, sounding fond. “Go on, then. Let me see if your taste in jewelry is bad like for clothes.” 

“You know, maybe I’ll just return it anyway,” Shane threatens. “Since you want to be a dick about it.” 

Ilya gives him an unapologetic smile, shifting to lean on one hip and bracing himself with a hand against the sand. Shane hesitates with the box still in his hand, suddenly second-guessing himself. Hyped up by Rose–and by Hayden, who had rolled his eyes and complained about having to “do something nice for fucking Rozanov” but who had also refused to be left behind, dibsing shotgun and also ganging up against him with Rose to demand stopping for coffee first–it had seemed like a good idea when he’d brought it up at the jeweler’s, approving the sketch the woman had drawn up at once, and also getting approval from Rose, Hayden, Jackie, and his parents after the ring itself had been finished. 

Now, though, he’s wondering if he might have let himself feelings himself right into “too much” territory. 

“Such a face,” Ilya says, reaching out to poke his cheek. “Your taste in clothing is bad, yes, but surely you can only fuck up so much with jewelry. Rose would not let you pick anything too awful, I don’t think.” 

“You’re so annoying,” Shane says, but it does help manage the anxiety some, the reminder that this is Ilya, who loves him for all of what he is, who’s still here despite everything that’s threatened that. He holds the box out, Ilya flicking it open with his thumb and then letting out a low, impressed whistle. 

“Wow, wow,” he says, and it sounds like genuine appreciation. “So you do have taste sometimes.” 

Shane’s impulse is to chirp him about it, but he holds back, feeling his stomach tying itself in knots as Ilya pulls the band loose and angles the light from his cellphone at it. Ilya’s always been more flashy with fashion than him, so he hadn’t wanted anything plain enough that it would look out of place or be disappointing for Ilya to put on each day, but he also hadn’t wanted to swing in the other direction and go over the top into absurdity. He thinks–hopes–he managed to find the midpoint between the two with the ring, a band with solid gold on each side bracing swirling knots of gold in a pattern he has been told is “elegant but decidedly masculine.” He’s not sure what the fuck that’s actually supposed to mean, but no one told him to start over when he showed them the ring later, so he thinks it’s probably good. 

What he’s more nervous about are the stones glittering at the heart of each knot, sunk into the gold so they won’t catch on anything but cut to sparkle, glittering when the light of Ilya’s cellphone catches them. 

“They’re emeralds,” Shane offers, like Ilya couldn’t guess that for himself. “They’re, um, they were your mom’s favorite, right?” He doesn’t know why he asks the question. He knows the answer is yes. He knows Irina had a favorite emerald ring she had gotten from her grandmother that was then handed off to Polina by Ilya’s father after her death instead of being handed down to her children. It’s one of the things Ilya’s said he wishes he had from Russia on the days he’s feeling particularly reflective. Mama said they always reminded her of leaves, Ilya had said when they were at a museum gala one night and had snuck off from the crush of people and found themselves in the gemstone section, taking advantage of a lack of witnesses to stroll between cases while holding hands, safe in the quiet privacy of a giant, empty room of sparkling things. She said it was like wearing growing things, a little reminder that life keeps going. 

Ilya is looking at him now and not the ring, and somehow this just makes him feel even more nervous. 

“I know you said you were sad because she would never get to meet me or see how happy you are,” Shane says slowly, watching Ilya carefully, trying desperately to read if he’s gone way too fucking far. “And I know it might be, you know, kind of stupid, maybe, but I was thinking this way it’s like she’s kind of here, you know? Somehow? Like she’ll still be with you a little bit?” 

Ilya is still staring at him with an expression so blank that Shane has a sneaking suspicion he’s about to be the first person to find out how it feels to be divorced before he’s even gotten married. 

And then Ilya all but tackles him into a kiss that sends them both down into the sand. 

*

“Hey!” Ilya hears Svetlana call. “Assholes! We are here trying to find your fucking ring, and you two are taking a break for some beach sex?” 

“Yeah!” Rose chimes in. “No making out unless you brought enough for the whole class!” 

Despite the heckling, it’s a long, long time before he can bring himself to let Shane go. 

*

In Svetlana’s girlhood aspirations of being a hockey ref–before she found out about how shit the money would be and lost interest–she’s not sure she ever foresaw finding herself in a rink at 11:43 pm courtesy of Ilya bribing a janitor to let them in. 

She certainly never foresaw her debut into the life of a ref being to decide who gets to propose to someone else first. 

Still, when in Rome. 

“Alright, gentlemen,” she says now, pausing only long enough to help keep Rose on her feet, the actress a little unsteady on the ice as someone who didn’t grow up in and out of rinks since toddlerhood. “I want a good, clean match-” 

“We don’t need a speech, Sveta,” Ilya says dryly, “you are ju-” 

She silences him with a shrill blast of the whistle she insisted on stopping to buy on the way here, which makes her their god for the duration of this match. Ilya rolls his eyes but desists in arguing. 

She’s trained him so very well, she thinks fondly. 

“I want a good, clean match,” she continues. “No hair pulling, no high sticking.” 

“No stopping to make out with each other because you’re both bizarrely horny about competing,” Rose adds. 

“Yes, what my colleague said,” Svetlana agrees. “Any resulting sex must happen off of the ice and also preferably in a room with a comfortable chair so I can watch.” She winks at Shane, who predictably pulls a face while going a little pink. 

“I would also like a ticket to that show, please,” Rose adds. 

Shane gives her a betrayed look. Ilya snickers. 

“Rules of the match,” Svetlana continues. “The first one to three goals gets to propose first. Both rings will be kept safe with Ms. Landry to ensure no cheating until a winner is determined.” 

Rose pats the pocket where she stored them both. 

“Places,” Svetlana instructs, and Shane and Ilya both bow low over the center ice. They’re wearing helmets but not their full kit, so Svetlana is fairly certain this won’t end in blood or broken bones from someone getting carried away. 

(…hopefully.)

She takes a breath, watches both men twitch with anticipation as she fakes them out once and then twice for her own amusement, and then she drops the puck, watching them both surge into motion, fighting for it with the grace and ferocity of two people who have been having this exact battle year after year after year. 

Their smiles are bright enough that the chill of the rink barely seems noticeable at all. 

Chapter 13: threading the needle: shane versus vasovagal syncope

Chapter Notes

what up friends this started out as just me having fun imagining shane thinking he could beat vasovagal syncope and then feelings got in

i'm as mystified as you

(based on this post, with thanks to nirby-wirby and timeforanewnameithink for playing idea ping pong with me!)

(there's nothing graphic with blood or needles in this, but needles are a feature and so is shane passing tf out so read or skip accordingly!)

There are many disadvantages to your whole life getting blown to pieces and forcing you to start over: new locker room, new team dynamic, new trash schedule to learn, new grocery store to get used to before the fuckers change it all just as soon as it’s gotten comfortable, new invasive questions from the press, new new new new new. 

What Shane is learning, though, is that there’s at least one element of newness that might actually work to his advantage: the ability to start fresh and not get roasted for passing out around needles. 

He hadn’t even intended for anyone on Montreal’s team to find out, but all it had taken was one rookie poking their head in because they were lost during medical clearance, seeing Shane laying down with an ice pack behind his neck, Shane snapping the truth because he was nauseous and annoyed, and the rookie running his mouth because hockey players gossip worse than any little old ladies a nursing home has ever seen. The teasing hadn’t been awful, really, at least not worse than anything else, and it certainly wasn’t as bad as some guys got. There’d been some chirping about looking away for the sake of his delicate sensibilities when someone else busted their nose and was bleeding or before medical clearance each season, but it had been pretty mild, nips like puppy bites, a little sting but nothing malicious. 

After he’d come out, though, it had just felt like another thing he failed at doing right. The jabs had felt sharper, the needling–absolutely no fucking pun intended–coming in with a harder edge, like passing out was down to being gay and not just a quirk of biology. Hayden had punched someone for making a comment about Shane just looking for an excuse to get on his back, but as much as he’d appreciated the solidarity later, someone else fighting his battles for him had just made things worse. 

The past, though, is the past, the good and the bad. He’s a grown man now. He’s got a whole husband now. He’s unlocked a new level of adulthood, and he’s decided very firmly that this new chapter he’s found himself in is going to include no longer being a little bitch about bloodwork. It’s not going to happen. He is Shane fucking Hollander, and he is not going to pass out just because of a tiny little needle. 

He’s not. 

*

The day it comes time for him to put his money where his mouth is, he’s actually feeling pretty confident. 

He’s never loved anything to do with doctors or medical stuff, but Ilya stacking his appointment with his means they get to go in together, and like everything else, Ilya being there makes it better. He rolls his eyes fondly at the heckling he gets all morning from his husband, who will take any chance to run his mouth, and because he also has to get his eyes checked as part of his clearance–while Ilya with his obnoxiously perfect vision doesn’t–he skips out on watching his blood draw. By the time it’s his own turn, Ilya sitting on an exam table to drink a juicebox and kick his feet idly like a little kid in a way that’s both annoying and endearing–exactly why he’s doing it, Shane suspects–he’s actually feeling pretty good. This can be different. This can be better. He doesn’t have to admit to a weakness on this new team that ended up being a mark against him on his old one when things turned bad. He feels good. He feels steady. He half-remembers someone at some point saying something about the fainting being related to anxiety, and with the person who has always been able to calm him down better than anyone right there with him all morning, he doesn’t think it’ll be a factor at all. He is Shane fucking Hollander, and he does not faint around needles. 

New team. New him. Easy. 

“Any history of lightheadedness or fainting with bloodwork?” The nurse asks, already pulling her gloves into place and laying out vials on a little tray that he very carefully doesn’t look at as best he can while still hopefully looking very casual and unbothered about the whole thing. Ilya grinning when his slurping at the scant remains of his juice gets him a “knock it off, asshole” look from Shane gives him the final little edge of confidence. He can do this. He can so fucking do this. He feels great. He feels strong. He feels miles away from Shane Hollander of the Montreal Metros who passed out over something as tiny as a needle. 

“Nope,” he says, rolling his sleeve up and extending his arm like he’s never done anything easier in his life. 

He’s got this. 

(And if the smell of the alcohol swab after the nurse rips open the pack and swipes it over his skin makes his stomach clench, well. He chalks it up to having fasted beforehand and focuses very hard on the cool patch of skin and not on what’s about to happen there.) 

*

“-just juice, Shane,” Ilya says afterwards, when Shane has declined the juice box and gotten the “alright, you’re good to go” that means he can leave, husband in tow. “I don’t think six ounces of apple juice are going to destroy your career.” 

“Carbohydrates with no protein spikes your blood sugar and can lead to problems with insulin resistance later,” Shane recites, feeling more than a little proud of himself, honestly. He’s not actually that worried about the juice, really, but he’d managed to make it through the blood draw perfectly fine, and he hadn’t wanted to linger long enough t-

…o-oh no. 

He feels the world start wobbling under him, slight at first but getting harder to manage by the second. No, he tells himself firmly, trying to focus the fuck up and pay attention to what Ilya’s saying instead of giving into the ringing he can hear starting up in his ears. Not happening, he tells himself. We did it. We’re good. We’re not doing this.

“-pancakes with me, or is this too much fun for you?” Ilya is asking, the words reaching him but not really penetrating the haze he can feel settling over him, like someone has pulled cotton over his head. 

He can feel himself start sweating, which is a mystery when he also feels so fucking cold. 

“Um,” he starts, trying to find a way to say, “hey, so, I think I’m about to pass the fuck out” in a way that doesn’t actually involve saying that. He can-if he just sits, maybe. He stops walking with a half-formed idea of doing just that, but the change in motion makes the world tilt to the side, and he grabs for the steadiest thing he can think of. 

Even through the way his field of vision is going narrower and narrower, he can see how surprised Ilya looks at being manhandled in a hallway in their workplace, staggering for a second before he catches his balance from how much weight Shane suddenly had him holding up. Either the grab or something he sees on Shane’s face–is he as sweaty as he feels right now? for his pride, he has to hope not–makes him look alarmed, his own hands coming up to hold onto Shane in return. 

Ilya’s lips are moving, saying something, and the furrow of his eyebrows means Shane really needs to say something back. That look means he’s worrying about something. That look means he’s upset. That look means Shane has something he needs to fix to make that expression go away. 

Unfortunately, it’s as he’s having this thought that he finally loses his fight against passing out. 

The last thing he manages to see are wide, scared blue eyes. 

*

If Ilya could feel anything other than sheer terror, he might laugh at the absurdity of Shane grabbing him, saying “Oh. Bad.” as casually as if he was making an observation about the weather, and then dropping like a puppet with his strings cut. 

Right now, though, he has armfuls of limp husband in front of him and absolutely fucking nothing is funny about anything.

“Shane?” He asks, dropping back hard enough that he feels it in his tailbone, discomfort felt and dismissed in an instant in favor of trying to hold Shane better, hauling him up until his head is lolling on Ilya’s arm until he cradles it to support it better, rubbing one hand over his chest insistently the same way Shane does when he wakes him up. “Shane? Sweetheart, wake up. Open your eyes.” He half-thinks the petname will snap Shane back to awareness to tell him off about “gross couple-y shit in our workplace, Ilya.” 

He’s half-counting on it, frankly. 

“Shane,” he says again, meaning it to come out harder but the word instead cracking halfway out. He’s paler than Ilya’s ever seen him before, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, clammy under his hands. 

He’s as still as he was that day on the ice, one of the worst fucking days of Ilya’s life. 

He only realizes that he’s started yelling–though whether it’s words or just noise, he does not fucking know–when medical staff comes running. Ignoring every instinct in him, he gently sets Shane down and shuffles back to make way for people who can do more than panic about what’s happening, left at loose ends and twitching when the nurse in front of him moves and completely blocks his sightline to Shane. His kneejerk urge is to shove the man back out of the way, to keep his eyes on Shane, but thankfully reason manages to just squeak past instinct and keep him where he is. 

So wound up with fear, he about jumps out of his skin when something buzzes against his leg, and he looks down to find Shane’s phone next to him where it must have dropped, vibrating to indicate a call coming through. He stares at Yuna’s smiling face–it’s a picture he took, actually, of her and Shane sitting together on the patio sofa at Shane’s parents’ cottage–and hesitates, torn between responsibilities. His first, nearly-overwhelming concern is for Shane, barely biting back the need to snap at someone to give him an answer now about what’s happening, but he also knows that being Shane’s husband also means giving updates to relevant parties when something very extremely wrong is happening with him. 

The screen goes back to black as the call goes to voicemail, and Ilya picks it up before he can think about it too long, unlocking it with Shane’s passcode and hitting call back. He brings the phone to his ear as he keeps his eyes on the tiny sliver of Shane’s pale face he can see past the nurse’s arm. It’s only two rings before Yuna answers, well before he’s even begun to figure out what the fuck he’s supposed to actually say here. 

“Hi, honey, everything go okay? We’re already at the restaurant, but if you guys need more time-” 

“It’s Ilya,” he says, interrupting, unable to discuss plans about the lunch they’re supposed to be meeting up for when his husband is suddenly unconscious. “Shane, uh…” He makes a face at having nothing but a problem to give her, wishing suddenly that he’d waited to have an actual answer to the questions he’s absolutely going to get when he tells a mother that her child fainted out of nowhere. 

Luckily and shockingly, though, Yuna’s voice comes through before he finds the words, sounding almost comically calm when Ilya is still so wound up. 

“Oh no, did the needles get him?” 

Ilya blinks. 

“What.” 

*

When he hears Shane groan as he starts to come around after hanging up on a very informative phone call with his mother-in-law, Ilya finds himself torn equally between kissing his husband and throttling him. 

Maybe both at the same fucking time. 

*

Shane’s first conscious thought is that he must have fought with Ilya and ended up sleeping on the couch or something. It’s the only explanation for waking up somewhere so uncomfortable.

Then he manages to register that the thing under him feels significantly harder than their couch. 

And…colder? 

He startles when the hand he reaches towards his neck to investigate is stopped by warm, strong fingers closing around his wrist, and it’s only when he fails to see anything after turning his head towards it that he realizes there’s something over his eyes, cooler than the thing behind his neck but also wet in a way that immediately feels gross when he can also feel that his clothes seem residually damp. What the fuck is-

…oh. 

“Yeah,” a dry, familiar voice chimes in, letting him know that that thought didn’t remain a thought. “Oh.” 

The damp, cool thing over his face reveals itself to be a wet towel when it’s dragged away from his eyes, settling over his forehead instead. 

The look on Ilya’s face makes him want to immediately pull it back down. 

“Hi,” he says awkwardly, making Ilya’s eyebrows creep ever so slightly higher. 

“Hi,” he says in return before releasing Shane’s wrist so he can fold his arms across his chest and sit back in the chair beside the exam table Shane is mysteriously on when his last memory is being on a trajectory towards the floor. “So,” Ilya says conversationally, “when nurse asked if you have history of fainting, you decided to be a fucking liar?” 

Shane can feel his face heat, the sensation emphasized by the contrast to what he is now present enough to realize is an ice pack behind his neck. 

“I was-” He starts, not even knowing what excuse he’s going to give but desperately needing to make Ilya stop looking at him the way he is. 

“Before you pick a new lie,” Ilya says, and Shane barely resists the urge to wince at the edge in his voice, knowing it means he must have scared him badly, “your mother already told me you get vaso-something around needles.” 

“Vasovagal syncope,” Shane provides meekly. 

Ilya does not look very happy about his new vocabulary words. 

Then something occurs to him, and he groans, which does make Ilya’s face change expressions, but to an immediate alarm that just makes him feel guilty before he drops his arm over his eyes, speaking into the darkness of his elbow. 

“You told my mom on me?” He asks, unable to help the note of accusation in his voice. God, as if this wasn’t already embarrassing enough. He feels a tug to his arm and whines a complaint through his nose, embarrassed and still a little spinny in the head. Still, when Ilya doesn’t let up, he allows his arm to be drawn away, and he turns his head to look at his husband, who makes him smile faintly when he immediately moves to put the cloth back over his head before it drops from the motion. 

“I told your mom something happened when I thought you maybe died in front of me out of nowhere,” Ilya says, and despite the way he can tell he’s trying to be wry about it, he can tell from the way he’s touching him that he really fucked up on this one. Shane pulls his arm free just to move enough to take Ilya’s hand in his, squeezing gently. 

Ilya squeezes back. 

“I-” He starts, but over Ilya’s shoulder, he sees a nurse stick her head in the door and smile when she sees him awake. 

“Ah,” she says, entering the room and approaching the bed. “Mr. Hollander, welcome back to the land of the living.” 

Glancing at his husband’s newly-pissed expression after being reminded about being mad at him, Shane wishes he could match her levity. 

*

Because he is a good and loving husband even to the most annoying man in the fucking world, Ilya waits to call Shane on his bullshit until they don’t have any witnesses. 

(Primarily because Shane still looks just pathetic enough to make him gentler than he actually deserves.) 

(Bastard.) 

“-another half hour, and then we’ll call it good and let you go, alright?” The nurse asks, cheerful in a way that would likely grate against his raw nerves if it wasn’t also currently serving to make Shane squirm with a discomfort that serves him right for scaring the fuck out of him today. 

“Oh,” Shane starts, “but we’re supposed to mee-” 

“Sounds good,” he tells the nurse on their mutual behalf, giving Shane a look that warns him not to keep arguing. 

Shane’s mouth twitches in distaste, but he subsides, letting out a breath and turning to face the ceiling again before he closes his eyes, tugging the damp towel back over them. 

“Sure thing,” he says, clearly resentful. 

Ilya ignores the attitude and gives the nurse a tight smile of thank you as she leaves, waiting until she’s out of earshot before he reaches to pull the towel back up, unwilling to let Shane avoid eye contact when he’s so mad at him. Shane makes a noise of protest and tries to keep it in place, but Ilya loses what little patience has was holding onto and snatches the towel away completely, flinging it over to land on the counter at the edge of the room. Shane watches its flight and then looks to him, clearly displeased. 

“That’s not nice,” he says dryly. 

“Neither is lying about something stupid and then passing out in the hallway,” Ilya says back, just as dry. 

Shane makes a grumbling noise but drops the fight. He moves to sit up, clearly not happy to be at a disadvantage in being horizontal, but Ilya stops him at once with a forbidding arm across his chest. 

“Ilya-” 

“Shane.” 

Shane glares at him from the corner of his eye but gives up, letting out a huff of air that moves Ilya’s arm with the motion. He doesn’t lift it, unwilling to trust Shane now in this particular setting. He still looks pale, and Ilya can’t even enjoy the emphasis it gives his freckles when the memory of Shane slack and completely unmoving is still so fresh. 

“Did you tell the nurse the truth this time?” He asks, and the question doesn’t come out as harshly as he meant for it to. 

“Yes,” Shane says, sounding annoyed. “I’m fine. Just a little dizzy still. It’ll pass.” 

“Which you know,” Ilya says pointedly, “because this has happened before and you decided to lie about it for some reason.” 

“It’s not-” 

“It is,” Ilya corrects, knowing how the rest of that sentence was going to end and unwilling to hear it. “This is…what? Weird macho man move? You see chance to lie and think, ‘Wow, yeah, I should not tell people medical infor-’” 

“Can you, like, not be an asshole about this right now?” Shane snaps. “I fucked up, okay, I know-” 

“I literally had to catch you when you fainted with no warning,” Ilya says, feeling testy, “I think I should get to be asshole for at least three more months.” 

“I made a mistake, okay, it wasn’t-” 

“-could have been worse. What if I wasn’t-” 

“-fine, okay? I was wrong, but-” 

“-thought you had fucking died or something, and-” 

“-make fun of me for it, okay?” 

That stops Ilya short, frowning. He hesitates but then moves the arm he still has across Shane’s chest to get a hand on his cheek, turning his face towards him gently. Shane resists for a moment before giving in with an annoyed huff, still taking a moment before he meets Ilya’s eyes. 

Ilya waits him out. 

“You thought I would make fun of you for this?” He asks when those beautiful dark eyes have settled on his. The question makes him feel wrong-footed and unsure, especially because he knows he probably would have teased Shane, at least a little. It’s just a part of their dynamic, chirping each other, but the admission is making him reconsider if he might have been crossing lines he didn’t know existed. Shane’s been more sensitive to jokes since everything went down the way it did with Montreal, but Ilya had thought he’d managed to avoid the actually painful things. 

Now he wonders if this situation might have been a mutual failure, Shane trying to cover up a soft spot because he didn’t trust Ilya not to poke it in a way that would actually hurt. 

“Not–well, yeah, you would,” Shane corrects himself mid-thought, which just twists the knife, really. He casts his mind back, trying to take inventory of what he’s teased Shane about recently, re-examining the moments with new eyes, wondering if he misread the situation, wondering if Shane shooting back his own insults was defensive instead of playful, wondering if the teasing might have edged into bullying without him reali- “Hey.” 

He blinks, refocusing on Shane in an instant. Shane smiles faintly and presses his palm over the hand Ilya still has against his cheek, leaning into it. 

“It wasn’t about you, okay? I was just-” Ilya could swear he feels the heat of the blush that blooms to life under his fingers. “I thought I could beat it.” 

The confession startles a little half-laugh out of him, and he sees Shane’s lips twitch in response. 

“I do not think even Shane Hollander can beat biology,” he observes, unable to help the need to lean forward and kiss his husband, short and sweet, before he leans back, stroking his thumb over a pink-tinged cheekbone. “This is why you lied? You just wanted to win?” The thought isn’t impossible–really, they’ve been competitors for too long for him to put it past Shane to do exactly that–but he doesn’t think that would have been quite enough, not for this. There’s something else under it, he thinks. 

The thought is confirmed when the question just gets him a small shrug and Shane looking away again. Ilya tilts his head slightly, considering, and he knows Shane can feel the scrutiny by the way he resolutely looks at the ceiling and only the ceiling. 

“Is not just that,” Ilya says slowly. “There is something else, yes?” 

Another little shrug. 

Ilya waits him out. 

Sure enough, it’s the matter of a few seconds before Shane exhales heavily and closes his eyes. 

“I thought it could be a fresh start, you know? No one here knew about it. I thought I could just-” Another shrug. “-and then it wouldn’t be a whole thing.” 

“‘A whole thing?’” Ilya repeats, frowning, trying to fit the pieces together when they seem so disjointed. “Why would this be ‘a thing’? The nurse and the doctor said this happens to many people. You are not special for it.” He can understand in a vague sense why Shane would be embarrassed about it, but with an audience of no one but medical staff and him, he can’t understand why it would be bad enough to lie about. Yeah, he would tease Shane about it the way he knows Shane would him if their positions were reversed, but he also would have been the one nudging Shane to lay down if he had wanted to tough guy his way through it. Their teasing never has teeth behind it, after all, and he doubts medical staff would make fun of someone for this. With such a safe audience for it, he can’t understand why Shane would lie. “Solnyshko,” he says, pausing until he gets one eye peeking at him from under Shane’s arm, “is not a problem. You know this, yes?” That’s his only other guess: Shane wanting to be as little trouble as possible. 

Like it didn’t blow up in his face immediately if it was his goal, to a degree that honestly would make Ilya feel a little bad for him, frankly. 

“That’s-it’s not-” Shane makes a frustrated noise and lets his arm drop. “It was a whole thing on my other team, okay? And it got…less funny, after everything…” A vague hand gesture that Ilya imagines is supposed to encompass the ungrateful fuckers turning on Shane for no goddamn reason in a way that Ilya can’t think about for too long or he’ll give into the temptation to drive to Montreal and start knocking heads together. “I thought I could just beat it and then not have it be a thing, you know?” 

Ilya thinks he might, now, with the last little detail he needed to paint the full picture. 

“I already get asked enough shit all the time,” Shane continues, and there’s a bitterness to his voice that Ilya rarely hears outside of the safe darkness of their bedroom late at night, when Shane can say the things he’s too reserved to in daylight. “I thought if I could just not be a pussy about needles…” He shrugs. 

The language is out of character for Shane outside of a fight with someone, and it gives Ilya the feeling that he’s repeating someone else when it comes to this. 

He reminds himself firmly that it’s still a bad idea to just start going door to door throughout Montreal to punch people. 

(He still files it away to think about more later.) 

(Pike would probably help him, after all, and then he could maybe just blame it all on him.) 

*

“Hey.” 

Shane turns at the faintest nudge of pressure to his chin, and he accepts the kiss Ilya leans in to give him. 

“This is not Montreal,” Ilya says, brushing his hair back. “The things that happened there, they will not happen here, okay?” 

“You don’t know that,” Shane says quietly, because it’s true. Ilya can make all the promises he wants, but Shane hadn’t thought things would go down in Montreal the way they did, either, and then they did. 

And took his whole life with them, a blow he’s still working out how to get back on his feet from. 

“Yes,” Ilya says, smiling faintly. “I do.” He leans forward again, kissing Shane’s temple this time and then lingering, pressing their heads together gently. “This is our team. You and me. Things will not happen like that again because we will not let them.” 

Shane tells himself it’s the lingering syncope that makes his throat feel a little tight. 

“What if they do?” He asks, a question he hasn’t actually been brave enough to ask before, too afraid that saying it out loud would be tempting fate to make it happen. 

“Then we figure it out,” Ilya says, like it’s just that easy. He leans back, and his expression is so soft, so affectionate, that Shane feels a little shy under the force of it. Even after all this time, it still surprises him, that someone could ever look at him like that. 

That someone could ever love him enough to look at him like that. 

“Montreal is full of very, very stupid people,” Ilya says, like this is a fact as inarguable as the existence of gravity. Shane snorts, which makes Ilya smile slightly. “Ottawa is different. The people here are better. But,” he moves his hand down to grip Shane’s, squeezing firmly, “if things go bad, is not just you on your own in the locker room this time, yes?” 

Shane just nods, not trusting his voice to come out steady at this particular moment. Ilya nods back. 

“Is you and me now, forever. About everything, okay?” 

Shane nods again, reaching up to pull Ilya into another kiss. 

“Except for the way your mother is going to ground you, probably,” Ilya says against his mouth. “She seemed very annoyed, and that one you are handling on your own because I am her favorite so-” 

“Asshole,” Shane complains, pushing Ilya back by his face. 

Ilya just laughs, nudging the ice pack back under his head when it slips to the side. Shane grumbles under his breath when Ilya takes his hand again, but he subsides when a kiss is pressed to his palm and then his knuckles. 

“I’m sorry I scared you,” he says quietly. 

“Is okay,” Ilya says, squeezing his hand gently. “Just do not do it again, yes?” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.”

They sit together until the world starts feeling steady again. 

Chapter 14: win-win: diabetic!shane and how a service dog averts a tuna meltdown

Chapter Notes

WHAT UP FAM. if you follow me on tumblr, you've already read a chunk of this, but i cannot stop thinking of my special girl and added more and then decided to post it on here. footnotesbyfizz introduced the idea of diabetic!shane to the sandbox, and junkdrawertales had the idea of diabetic!shane having a service dog named winnie, who is a good girl but also an ice cube criminal. she is a terrible little monster beast, and i love her very much. <3

two notes: 

1. from researching, apparently there's mixed evidence for whether diabetic service dogs are actually effective??? for the purposes of having fun in my sandbox, winnie is a pro at her job and knows what she's about. 

2. i know breeds like alaskan malamutes aren't good service dog candidates in general, but something something shane needed a dog breed that could spend extended time in cold arenas, so giant fluffy pup it is. 

 

From the way Rozanov seems content and unbothered and the way Winnie has made herself perfectly at home—even opening all of Rozanov’s drawers and cabinets while they were upstairs for seemingly no purpose other than showing off that she can because there are no child locks on them the way there are in Shane’s apartment—Shane gathers he’s the only one today feels strange for. 

“You have a dog?” Shane asks, more than a little surprised, when Rozanov rises from grabbing a dog bowl out of a lower cabinet and fills it with water before putting it on the floor, stealing an ear scritch from Winnie before he straightens again. 

“No?” Rozanov asks, seeming a little thrown by the question. 

“That’s a dog bowl,” Shane says, glancing to it again. 

Rozanov suddenly busies himself with a dishcloth on what appears to be a perfectly clean section of counter. 

“Was on clearance at the store last time I was there. I thought it would come in useful, maybe.” 

The answer doesn’t make sense, but Shane doesn’t know how to call him on it. Did he…buy a water bowl just for Shane’s dog? 

“I brought her collapsible one,” Shane offers, even though it’s a moot point now. He’d been planning on using it for the baggie of kibble he’d forgotten to take out of her vest to feed her dinner and then just rinse it out to be for water again. Not having to do that is convenient, certainly, but he also doesn’t know why it’s happening in the first place, another new element today stacking on top of the ones already making him feel on edge. 

Rozanov just shrugs, moving to wash his hands and then starting to open the container of tuna salad. 

“No need,” he says. “Already done.” 

Shane doesn’t know how to verbalize that Rozanov going out of his way to get a water bowl for his dog and putting it down for her just makes this entire day feel more like a trap. Rozanov’s always been good with Winnie—Shane knows by now that he’s a dog person—and Winnie adores him because she has terrible taste in men and a weakness for a specific brand of liver treats only made in the US that Rozanov is her regular dealer for whenever they see each other, but it feels beyond the scope of what a hookup would do, making sure his dog is taken care of while he’s visiting. It feels…boyfriend-y, just like Rozanov throwing his clothes at him earlier did. Still, he’s not sure that there’s a way to say, “You’re acting like we’re a couple and it’s freaking me the fuck out” without sounding like a crazy person. 

He takes another sip of his ginger ale instead. 

*

“Win, no!” Shane hisses, rising to grab Winnie when she starts to follow after Rozanov as he walks away to answer his phone, abandoning her chew toy and the blanket Shane had put down for her when they got here as a makeshift bed to tell her where to stay. 

She sees him coming, though, and speeds up, jogging after Rozanov before she can be stopped. Any further, and he’d look like he was following Rozanov, too, and he pauses at the edge of the living room, torn between the manners of allowing Rozanov the privacy he clearly wanted and retrieving his punk ass dog who is not respecting the unspoken request. 

Still, he knows firsthand that Winnie at least keeps any secrets entrusted to her. 

He sits back down. 

*

Shane hears the tap of Winnie’s paws on the hardwood likely announcing Rozanov’s return and tries very hard to look like he didn’t hear Rozanov’s conversation as much as he did. Even without speaking Russian, he can understand frustration and the word for dad, so he has some guesses about what exactly Rozanov’s phone call might have been about. He doesn’t know much about Rozanov’s family, even after so many years. Rozanov has been nosy and looked through a few Christmas cards Shane has had on his fridge through the years while getting a post-fuck water, but he’s never offered anything in return, and after enough refusals to answer, Shane’s learned to stop wondering. 

Or well, to stop asking. 

“You sent spy?” Rozanov asks as they reappear in the living room, Winnie trotting along happily at his side, tail wagging, clearly pleased with herself. There’s a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there earlier, but he seems amused by Winnie, who returns to Shane clearly expecting a reward for being a nosy little terror. 

“Lay down,” he tells her, and she huffs but obeys, returning to her blanket and taking her resentment out on her Kong toy, grumbling to herself as she gnaws on it. He looks back to Rozanov as he sits back down beside him, closer than before. “Sorry, she doesn’t always listen when she’s not in her harness, and she’s nosy.” 

“Is fine,” Rozanov says, waving his hand like he’s brushing away the apology. “She can sit on the couch, also. I do not mind.” 

“You say that now,” Shane says dryly, “but you haven’t had to get her fur off of one before.” 

Rozanov huffs a laugh, and the faint amusement makes Shane feel just bold enough to pry a little, Rozanov still looking less content than he did earlier in a way that makes Shane want to do something about it. 

“Everything okay with your dad?” 

He sees Rozanov blink like he’s processing what he was just told, and then he straightens. 

“Ah, she speaks Russian and reports back to you?” He asks, and Shane can tell by his expression that this topic is edging towards territory that usually gets him snapped at, so he eases off. 

“I know the word for father,” he offers, letting the question drop. 

Rozanov nods faintly, smiling in a way that’s a little overwhelming to be the recipient of, and then tugs him in to rest his head on his shoulder. 

Shane goes without a fight. 

*

“Ilya.” 

Shane has one moment of peace after the word leaves his mouth. 

And then the situation fully registers to him. 

Rozanov is smiling in a way that makes his stomach feel warm and cold at the same time, twisting into a knot of pleasure and confusion. He looks so soft and happy, like Shane has given him a gift in saying his name back to him. It makes Shane want to kiss him again, to wrap him in a blanket and run his fingers through his curls, to ride him until they both cum again and snuggle up with him on the sofa and do nothing beyond that. He wants the fulfillment of the pretend this day has increasingly turned into. 

And then he wonders what the opposite swing from something this temptingly good is going to be, how Rozanov is going to slide the casual back in, ripping right through the delicate cobwebs of the goodness of today. 

In an instant, the softness of it is too much, the entire day constricting around him like the mousetrap it’s felt like from the beginning. 

“I-”

He starts to pull back, avoiding Rozanov’s mouth even as it chases his own. He looks away, overwhelmed by the liquid joy in Rozanov’s eyes, knowing it’s something he shouldn’t be seeing, something Rozanov isn’t going to like him having seen later, when this day is over and he’s had time to think about it. He has to go, he knows in an instant. He has to go right now. He has to leave and-

“Shane?” Rozanov asks, holding onto his hips. “What-” 

They both jump as the noise of something like gravel hitting cement echoes through into the room, the movement making them bang their heads together. Shane leans forward for just a moment, hand pressed to the spot, until the surprise-pain of it fades just enough to return to knowing exactly what his dog has just done. 

“Winnie!” He yells, climbing off of Rozanov clumsily for a very different reason than his attempt literally one second ago. “Bad girl! Leave it!” 

By the time he gets to the kitchen, though, it’s too late. 

He exhales in annoyed frustration and leans against the wall, watching his disservice animal gleefully chase her stolen hoard of ice cubes around the kitchen, pausing to crunch one with clear pleasure before returning to sliding the others around with her nose and paws. 

He watches her slap shot two under the fridge in quick succession and wonders if he could just complete his previous urge to flee. 

Without Winnie. 

*

“-so fucking sorry, seriously,” he says to Rozanov, both of them on their knees and trying to locate all of the rogue ice cubes, their work watched by a resentful Winnie who has been banished to the edge of the room and told to stay, her head propped on her paws in a canine performance of pouting. 

“If you had told me, Winka, I could have just given you some,” Rozanov says to her, sounding amused. “You are a guest.” 

“Jesus,” Shane complains, smiling a little despite himself. “Don’t encourage her.” 

“So what if the lady likes ice cubes?” Rozanov teases. “We all have our vices.” 

“Yeah, well,” Shane says dryly, rising onto his knees to toss his latest recovery into the sink and smiling again when Rozanov playfully cheers when he makes it, “none of my vices mean ending up with a wet sock later.” 

“Hmm,” Rozanov says, leaning forward to grab an ice cube from under the edge of the cabinet in a move that makes his muscles flex in a way Shane probably shouldn’t find as attractive as he does when he’s cleaning up his dog’s mess with a guy he just stroked off, came on, and then immediately tried to bail on, “probably not the worst thing your socks have faced based on how horny you are all th-” 

Shane’s next ice cube also hits its target, bouncing off of Rozanov’s chest.

Rozanov’s look says he’s not nearly so impressed this time.

*

Rozanov takes pity on Winnie and releases her from her stay so she can show off her trick of balancing a treat on her nose before tossing it up and catching it after being told “Okay.” 

For the sheer joy of watching Rozanov’s joy—and repeating each “okay” in his mouth silently, enjoying the feeling of it—Shane is almost regretful when he has to call it. 

Even if his dog didn’t deserve even one treat after her little stunt. 

“Should we talk about before?” Rozanov asks, standing and brushing his hands off on his sweatpants. 

Shane suddenly becomes fascinated looking through Rozanov’s spice rack. 

“What about before?” 

“When you jerked us both off and then looked like you saw a ghost?” Rozanov asks dryly, and Shane feels a strange mix of emotions in his chest at the way he knows exactly what expression matches that tone. 

“I mean, we don’t usually do…this,” Shane hedges, avoiding eye contact. 

“‘This?’” Rozanov repeats, and from his peripheral vision, he sees him prop his hip against the counter, arms crossed loosely across his chest. 

“Spend the night and…wear each other’s clothes and shit.” He doesn’t bring up them also not using each other’s first names. For some reason, that feels like the greatest boundary broken today, like they’ve removed a necessary layer of formality. 

A layer Shane doesn’t know how to operate without. 

“You do not like this?” Rozanov asks, and his tone is just off enough that Shane looks at him. 

Somehow the little show of uncertainty makes him feel a little better, steadier that maybe Rozanov is feeling this out as he goes, that the path feels new for him, too. 

“I,” he hesitates, trying to decide if he likes it or not. “I didn’t say that. It’s just…new.” 

“Then maybe we try something new,” Rozanov says with a half-shrug. “Is okay?” 

“Why?” Shane asks, because that’s really the central thing he needs to know here: why Rozanov is suddenly changing the game without telling him the new rules. 

“Because maybe,” Rozanov says, and when he crowds him back against the counter, Shane doesn’t stop him, “it could be nice.” 

“So is this what we do now?” Shane asks, because he just needs to know. “We stay over at each other’s houses?” 

“Mm,” Rozanov agrees with a shrug of one shoulder. “If you want.” 

“And we-”

His follow-up question is interrupted by the clatter of more ice cubes, his fucking criminal of a dog using this painfully awkward “what are we” conversation as a distraction to sneak back to the dispenser without being noticed. 

“Winnie!” 

*

Because Ilya Rozanov is apparently very weak-willed when it comes to the discipline of dogs who should know better, Winnie is allowed out onto the patio with an entire container of ice cubes tossed onto the concrete for her benefit. 

Watching her nearly trip herself with glee, Shane gets the feeling that Rozanov has just begun a very bad habit he’s going to get sucked into. 

It wouldn’t be the first time, he thinks in resigned fondness. 

He watches Rozanov watch Winnie, looking almost boyish when he smiles. It’s lighter than Shane is used to seeing him usually. It feels like a gift, almost, getting this glimpse of a part of him that he knows by now other people don’t. 

He considers for the first time that maybe today was the same thing: the offer of something of Rozanov’s that other people don’t get. 

The thought is…oddly pleasing. 

“It’s all fun and games until she starts deciding the rink looks like a big ice cube,” he says, and Rozanov glances at him without turning. 

“She will improve things. Maybe then Montreal will not be so boring to watch.” 

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Shane says, but he’s smiling when he does. The joking along with the acknowledgement that things are different and it’s not just in his head is helping to settle his nerves some. It occurs to him that Rozanov often has that effect on him, has since the start, really. 

Maybe he should just…let him make this feel calmer. 

“Do you usually-” A crash from the patio makes them both turn to look, and Shane winces, Winnie’s enthusiasm having made one of Rozanov’s patio chairs collateral damage in her ice cube frenzy. “Told you not to let her play with them,” he observes. 

Rozanov snorts and then tilts his head slightly like he’s weighing something mentally. After a moment, he crosses over to Shane, standing beside him and wrapping his arms around his chest, chin on his shoulder, so they can watch Winnie’s property damage together. Shane is tense reflexively but then testingly leans back, finding Rozanov solid and steady behind him. 

Finding Ilya solid and steady behind him. 

“Okay?” He asks softly. 

Shane reaches up and squeezes his wrist gently. 

“Okay.” 

They keep standing like that while they watch Winnie continue to rearrange Ilya’s patio furniture. 

*

“You are mean and cruel and abusive,” Ilya observes while they’re making dinner, a third attempt at illicit ice cube acquisition from Winnie meaning Shane went out to the garage to use the flap of an old box to make an ice dispenser shield that matches the one on his own back in Montreal. 

Winnie, watching him balefully, appears to be conveying the same displeasure she did when he put his up. 

“You want to wake up to an empty ice dispenser and a flooded kitchen?” He asks lightly, taping the cardboard into place. 

Ilya finishes chopping up tomatoes without comment. 

*

After a last round of fucking for the night followed by a shared shower (...and a shower blowjob), Shane lets Winnie out one last time and then gets her settled on the blanket he brought up from the living room, folding it and setting it down in a corner of the room. She circles and circles and then settles, well-used to sleeping wherever he does. 

Climbing back into bed next to Ilya, he wishes he could say he was equally at ease. 

He feels hyperaware of the stretch of sheets between them, unsure if he’s supposed to venture closer or if Ilya is used to sleeping apart. Shane tries to remember the last time he shared a bed with someone and comes up blank, trying to remember from television shows how people usually sleep and then wondering if that’s just for the sake of the shot or if-

“So far away,” Ilya observes. Shane looks over to him. “Come here.” 

“You come here,” Shane says automatically, but he obeys, turning onto his side and shifting closer, letting Ilya guide him back down, counting on him knowing how people usually share beds while sleeping. 

He’s the one who’s had plenty of experience, after all. 

“Comfortable?” Ilya asks after they’ve settled, Shane’s head on his shoulder, Ilya’s arm around his back. 

Shane takes stock and then slowly brings his leg up to rest it over Ilya’s hips. 

“Comfortable?” He parrots back, looking up as best he can. 

Ilya’s answer comes in the form of a kiss to his head. 

Shane finds himself relaxing faster than he expected, soothed by warm skin against his and the faint thrum of Ilya’s heartbeat. He dares to wiggle a bit, settling more, and he feels the vibration of Ilya humming a laugh. 

“Better?” He asks when Shane is still again, sounding amused. 

Shane yawns. 

“Better.” 

He falls asleep to gentle fingertips stroking over his back. 

*

Shane holds the energy gel packet between his teeth while pulling his glove off so he can squeeze it, shuffling down the bench as the next line takes their place on the ice. 

“I know, Win,” he says around the packet, as he feels her nose pressing at his hip insistently behind him, her alert for hypoglycemia. “I’m doing it.” 

“Do it faster,” Ilya suggests beside him, leaning back from grabbing a water bottle after passing the gel along from the assistant who keeps track of them during games. 

“No shit,” Shane says dryly, taking the corner of the packet between his teeth to rip it open. He looks up at the scoreboard to check the time left in the game and barely resists the urge to make a face when he sees the Jumbotron footage is on him, everyone treated to a double feature of him accidentally showing off the silicone wedding band he wears during games and needing a gel packet. Even if it doesn’t bother him quite as much as it used to, people wanting to know how he manages his blood sugar during games, it’s not like he enjoys people digging into his medical condition or reducing him to his diabetes and nothing el-

“Move over, Hollander, they are wanting to see the star,” Ilya says, shoving at his shoulder until he leans aside enough to show Winnie, her ears and tail dyed in Ottawa’s colors because Ilya went rogue when dropping their dogs off at “the doggy salon” this week, Anya’s white paws dyed pink “because she is a pretty baby princess, Hollander,” and Winnie now unknowingly sporting some team pride, each of her ears a different color, shown off as she tilts her head from side to side, trying to figure out why he and Ilya are moving strangely. 

A roar goes through the crowd at her on the big screen, and he can’t deny it’s a bit of a relief, everyone focusing on his dog instead of him so he can down his gel in peace without people taking pictures or videos to make jokes about how well he sucks things on the internet later. (...again). It’s a change from the way Montreal always handled her, the way Winnie is now a common sight on the big screen at games. He’d never wanted anyone to ask questions about his dog when he first joined the team as a rookie, still hating having a visual reminder that he’s different from everyone else, so he’d never really even thought to mind the order to keep her in a lie down behind the bench to keep her from being on camera as much as possible, tucked behind him enough to not be at risk of getting hit with a skate but as unobtrusive as it’s possible for an Alaskan Malamute to be, Winnie trained to retreat to a corner when he was on the ice and wait for him to return. He’d been pissed the handful of times her being so low on the ground had gotten her paws or tail stepped on by a coach or assistant moving behind the bench, but he’d at least had backup from Hayden and JJ to try and remind people to watch their fucking feet. Harris, though, had been delighted about her from the start, and he thinks at this point there’s probably more pictures of Winnie on the team’s Instagram than of any human, including him and Ilya. It’s one of many changes he’s had to adjust to, but he can’t say he doesn’t like the relief of letting his dog take attention off of him now and then. 

(He also appreciates that everyone on Ottawa’s team is always careful not to step on her, more than one person even in the habit of saying “excuse me” when moving around her, something that always makes him smile faintly even if Winnie is trained to tune them out when her harness is on.)

“Tell her to turn,” Ilya says, as the applause keeps roaring on. “Give the people a show.” 

Shane rolls his eyes but swallows his mouthful of mango gel so he can speak, Winnie still only taking orders from him when she’s on the job. 

“Winnie, spin,” he says, and Winnie heeds him, turning and showing off her jersey cover over her harness, WINNIE 01 in block letters against the fabric. 

The crowd gets loud enough that Shane winces slightly at the volume of it, his expression safely off camera. Winnie seems to sense that she’s the star of the moment, though, her tail wagging like she knows the applause is for her, a blur of Ottawa’s colors sweeping back and forth with the motion. Feeling magnanimous and a little high on their current lead of 4-1 over Montreal, he decides to give the crowd a little something extra. 

“Winnie, cheer,” he says, seeing Ilya grin, pleased as ever at his stupid trick getting shown off, as if teaching both of their dogs that this particular talent gets them treats hasn’t gotten them dirty looks from Mr. Phillips next door more than once. 

Obligingly, Winnie sits and lifts her nose up to howl. On her second repetition, more than a few Ottawa fans join in, an absurd shared “Awoooooo” ringing up to the rafters, something that’s become sort of an unofficial fan cheer recently. 

“Fucking ridiculous,” Shane says, but he’s smiling when he does, sliding up more of his gel. 

“Less jealously of Winka’s fans, more getting your blood sugar up so we can finish killing Montreal,” Ilya says, giving Winnie a scratch to her ears as the Jumbotron camera moves on to catch a pair of girls in the audience still howling, both of them on their feet and sporting Hollander jerseys. When they raise their arms up in celebration, clearly pleased at being on the big screen, he doesn’t miss the insulin pump clipped onto the jeans of the one on the right, and he feels a little wriggle of something in his chest, a shared kinship. 

A slightly strange kind of pride at being the role model he’s often resented being held as his entire career. 

“See?” Ilya asks, voice low as he leans in to speak close to his ear, and Shane knows by the tone that he didn’t miss the pump either. “The people love her.” The people love you, he hears under the words, something that Ilya knows better than to actually say out loud when the fallout of leaving Montreal is still too raw to poke at most days. 

“Yeah,” Shane agrees, finishing off his gel and passing it back along the line of players to throw it away. “Because they don’t have a dog constantly trying to break into their ice makers.” 

Ilya laughs. 

Shane smiles. 

Chapter 15: the big cheese: how shane acquires a giant maine coon named cheddar

Chapter Notes

HI FRIENDS WE ALL KNOW HOW THIS WORKS. THANK YOU TO jcams88 ON TUMBLR FOR BRINGING UP THE IDEA OF SHANE HAVING A GIANT CAT

AND THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO HAS GONE WILD ABOUT CHEDDAR WITH ME SINCE

(also this technically breaks the under 5k rule for this collection, but cheddar is SO based on everything we've talked about over on tumblr that i feel like a standalone fic wouldn't support him adaquately lol)

enjoy! 

Shane doesn’t expect Montreal’s visit to the Montreal SPCA to be so ear-splittingly loud. 

Then again, he also didn’t expect Rozanov to just suddenly have no interest in him at all after two full years of chasing him, so maybe Shane just needs to work on being more realistic. 

Right now, though, he just needs somewhere he can fucking think. 

“Bathroom,” he says to Hayden after grabbing his arm to get his attention, finally tapping out for at least a few minutes away from the racket of row after row of kenneled dogs barking loud enough that he thinks his ears are ringing. Sound doesn’t bother him as much as it did when he was little—he wouldn’t be able to tolerate stadiums full of screaming fans otherwise—but the unpredictability of all of the dogs barking at one time makes it hard to tune it out, all of the barking echoing off of the cinderblock walls until it feels like it’s rattling between his ears. Really, at this point, he thinks he might have reached something beyond a headache. 

On a guess about where he might be able to escape for a bit, he slips through a door with “CATS” scrawled in Sharpie on printer paper and taped into place. He feels his shoulders go a little less tense when the door shuts and downgrades the roar of barking into background noise, but he still dares venture a bit deeper, hoping to find a quiet corner just to catch his breath for a moment. A few cats meow at him as he passes, and one even reaches through the bars of their cage to swat at him, and he flips it off as he goes, insulted by being attacked when he didn’t even do anything. 

…and then desperately hoping that there aren’t security cameras around that might have caught him flipping a cat the bird. 

At the end of the room is a door that’s half-open, and his head is hurting enough that he dares poke his head around the edge of it, anticipating a second room of cats the same way there was a second room of dogs just off of the first one when they came in. 

Instead, though, the room appears to be a half-full storage closet, with some brooms and mops in one corner and a single rolling kennel in the other. 

It’s not until he’s in the room, the door pushed a little closer to closed to block out more noise, that he realizes the kennel is occupied.

By a fucking massive pile of orange fur. 

“Jesus,” he says with no small amount of appreciation when he realizes that what he’s looking at is a gigantic cat. 

The cat doesn’t move. 

He hesitates, wondering if the cat has been locked away for bad behavior or something and if he might be somewhere he really shouldn’t be, but the cat doesn’t move even slightly. It seems to have crushed its—already too-small, he’s pretty confident—bed against the back of the kennel, its head shoved as far under the fabric as it can get. He feels an odd sense of kinship at the sight, remembering when he was a kid and would come home from school and climb under his mattress on bad days to lay between it and the box spring, needing dark and pressure on him to calm down. 

It’s the memory of also wanting to squish himself somewhere dark and quiet that makes him sit down now. 

“Hey,” he says, mostly because it would feel more weird to say nothing than to talk to a cat who can’t understand him. “You’re…” He stretches to the side to see the label on the front of the kennel. “Chester?” 

The cat doesn’t move to respond one way or another. 

“I don’t know if you look like a Chester,” he says, “but I also don’t know a lot about cats, so…” 

In the distance he hears what he thinks is the loud ass husky he passed by earlier, screeching a wail loud enough that Shane pities its neighbors. The cat seems to hunker down an impossible degree further, and Shane feels an odd sense of camaraderie. On an impulse, he reaches out and slips his finger through the bars, stroking a large, squishy paw. The cat doesn’t lean into the touch, but he doesn’t flinch, either. 

“Has to be hard, all of that noise,” he says, moving to stroke the back of his finger on one orange leg. “Especially with cat ears.” Like he appreciates someone being sympathetic to his discomfort—ridiculous as Shane knows it is to think a cat can feel anything that complex—Chester shifts just slightly, finally peeking one honey-colored eye at him from under the edge of the bed, his tufted ear smushed in a way that looks more than a little silly, squished to the side. Shane smiles faintly, reaching through enough to rub the back of his fingers over the cat’s neck, reassured that he’s at least not causing offense when Chester doesn’t pull away. 

Even in the relative refuge of this closet, he can still hear the dogs making a racket, a couple of the cats meowing as well because apparently everyone needs to yell right now. He does feel a little calmer here, with so much of the sound muted, but he still thinks he might have maybe another hour and a half left in him before he needs to call it. 

He can’t imagine being locked in a cage and unable to get away. 

“What are-” He starts, and then nearly jumps out of his skin when the door opens, Chester immediately trying to hide under his bed again, startled by Shane startling. 

“Oh!” Says a volunteer he thinks introduced herself as Nadine earlier. “There you are!” 

He feels his face heat a little as he stands, feeling absurdly like he did as a little kid when relatives would find him hiding in closets at family functions to get a break. If Nadine is judging him, though, she has a good poker face, not saying anything as he brushes himself off. She glances at the cage where Chester the Cat still hasn’t moved at all after his hasty attempt at hiding again. 

“Found our least happy resident, huh?” Nadine asks as she steps back to let him pass. 

“Do cats usually end up by themselves when they first come here?” Shane asks, moving to let her pass by him after they’re out of the closet to lead him back to wherever everyone else ended up. It’s his best guess, after all, for why he would be in there on his own. 

“Mmm, not really,” Nadine says. “He’s kind of a special case.” She gives him a look over her shoulder that appears sympathetic. “Poor guy was owned by an older gentleman who passed in his sleep. Neighbor reported he hadn’t been seen in a couple of days and paramedics found him with his cat still curled up next to him on the bed. Apparently he bit one of them hard enough to draw blood when they tried moving him away so they could load his owner onto the gurney. His owner had an automatic feeder he would get a neighbor to fill up for him each week so Chester had food, thank God, but there was no one to take him after that. Poor thing was apparently with him since he was a baby according to the neighbors. No animal ever likes being at the shelter, obviously, but poor guy has been petrified since he arrived.” 

“Poor guy,” Shane agrees, glancing back over his shoulder at the door to the closet. 

“We’d usually try to prioritize getting him into a foster placement, but after we had a wild kitten season this year, most places are full,” Shane doesn’t know what the fuck a kitten season is, but he feels strangely sad on Chester’s behalf. He can’t imagine getting yanked out of his quiet home and forced into a place this loud and busy, especially given that he’s pretty sure cat ears are even more sensitive than human ears. “We tried him in one placement that at least had a room he could be on his own, but they have baby twins and a three year old, so it wasn’t exactly the quietest option.” 

Shane, who has done time helping out with the Pike kids, doesn’t doubt this. 

“Do you think anywhere will open up soon?” Shane can’t help but ask as he follows Nadine back to everyone else, the sound of the dogs getting ever louder. It feels bad, the idea of Chester stuck in that closet cowering against the back of his cage, so overwhelmed and scared. Shane’s never really been much of an animal person, but he remembers how overwhelming his grandmother’s funeral was, having to deal with so many people while already hurting from losing her. 

He can’t imagine having to grieve someone in a place this fucking loud. 

He pauses at the door out of the cat area, glancing back at the closed door and thinking about the cat huddled as small as he can get on the other side of it. Maybe he could-

No, he decides, following Nadine back. 

Even thinking about it is silly. 

*

Shane can’t stop thinking of Chester in the days after the shelter, can’t stop listening to the quiet of his apartment and then thinking of the cat huddled against the cacophony of dogs barking constantly, his giant, fluffy body crushed as small as he can make it, like he can just hide from what’s happening to him if he tries hard enough. 

The apartment is certainly big enough for even a cat as big as him, Shane can’t help but think. He’s not totally sure on how much space cats need, but he’s fairly confident there’s enough space here. He’s never thought about getting a pet before, not really, but he can’t help but think about how Chester would probably be happier here. There are no dogs, no kids, and Shane is fairly quiet by nature. Chester would-

He banishes the thought. 

There’s no way he’s getting a cat. 

*

Shane has acquired a cat. 

Well, he has theoretically acquired a cat. He hasn’t actually seen much of him in the 48 hours they’ve been trying out living together. 

From the way Chester has resolutely refused to come out from under the guest bed he darted to the second his carrier was opened, he doesn’t think it’s going very well. 

“I don’t think we’re doing this right,” Shane tells him from his place on the floor next to the bed. He’s currently talking to Chester’s ass because of how he’s squished himself against the leg of the bed and the wall in an attempt at hiding, but he’s also talking to a cat, so he’s not sure talking to his face would really get a better result anyway. He half-heartedly wiggles a toy with a bell on the end that he’d bought in the (frankly a little embarrassingly) large order of cat stuff he’d bought to make sure he was prepared, but Chester doesn’t appear remotely interested in any of it. The kibble in the dish looks a little lower than it was yesterday, and the automatic litterbox thing said it was used, so he’s fairly certain he’s at least not accidentally killing his new cat with stress, but even after the warning that it might take a little time for Chester to really settle in, the cat not even looking at him isn’t exactly very promising when it comes to the way he thinks pets are supposed to interact with people. 

It’s also possible that being completely ignored is perhaps hitting him a little harder than it usually would given external factors Chester has nothing to do with. 

“Nadine said just talking to you so you can get used to my voice is supposed to help,” Shane tells Chester, rolling to lay on his back. He turns his head to keep looking at him. “You like hockey?” 

Chester doesn’t respond. 

Shane sighs, pulling out his phone and trying not to feel equally rejected by the lack of any new text messages from Lily. After weeks of this, he should probably be used to the silence. 

But it still hurts like a motherfucker. 

He scrolls back up to the start of his texts with “Lily.”

“You want to hear about an asshole named Rozanov?” He asks Chester. Chester doesn’t respond. 

Shane starts reading anyway. 

*

The internet has informed him that not making a cat feel cornered or trapped is important, so Shane has stopped trying to reach out to touch Chester in the days since they’ve become housemates. 

From managing to wedge his head and shoulders under one corner of the bed so he can talk to him, Shane has also developed an appreciation for Chester’s choice of hiding spot. It’s a tight squeeze for him, but he can see the appeal. 

“-just feel like he could maybe say hi or something, you know?” He asks Chester rhetorically, his head pillowed on his arms. Chester has at least progressed to looking at him and is now sitting curled up on the fluffy cat bed Shane pushed under here to at least give Chester something comfortable to huddle on, his paws tucked under him and his giant bushy tail wrapped around neatly. He still won’t come out from under the bed, but his honey-colored eyes aren’t wide or scared, and he watches Shane intently but without the fear he did his first couple of days here. 

On impulse, Shane reaches out his hand, resting it halfway between them, hopefully close enough to be an offer but far enough to not be a threat. 

Slowly, Chester leans forward, and Shane all but holds his breath, forcing himself to be as still as possible as the cat creeps towards his hand. His whiskers tickle when they brush against his fingers, and the little puff of air as Chester sniffs is a strange sensation, but Shane doesn’t move. 

After one false start, Chester tilts his head and rubs his cheek against the back of Shane’s hand, rolling it to follow it up with his forehead. When he pulls back, he looks at Shane expectantly. 

Slowly, Shane lifts his hand to scratch where Chester rubbed against him, and the cat leans into it, closing his eyes like he’s enjoying the sensation. 

Well, he thinks, as Chester flops down to stay in touching range, at least someone wants to say hi to him. 

*

Like it popped a bubble for the two of them, Chester starts venturing out from under the bed in halting, jumpy little explorations. Shane is always careful to move quietly and slowly when he sees an orange head or a banner-like tail peek around the furniture—even blending his smoothies in his bedroom because he scared the fuck out of Chester when he did it in the kitchen the morning he got brave enough to jump up on a barstool and watch him make breakfast over the counter—and with enough time, Chester starts getting braver, even running to greet him at the door when he returns home. It’s novel, having something so excited to see him. It’s nice, being missed like that. 

Less nice is the night he leaves his bedroom door cracked and learns that Chester’s quiet reserve and shy nature apparently stops at sunset. 

“Dude,” he complains, lifting his head to glare at the hell beast who jumped into his bed and immediately decided to make that a problem for both of them. “Ow.” He jerks his foot away from the cat gnawing at it under the covers, paws wrapped around his ankle to hold on, which just means he ends up dragging Chester right along with his leg. “Chester, I have practice in the morning.” 

Chester doesn’t appear to give a single, solitary fuck, tossing himself into a twirling jump that would be impressive if it wasn’t happening at fuck o’clock in the morning. As soon as he lands, he shoots off like a rocket, slamming into the door as he goes and flinging it wider. Shane stares at the shaking door for a long moment before dropping back onto the mattress. 

He gets approximately five minutes of quiet before a furry missile comes tearing back into his bedroom. 

He covers his head with his pillow and groans. 

*

“Chester, I swear to fucking God,” he says the next night to his bedroom ceiling, when his closed door saved him a cat to the stomach but didn’t save him a cat getting his paws under the door and banging it in the frame. 

A truly pitiful little mew comes through the door, and Shane sits up, leaning back on an elbow. It’s the first time he’s heard Chester make a sound since he came here. On an impulse, he’s halfway to standing up to let him in, strangely emotional at Chester finding his voice after-

Then the asshole starts banging the door again. 

“Go climb on your cat tree,” he yells, dropping back down. 

The sound of paws skittering on hardwood seems to suggest that Chester chose to listen. 

After a boom suggesting that Chester decided to use the door as a springboard on a second pass back, he seems to make his peace with his exile from the bedroom at night.

Shane’ll take it. 

*

“I’m home,” Shane calls his second time back after a roadie, absurdly nervous just like the first time even though the catsitter he hired came highly recommended and seemingly did fine the first time. “Che-” 

He hasn’t even finished calling for him when the cat comes sprinting towards him, skidding as he drifts around the corner and meowing up a storm, all but climbing up Shane’s jeans once he reaches him, mouth open wide to yell at him in cat. Shane drops his bag from his shoulder and bends down to pick him up, Chester clinging to him, tight, and almost giving him a black eye with the force he headbutts him, making Shane’s arms vibrate with the force of his purring. 

Shane closes his eyes, squeezing him a little. 

“Hi, buddy,” he says quietly, pressing his head against Chester’s in return. “I missed you, too.” 

*

Against his will, Chester ends up becoming Cheddar courtesy of small Pike children who haven’t quite mastered the “s” sound but are cheese fiends and large Pike Hayden who thinks he’s funny by keeping it going. Shane had been worried about his cat being scared of the kids at first, but after five visits of remaining quiet and patient, Chester-now-Cheddar finally came out to say hello, tentative but happy to chase his fuzzy mouse around when the twins started throwing it around the living room for him. 

Now if Hayden just wasn’t so amused about changing his cat’s name. 

“You can bite him if you want to,” Shane tells Cheddar that night after all Pikes have left his—well now their, since it’s him and Cheddar now, something Shane still forgets sometimes—apartment, his cat curled up in his arms. It’s not so different from carrying around one of the twins, Shane has learned. 

They’re roughly the same size, after all. 

“He has it coming,” Shane says, scratching at Cheddar’s cheek when he turns his head to get Shane’s fingers where he wants them. “I can call him Havarti if it would make you feel better.” 

Cheddar, who keeps purring as Shane settles onto the sofa, doesn’t appear to have much of an opinion. 

*

The first time Cheddar joins him in the shower, Shane is so astonished that he doesn’t even think to stop him. 

For his own part, Cheddar seems perfectly confident and content after pawing open the shower door and stepping in, settling down and wrapping his tail around his feet, not seeming to mind at all as he starts getting soaked. 

“Uh,” Shane says intelligently, hands still raised from working shampoo through his hair. “I don’t think you’re supposed to, like…like this.” 

For his part, Cheddar shakes himself off all over but then turns his face back up, fur turning dark umber as it gets more and more wet. 

“You’re in water, dude,” he tells Cheddar, feeling ridiculous but also feeling the need to point this out to his cat. He might not be an expert in cats, but he’s pretty sure them hating water is pretty notoriously characteristic of them as a group. 

The only response he gets is Cheddar starting to purr. 

One eye on his bizarre cat, Shane finishes his shower, Cheddar rolling around to seemingly collect every last drop of water he can after the showerhead is turned off. Still purring, he lays on his back and looks to Shane with slow, lazy blinks, paws in the air. 

“You’re really fucking weird, you know,” he tells Cheddar, toweling his hair off but unable to keep from smiling slightly. 

Cheddar just purrs louder. 

*

“What, you are cat person now?” Rozanov asks the first time he comes over and almost immediately trips on one of Cheddar’s golf balls, kicking it lightly across the room to bounce off of the base of one of Cheddar’s cat trees. 

(...it’s possible Cheddar may own a few too many things for one cat.)

“You’ve got a problem with cats?” Shane challenges.

(...it’s also possible that Shane might still be just a little mad about their recent history.) 

“Is no problem,” Rozanov says with a small shrug, crowding Shane back against a wall. “Cat is an old person pet, yes? Makes sense for you.” 

“Fuck you,” Shane says, but he doesn’t resist the leg that slips between his own. 

“Hm, yes,” Rozanov agrees, nudging his jaw to the side and pressing his mouth to his neck. “Good idea. Fuck me.” 

Shane doesn’t give him the satisfaction of agreeing. 

(...but he does do it.) 

*

“Rozanov says hi,” Shane tells Cheddar later, when his cat comes out around an hour after their visitor has left, greeting Shane with a “Mrr?” as his head pops up around the corner of the couch. Cheddar hops up to sit next to him, and Shane stretches his arm out to let his cat sit between it and his chest, Cheddar flopping onto this side and stretching out, head resting on his arm. 

Shane shifts enough to reach his other hand over to scratch behind his soft ears, Cheddar’s purring intensifying. 

“You could have come out to say hi if you wanted,” he tells Cheddar. “People think he’s scary, but he’s not.” 

Cheddar just starts to knead at Shane’s arm. 

“He’s the guy I was telling you about when you first got here,” he says, tugging Cheddar back to lay against him more and reaching to grab the remote to change the channel since Cheddar isn’t a basketball fan. 

Cheddar mrrps at him. 

“I know,” he says, sinking his fingers through Cheddar’s thick fur, rubbing over his belly as he turns onto his back and stretches out. “I get it, but he’s, like, really good at sex, dude.” 

Cheddar mrrs in a way that seems mildly judgmental, even if he stays stretched out as Shane rubs his belly. 

“You’d get it if you still had balls,” Shane says consolingly. “Trust me.” 

Cheddar stretches out more, tucking his head into his armpit, apparently deciding not to comment. 

*

“So your invisible cat is invisible here, also?” 

Shane sits up and looks over the bed at Ilya, who is leaning against the doorway to the guest room at his parents’ house. He’d kept Cheddar with them under the excuse of preserving his silent retreat lie because years of being together means Cheddar has no problems talking to Shane all day, but the presence of Ilya means Cheddar has spent dinner hiding under the bed, still shy about strangers even years later. 

Even strangers who have managed to work their way up to boyfriend in that same time. 

“He’s just shy,” Shane says, glancing back at Cheddar, who is now army-crawling his way back under the bed, back paws disappearing after a wriggle, tail brushing along after him. He’d been able to fit more easily back when he was two during their first summer up here together, but seven more pounds and two more inches of height mean it’s a tight squeeze now. 

Not that it stops him from still getting under. 

Or from crawling up into the box spring, Shane thinks, hearing a suspicious noise of rustling fabric. 

“He takes after you, then?” Ilya teases, sitting down next to him. 

“Fuck off,” Shane says. He drops back down to an elbow, glancing under the bed to find that his cat has indeed managed to rip his way into the box spring. Shane grimaces, making a mental note to offer to replace it if/when his parents find out about his cat redecorating to suit his own tastes. 

(There’s a reason all of the beds in Shane’s houses are lofted up to Comfortable Cheddar Height.)

Ilya drops back behind him, and Shane snorts when he uses the excuse of looking past him to scoot close enough to press his hips into his ass. 

“My parents are literally two rooms away,” Shane says, voice low. “Behave.” 

“What?” Ilya asks, faux-innocent. “I am helping you look for the cat you supposedly have. Get your mind out of the gutter, Hollander.” 

Shane rolls his eyes, kicking Ilya’s ankle lightly before dropping down enough that he can reach up, fingers barely brushing against Cheddar. 

“C’mon, buddy,” he coaxes. “You know Ilya. That hoodie you keep stealing is his.” 

“Oh?” Ilya asks, sounding amused. “Was Cheddar who stole that?” 

Shane smiles without looking back, reaching forward and managing to get his hand around Cheddar’s paw, squeezing gently. He feels a rough tongue lick him, but Cheddar remains firmly where he is. Ilya leans down a bit more behind him, but he doesn’t reach forward. 

“He is still not a fan of me?” Ilya asks softly. 

“He just doesn’t know you yet,” Shane says, trying to scratch Cheddar’s cheek blindly and instead poking him in the teeth, making Cheddar let out a huff and squirm away, deeper into the box spring. Shane lets his hand drop. 

“Hm,” Ilya says, nosing at the nape of his neck. “And I make his papa make so many loud noises whe-” He grunts when Shane’s elbow finds his stomach. 

“He’ll get used to you,” Shane says, turning slightly, enough to look at Ilya. 

“Oh?” Ilya asks. 

Shane reaches up, touching the corner of his mouth, which quirks up in a smile at the affection. Ilya turns his head slightly, kissing the pad of his thumb. 

“He’ll get used to you,” Shane says again. “He just needs some time.” 

“I have time,” Ilya says, kissing his thumb again before leaning forward and kissing his mouth. For a long moment, they trade sweet, slow kisses, before Ilya finally pulls back, slapping him on the ass lightly. “Now come on,” he says, pushing himself to his feet. “Or your parents will think I am fucking you in their guest bedroom. I am still trying to make a good impression, Shane. This is bad for my image.” 

Shane rolls his eyes and gives the Cheddar Lump making the fabric under the box spring sag an affectionate parting pat. 

*

Shane doesn't realise he forgot to tell Ilya to make sure the door to the bedroom was shut during his first night staying over during the season until the next morning.

His primary hint about this is waking up to twenty-three pounds of vibrating animal over his face.

Cheddar makes a half-hearted noise of complaint when Shane deadlifts him up, curling him up against his chest instead, Cheddar flopping over him like a heavy scarf despite his whining, purring hard enough that Shane feels the vibration of it through his sternum. 

“Finally got brave enough to come investigate him, huh?” Shane asks quietly, as Cheddar stretches his neck to sniff at Ilya’s face from the safety of Shane’s hold. “What do you think, buddy? Should we keep him?” 

Cheddar opening his mouth in a Flehmen response to get a better smell of his boyfriend is a funny enough answer that he barely manages to keep from laughing loud enough to wake Ilya. 

*

“Your invisible cat is a fucking tiger?” 

Shane looks up from the breakfast he was making to find Ilya looking rumpled and unfairly hot as he joins him in the kitchen, Cheddar scurrying ahead of him and darting to the guest bedroom like he’s got a demon at his heels instead of a still-sleepy Russian hockey player. 

Ilya watches him go, looking vaguely insulted. 

“He tries to crush me to death in my sleep and now runs like he is the victim?” He asks the room at large. 

Shane snorts, turning to pour eggs into a pan. It’s not a task that requires a second person. 

Still, he doesn’t protest when Ilya presses close to his back, lowering his head to nuzzle at his neck. 

*

“At a certain point, Cheddar,” Ilya says three visits later, when rising off the couch means perfectly cuddly Horizontal Ilya became extremely suspicious Vertical Ilya and sent Cheddar flying off to the guest room again, “this is just offensive.” He looks to Shane as he collects his dirty plate, stacking it on top of his own. “I am starting to think you tell him bad things about me when I am not here.” 

“He took a bath with you,” Shane points out, laughing when Ilya rolls his eyes and starts walking back to the kitchen. “Sounds pretty friendly to me.” 

“And thank you again for the warning that your strange house tiger likes water even though he is a cat.” 

Shane grins, settling more comfortably into his sofa. 

*

“Oh, the two-faced cheese returns,” Ilya observes thirty minutes later, Shane sitting between his legs and resting back against his chest. Shane blinks awake from the half-nap he didn’t know he was taking to find Cheddar cautiously venturing into the living room again, flinching at every step like he’s expecting an attack. “What, you beat him when other people are not here?” Ilya asks. 

“Fuck off,” Shane says. He shifts enough to sit up a little more, patting his thigh. “Come here, buddy.” 

Cheddar glances at Ilya once more but then heeds him, leaping neatly to land on Shane’s lap. Shane picks him up, curling him against one arm like a baby and scratching his neck. 

“You rescued him from a fighting ring or what?” Ilya asks, reaching over and letting Cheddar sniff his hand before offering him a scratch to his cheek. “He is a veteran of a war, maybe?” 

“His owner died and left him in an apartment all by himself for days after,” Shane says, feeling defensive of his cat. “Give him a break.” 

It’s not until Ilya doesn’t chirp him back that he realizes the death of a caretaker might be a potentially painful subject. Before he can take it back, though, Ilya just squeezes his waist gently and cups Cheddar’s head in one big palm, thumb rubbing at his ear. 

“Hm,” he hums. “Then I will try not to be too offended, Cheddar. Is scary, being alone like that, yes?” Cheddar leans into Ilya’s touch like he’s agreeing, paws wrapping around his wrist to hold him in place. 

In slow degrees, Shane drifts off once more, Ilya on one side of him and his cat on the other. 

*

The move to Ottawa is hard. 

The fact that it freaks Cheddar the fuck out doesn’t make it easier. 

From visiting a few times over the course of the year, he was at least familiar with Ilya’s house and with Anya, but the way he keeps trying to get back in his carrier makes it clear that he doesn’t understand why they aren’t going home the way they’re supposed to. 

It’s not as if Shane even has a good answer for him. 

“Still hiding?” Ilya asks now, leaning around the door into the guest room. 

“Still hiding,” Shane confirms, not bothering to get up from the floor, one hand still extended to Cheddar, huddled where he’s been all day since Shane finally put his carrier away so he would eat breakfast instead of stubbornly sitting in it. 

As it turns out, it hadn’t made him eat his breakfast. 

It had just made him run and hide. 

He sees Ilya’s face when he lays down on the other side of the bed, looking at him across the space underneath. 

“Is hard,” Ilya says in a tone that means Shane understands he’s not just talking about Cheddar, “adjusting to new things.” 

“He’ll get used to it,” Shane says, rubbing his fingers against the soft fur beneath his hand. “He has to.” 

He’s not just talking about Cheddar, either. 

*

“Is okay, being scared.” 

Shane frowns while passing by the room Cheddar is still huddled in, coming out only for brief stretches of time to eat before darting back under. Slowly, he pushes open the door to find Ilya in the spot he’s usually in, stretched out on the floor by the bed. 

“Everything is new right now. Is very scary, I know,” Ilya continues, voice soft. His arm is stretched out under the mattress, and from the movement of his muscles, Shane gathers he’s offering Cheddar some scratches. “You and Shane, you are used to your routines and now things are different. Is okay to be scared of this.” 

Absurdly, Shane feels his throat go a little tight, even with the comfort directed to his cat and not him. 

“Can I tell you a secret, Cheddar?” Ilya asks. “Was scary for me, too, moving to Ottawa when I only knew Boston for so long. Sometimes I wanted to hide, also. Your papa made me brave, though. Is easier, being brave when someone loves you. Maybe he makes you brave, too, eh?” 

Ilya nearly leaps out of his skin when Shane drops to his knees beside him, but Shane holds him in place, curling up close to his back. 

“You make me brave, too,” he says quietly, wrapping an arm over his waist and squeezing gently. 

Ilya leans back into him, a hand resting over his wrist and squeezing back. 

*

the boys demand to see the cheese

Shane snorts after reading the text. On his lap, Cheddar lifts his head and complains at Shane no longer petting him, eyes still half-closed from drowsing. A few months into Ottawa, Cheddar has adjusted, even starting an afternoon habit of waiting in the window downstairs so the neighborhood kids can say hello. Being close enough to his parents means that Cheddar also gets time with his dad when they’re on a roadie, and it’s…

It’s nice. 

Even if his cat being adopted as the unofficial mascot of the team does mean more demands for pictures of him than he ever anticipated. 

hurry up, hollander 

we are trying to win money at pool 

we need the luck 

Why are you putting money on pool??

And against who?

less questions

more cheddar 

Shane rolls his eyes. 

But he also opens his camera app. 

“Smile for your fans, Ched,” Shane says, catching Cheddar mid-yawn, ears back and pink tongue curled. He smiles a little and shows it to him for approval, getting a headbutt to the screen in response. Shane sends it. 

very good

thank you

now one of your cock

Shane laughs, jostling Cheddar, who complains but doesn’t leave, flopping over and extending a paw to rest against Anya, squeezed between Shane’s thigh and the back of the couch. Anya inhales deeply and then lets it out, like the weight of the world is on her doggy shoulders. 

What? For luck? 

yes, obviously

a picture of you rubbing it will make it extra lucky, i think 😏

this is how genie wishes work, yes? 

Shane makes a face but settles back, pulling his hoodie string into his mouth and smiling slightly. 

Should probably come rub it yourself if you want to get lucky. 

The next text that comes in isn’t from Ilya, though. 

Yoooooooo is your fucking house on fire? 

Shane frowns at the text from Bood, glancing around like someone out at a bar is going to know about smoke he’s somehow missed. Everything around him looks good, though, and pulling up the air filter app on his phone shows that none of them are showing anything out of the ordinary. He closes out and goes back to his texts.

Uh, no? Why? 

Roz just booked it tf out of here like SOMETHING is on fire. 

Shane grins, gently shifting Cheddar off of his lap to lay next to Anya, his cat complaining but not attempting to fight him. 

“Sorry, buddy,” he says, offering him a chin scratch in apology. 

And then heading to the bedroom to get ready for his husband to get home.