Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, mentions of other characters

Additional Tags:

Fluff, Domestic Bliss, POV Shane Hollander, Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, In Which Shane Cant Sleep Whenever Ilya Isnt Around, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Slice of Life, Texting, A Thesis On Sleep

Language:

English

Series:

Part 4 of a collection of hollanovs

Collections:

Anonymous

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-26 Words: 8,145 Chapters: 1/1

full moon on your left temple

Summary

There are a great many things that Shane has no plans on telling his husband: that when he was twelve he broke a competitor’s hockey stick because he was mad his team didn’t win. That he sometimes thinks that his Mom would have liked to have another kid if Shane wasn’t much of a handful. That he had to pull over to cry in his car on the way back to his apartment that night in Montreal after seeing Ilya dance with another girl in the club.

And, that he can no longer sleep in their bed without Ilya.

Notes

title is from "I'm going to sleep" by Jean Valentine. this was a short fic that spawned from a sweet story that was told to me by a couple i know, and because I have been listening non-stop to himig ng pag-ibig by asin (Filipino song, Filipino band). i like to imagine shane and ilya being so cloyingly needy and clingy with each other in the first few years after their marriage. which is good! i think it's a natural conclusion of their years spent apart, anyway. also, ultimately, this is partly a response to the online-sphere that thinks shane and ilya don't love each other. they do!

There are a great many things that Shane has no plans on telling his husband: that when he was twelve he broke a competitor’s hockey stick because he was mad his team didn’t win. That he sometimes thinks that his Mom would have liked to have another kid if Shane wasn’t much of a handful. That he had to pull over to cry in his car on the way back to his apartment that night in Montreal after seeing Ilya dance with another girl in the club. Among many, many others.

It’s not that Shane is keeping any of it from Ilya out of some misconception of fear. Ilya would probably understand and sympathize better than most if he told him all these things. He can already picture how it would play out, in his head, if Ilya ever finds out. Especially that one of him crying pathetically on some roadside and imagining Ilya going home with that nameless and now-faceless blonde girl: Ilya would pull him close, whisper sweet nothings in the crook of his neck, and then probably fuck him until he forgets that he’s supposed to be upset about something. It’s more that none of it is going to change anything in their relationship. Their marriage isn’t going to be much better, and neither will it become worse. What would be the point? 

Except for this one thing, maybe, that he absolutely does not want to tell him, and it’s that Shane can no longer sleep in their bed without Ilya.

Shane likes to approach the world in logical relations. It’s always been how he survived: reason is found in the causations, the conditionals, the if’s-and-then’s that serve as building blocks of rationality. The problem didn’t manifest right after their marriage, and that’s because after they got married Shane and Ilya spent every single day with each other—literally, completely, and utterly inseparably. And then the season started with them both in the same team, playing the same old games, and they were inseparable there too. A force to be reckoned with inside and outside of the rink. For away games, the Cens had decided to just room them together. There’d be no use separating the married couple, they said, which was only part of the reason, really. Mostly, it was to prevent Ilya—as captain and as husband—from pushing through with his threat that if they bunked Shane with anyone else, no force in the world would be able to stop him from sneaking into whichever room he was in, regardless of who he was bunking with. 

And then that season ended, and the world came knocking down their front door, and that’s when Shane began to act all out of sorts. That, he thinks, is where the problem really started. With Ilya telling him that he had to go to Boston for a few days. Some legal thing with his old complex that he had to sort out. Shane had offered for him and his mom to look it over, save him the time and the expenses, but Ilya had just laughed awkwardly and insisted on going because he also wanted to catch up with his old teammates from the Raiders. And spend time with Svetlana, of course. Shane, who can never really deny him anything and who at the time saw no reason to, agreed. 

Ilya had offered for him to come, eventually, some two nights before his flight. He showed his booking details to Shane and then offhandedly mentioned that Shane should just go with him. ‘Let’s do our second honeymoon,’ he’d said with a wink, a skeevy expression on his face. ‘Don’t you want to spend time together in the city that made me, me?’ Shane had merely rolled his eyes, and then politely refused because camp activities were going to start in a few weeks and Shane had his own administrative hell to wade through.

That was when it started. Those five days of silence with only Anya’s skittering paws and soft barks to keep him company in their home. Shane, spending five nights turning restlessly, sheets twisted around his legs, staring at the ceiling until the night thinned into day, never quite managing to get a full hour of sleep. It wasn’t until Ilya finally came home—safe and solid in Shane’s arms—and wordlessly pulled Shane into their bedroom for something he dubbed as a ‘welcome home blowjob’ that his body seemed to give in at last, dropping him all at once into a sleep so deep it swallowed an entire day of his life. Shane hadn’t woken until evening the next day, disoriented and heavy-limbed, Ilya and his parents hovering close with worry etched across their faces. ‘You weren’t waking up,’ Ilya had muttered later while they were washing the dishes, ‘I got worried.’

This continued a few more times, a pattern turning itself into a dance Shane would become familiar with. Ilya would need to be somewhere that isn’t Ottawa, and Shane wouldn’t be able to go with him. And left alone in their house—without his husband’s off-key humming and heavy footsteps and Russian muttering under his breath when something annoys him—Shane would lie awake in their bed and stare stubbornly at the empty space beside him, like if he stares hard enough Ilya would magically materialize. By the fifth time, the problem is a dull ache in his chest, and he’s accepted that his body refuses to rest without Ilya’s beside it, having already forgotten what it’s like to exist alone. 

Which, to say, is why he’s hovering in the doorway right now, feeling the trepidation build up in his gut as he watches Ilya haul his bag into the trunk of their SUV. 

“Любимый, has anyone ever told you that you have a staring problem?” Ilya calls over his shoulder, amused. Shane huffs in response, pushing off the frame just enough to make it look like his hip hasn’t been glued there the entire time.

“Shut up, asshole,” he says, unable to muster up any real response. Ilya grins at that, probably sensing Shane’s true feelings like a shark smelling blood in the water. He shuts the trunk with a solid thud, and then crosses their driveway in a few long strides until there’s barely any inches in between them. He crowds into Shane’s space, pressing his nose against his cheek. 

“Two days,” Ilya whispers, so soft, one hand coming up to cup the back of Shane’s neck. His thumb is warm where it presses just under his ear, directly above the spot he always loves to kiss. “I’ll be back before you can even notice I’m gone.”

Shane rolls his eyes at that, because that’s easier than replying with ‘how can that be when you haven’t even left and I already miss you?’ “Don’t rush on my account,” he says instead, fighting against the claws of irrationality scraping against the walls of his throat. He knows, in the back of his mind where reason still sits, that it’s ridiculous to feel like this. It’s two days. Marly and Varkov are in Montreal for some time before they go on their backpacking trip in Europe. Ilya, of course, wants to spend time with them. Shane can handle two days. They’ve been apart for far longer than that.

“Hey,” Ilya says, snapping him out of his thoughts. “You will be okay, yes?”

No, not really, he thinks. “Yeah, of course,” is what he says, “have fun,” he adds, and then he hooks his fingers into Ilya’s shirt to pull him into a real kiss. Ilya hums into it, a little too pleased, tongue slipping in and kissing Shane back just as hard, then softer, pressing one last peck to the corner of Shane’s mouth before finally pulling away. 

“It’s never fun without you,” Ilya replies, so sincerely that it makes Shane feel all the more worse. 

“Flatterer,” he huffs in response, but he makes no attempt to hide the redness blooming across his cheeks. Ilya snorts at that, squeezes Shane’s shoulder once, and then he’s gone—slipping into the driver’s seat, starting the engine, backing out of the driveway with a casual wave that Shane doesn’t return because he’s too busy standing there, fixed in place, tamping the sadness down. He watches until the car disappears down the road, then the bend, until there’s nothing left. 

He waits for a few moments before he lets out a slow breath, then closes the door behind him. Anya is at his feet the second he does, tail wagging like she’s been waiting, and Shane crouches down automatically to scratch behind her ears, trying to ground himself. “I guess it’s just you and me again, Anya,” he mutters. “Let’s try to be productive and not count the minutes until your Dad is home, okay?”

Anya does not even bark when she pitter-patters away. A confirmation of an old belief; Shane always knew dogs could smell lies from a mile away.

 

Lily

Made it to Montreal alive.

I forgot how annoying Marly is.

Jane

Hello, Ilya.

Glad to know you made it safe!

Why do you keep forgetting that?

You know him. You’ve known him for most of your life.

Did you get to the hotel okay?

Yeah.

Room is boring.

Bed is too big…

👀

I’m sure Marleau would like to share with you.

Ew.

Do not ever say that to me again.

That’s too far but you two can joke about “swordfighting” in the locker room back in your Boston days?

Yes… duh.

I was coming on to you.

Do not mention Marly when I’m making a come on.

What am I supposed to do!!!

Come here.

I miss you.

We’ve been apart for three hours and I already miss you.

So so so much.

Ugh, unfortunately I can’t.

I’m cleaning the kitchen.

Wow, so exciting.

Tell me more. My dick is getting hard.

Pervert.

I’m reorganizing the pantry.

Ohhhh fuck. 

What else. Tell me more.

I’m about to cum.

You are so fucking disgusting!!!

You like that I’m disgusting.

I miss you… :((((((( 

I hate that you’re not here.

I hate that I know you were probably vacuuming earlier.

… I was

I am coming home.

Fuck this.

You just got there!

Nope. I miss you too much.

Shanyaaaaa.

:((((((( 

You’ll survive two days!

Will I? I’m not convinced.

You are so dramatic, Ilya!

The bed here smells all wrong…

I hate itttttt.

That’s because I’m not in it  😚

See. You get it.

So I have to go home now.

Back to my sexy and beautiful husband.

No you don’t.

But I do miss my sexy and beautiful husband too.

Anya isn’t good enough company.

Hey, don’t say that about our daughter.

Sorry, Anya.

Have fun. I have to go soon. I need to go write some emails.

Ugh, you and your boring tasks.

You’re the pervert whose dick got hard over my “boring tasks”.

I am also a hypocrite.

I love you.

I miss you. I love you. I love only you.

I love you too, Ilya.

♥️

Shane has spent most of his life being very good at functioning on his own. He was always a lonely child, always the odd one out. No one really wanted to interact with the kid who kept tactlessly pointing out people’s mistakes—the lack of tact which he only later learned was rude. Honestly, rudeness never crossed young Shane’s mind. He had genuinely thought he was doing everybody a kindness and a favor. Who wouldn’t want their team to improve? Why wasn’t anyone receptive to criticism? But ultimately, the isolation was fine with Shane. It wasn’t like he desperately craved the company.

Some part of it, Shane supposed, had to do with the Asian-shaped elephant that was always present no matter which room he walked into. But, in reality, it probably had more to do with the hockey aspect. Shane’s life has always been hockey, hockey, and more hockey. It was early mornings at the rink and late nights replaying his mistakes in his head, every conversation—it did not matter whether he was talking to his mom or to his schoolmates or to his cousins—inevitably circling back to the game. As the years passed by, Shane had more or less solidified who he was: self-contained, efficient, and complete on his own. No one else could keep up with him but himself.

This worked for a good while, so well, that Shane hadn’t really noticed the absence of anything else. Not until that day in Saskatchewan. Not until Ilya, loud and insistent and impossible to ignore. Shane had always likened his presence to the act of staring into a bright light. Once Shane blinked, the image of him is still imprinted behind his eyelids. Ilya had forced his way into every quiet corner of Shane, every crevice he could insert himself into. Filled spaces Shane didn’t even know existed inside him—physically and metaphorically—until, one day, being alone stopped feeling like a natural state and more like something was missing. 

Missing. That was the word. Missing could mean two ways: first, the absence or loss of something from its expected place. In a sentence: Ilya is missing from the house. Second, the feeling one gets when yearning for something gone or misplaced. In a sentence: Shane is always, always missing Ilya. Whether he’s across the country or just in another room with the door closed, whether it’s been five days or five minutes. His absence aches so tangibly, so all-consuming and sharp when he notices it, extra-painful when the edges of his fingers touch the half of the bed where he’s supposed to be. When his eyes linger on the empty chair at dinner. When he turns to his side to show Ilya something funny he saw on his phone, before quietly remembering that his husband was somewhere out there in the world without him. Shane’s longing outpacing the logic he always prided himself in having. He doesn’t fully know yet what to do with it. He doesn’t ever want to go back to a life before it. The ever-present conundrum.

 

Lily

Shane.

Shane.

Shaaaaaaane.

Shaneeeeee.

If you don’t reply I will drive home to Ottawa right now.

Jane

Does it ever bother you that we never changed our contact names?

Also, hello Ilya.

Sorry, I had to take Anya out so she can pee.

Being a good father here.

Don’t drive back to Ottawa, Ilya.

Boo. 🍅

You are boring husband.

You do not want me?

You do not miss me?

Bad Shane. Baddddd Shane.

Also no I do not think it’s weird that we never changed our contact names.

I like it. We have an inside joke. I’ve always wanted to be part of one.

All the better that I’m part of one with my husband.

And you are always my Jane.

That’s sweet. You’re so sweet.

I will make a thousand inside jokes for us to share.

But also, Ilya, how many beers have you had?

You can say no to Marly, I hope you know that.

When he presses a beer into your hands, you can just say no.

And I cannot stress this enough: do NOT drive back to Ottawa.

I have had exactly zero beers.

Ilya.

Okay maybe four beers.

But I am not drunk. Russians have high alcohol tolerance.

I miss you…

Send my Anya love.

Just your Anya?

And I’m the bad husband?

NOOOO

NOT JUST ANYA… YOU DIDN”T LET ME FINISH.

Send my love also to my sexy, beautiful, amazing, talented, best husband ever.

My husband who is named Shane Hollander. 

Best hockey player in the universe.

Shane.

Shanya.

Shanyaaaaaaaaa.

Yes, Ilya?

Are you tired already?

You should probably go back to your hotel.

It’s also 11 PM.

You should be sleeping anyway.

11 PM… So boring, my Shanya.

And why are YOU awake? HMMMMM?

Like I said, your dog had to piss.

🙄

So Anya is my dog when she keeps you up at night to pee…

But she is your dog when she is so good at fetch it makes Chiron look like Harris and Troy do not play with her?

Yes 😀

I’m so glad we can establish that.

Hmmmmmm

I can smell you lying from here.

Anya is not keeping you up. You haven’t slept yet.

Don’t try to lie. I will know.

You are very bad liar.

Guilty.

I wasn’t gonna lie.

I miss you, is all.

BUT, I am being productive.

I’ve finished going through most of this year’s camp applications.

We got so many again this year. Do you think it has something to do with us being married? LOL.

I think everyone still wants a glimpse of the Hollander-Rozanovs.

Or the Rozanov-Hollanders. We never really decided.

Yes because ten year olds love gossip.

Well, they won’t.

But their parents definitely will.

Well, IDK, but that’s nice that we have many applicants. It's good. That’s what we started the foundation for.

Making the space :))))))) 

I miss you too, by the way.

So so so so much.

Call?

Shane could barely type out a response before his phone buzzes, Lily calling him on Facetime flashing on top. It’s almost humiliating how quickly he answers. 

“Hi,” he whispers, a little breathless, way softer than he means to. Ilya’s face fills the display—too close, slightly distorted by the dark. His features are lit golden by some yellow light. “Where are you?” Shane asks, already pushing himself upright to look at Ilya closer.

“Hello my sexy husband who is wearing his sexy glasses,” Ilya croons into the phone, accent much thicker now that he’s a little buzzed. “I am outside the club,” he continues, shifting the phone just enough so that Shane can see the blur of neon lights behind him. He strains his ears, and sure enough he can hear the thudding of music bleeding through the speakers of his phone.

“Well, you should probably go back inside then,” Shane replies, brows knitting. “We can just talk later when you’re back in the hotel.”

Ilya shakes his head. “No. I miss you,” he says, so petulantly. Shane gives him a small smile. “And later is too late. I don’t—I think Varkov wants to go to two more clubs. And St. Simon is here too, a surprise for me.”

“Really?”

“Really. Hmm. Also, we cannot talk later because you need sleep.”

Shane swallows at that. He doesn’t correct Ilya. Doesn’t tell him that there’s no notion of sleep at all in his plans for the rest of the night. “I’m fine,” he insists, ignoring the way Ilya’s forehead scrunches in concern. Like Anya, it seems that he too can smell a lie from miles away. “What have you guys been up to?”

The question seems to be a decent enough distraction for Ilya, who then regales him about everything they’ve been up to since their last conversation earlier in the afternoon—how St. Simon almost got a right hook to the face when he decided it was a good idea to pop out and surprise Ilya while Ilya was taking a piss. How they got kicked out of the first club because Varkov almost got into a fight with the bartender. How it’s only been an hour since they got into their current club and Marly has already spilled a drink on someone. Shane, for his part, tells him about the applications to the camp they’ve decided to accept and which ones they’ve decided to reject for now. Then he tells Ilya about Anya chewing on his slippers, so he might have to buy a new one when he gets home.

It’s somewhere in between Ilya whining about the horrible club music and Shane decidedly not telling his husband that he kind of wishes he’d just gone with him even though he’d probably just hole himself up in their hotel room the whole time that the screen suddenly jolts and tilts, jerking Ilya out of frame.

“What?! Hey—” Shane starts, spine straightening into attention, panic starting to lace through his veins. He’s about to raise his voice again when Marleau’s face lurches into view, flushed and grinning, eyes glassy with alcohol.

“Hollander!” Marleau slurs out, somehow giving Shane’s surname more syllables than it has. “You good, Hollywood? Hey, that rhymes!”

“Hi Marleau,” Shane says, just a little bit shortly. “Please don’t call me Hollywood.”

“Bah,” Marleau replies. “What are you calling Rozy for, huh? Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of your husband. I’ll fight every dude in this club. Not the ladies though. My wife will kill me. But I’ll protect his virtue.”

“There’s no virtue to protect,” Shane snorts. Some of the tension eases, despite himself. At least Ilya’s having fun, he thinks. “Also, I’m pretty sure it’s the other way around. I think Ilya’s taking care of you for Nicole.”

“Please, Nicole parties harder than me,”

“I’m sure,” Shane replies dryly. He’s met Nicole. She’s probably as boring as Shane, if not more—she is, quite literally, a librarian. “Can you please give my husband’s phone back to him?”

Marleau squints at the screen like he’s considering not doing it, just to fuck with Shane, but then he shrugs and turns, and a second later Ilya’s face is back, closer again, a faint scowl lingering before it softens at the sight of Shane. “Sorry,” he says. “You know Marly,” he trails off. Shane laughs.

“Yeah, I know Marly. Listen, go have fun, okay? I’ll go now. Goodnight, Ilya,” he says, much quieter. Then, “Я люблю тебя, Ilya.”

“Я люблю тебя,” Ilya replies, grinning widely. It strikes Shane directly at the heart; the way Ilya still gets so giddy every time he hears Russian from Shane. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he adds, echoing his promise from the morning. “Before you can even miss me.”

“I already miss you,” Shane replies, and that one is true. That Ilya does not know exactly how much will not change that. 

Ilya’s expression gentles even further. Shane continues to ache. “I miss you even more.”

Neither of them moves to end the call, though, both just happy to be staring at each other’s faces for a while, holding on for seconds that turn into minutes, until Shane loses the battle on purpose and deliberately taps the end button. He stares at his phone until it goes dark, and then he stares at his reflection until his heart settles in his chest. After, he sets his phone aside and pulls his laptop  back onto his lap, forcing himself to focus as he scrolls through the remaining camp applications. Resisting the urge to call Ilya back, knowing without a doubt that Ilya would pick up immediately.

 

Lily

Back at the hotel.

I never want to drink again.

I will fucking kill Marly and throw his body in a river somewhere.

Jane

Ilya…

Oh, why are you replying.

Don’t reply. WTF. It is three in the morning.

Go to sleep, Shanya.

😠

Around the time he began to realize the problem, Shane immediately came to the conclusion that it’s a natural end-product of all their years being apart. 

It seemed reasonable enough. He’s no psychologist, and he’s certainly not his therapist, but he knew enough to recognize and admit that those ten something years they spent sneaking around, hiding, meeting up in dark corners like they should be ashamed of each other, hooking up in nondescript hotel rooms, and then acting like they were only friends when they were definitely more—it definitely fucked him up. Fucked them both up. It had almost torn them apart, even. Shane still has nightmares about that argument and everything else that happened after: crying into his mom’s lap thinking that he’s lost Ilya for good, then Ilya’s plane almost crashing and Shane thinking he’s definitely lost Ilya for good. The subsequent outing and the backlash. Turbulent times, the effects of which Shane could still definitely feel even in the present.

Needless to say, the clinginess is probably closer to a trauma response than to anything else, though Shane doesn’t really want to call it that. Again, not a psychologist. He can’t help his pathologizing, though. It’s definitely a something response, he just doesn’t have a better name for it yet. He always wants Ilya close because he’s never really had him close before. Now that he’s free to do that—now that they no longer care much about what others think, and now that there’s no reason to hide anymore—he doesn’t want to do anything else. His brain rationalized it like this: they already spent so much time being apart. Of course he doesn’t want to ever be parted from Ilya again.

It makes Shane feel bitter, sometimes. Oftentimes. All of the time. Who is he kidding? Of course he’s mad about it—mad at the years they lost to fear and stolen moments. Mad at the fact that for the longest time, they could only ever love each other in the dark where no one could see them. Mad at the League, at Crowell, at the Metros, at Ilya’s family; the way they had all forced Shane and Ilya to fold their love small, hidden in the seams of their lives, treated like something shameful when it had never felt that way to him, not really, not even when he was afraid. He’s mad at the fact that it followed them from eighteen to twenty-nine. It’s a long time to be afraid. Eleven years is already a lifetime for some. Shane has all this anger with nowhere to place for the younger versions of themselves. Those two boys who knew exactly what they were risking and chose each other anyway, over and over and over. He can still picture them, sometimes, all too clearly: Ilya at eighteen, teeth bared at the world. His own self, just as stubborn, just as rough around the edges. Those two kids holding on to each other when it would have been much easier to let go. 

There's a theory, Shane remembers, something he read once in passing: time, and the fact that it’s not linear in the way that people think. Everything that has happened, is happening, and will ever happen is laid out all at once in a single line. If that’s true, then somewhere those versions of them are still out there, still navigating a world that won’t have them. Shane, older and married and wiser, wants to tear through the veil. Claw through that barrier of physics and space-time. He’ll make it; he’s determined enough. ‘My stubborn boy,’ Yuna Hollander had proudly proclaimed once. ‘He just needs to set his mind to it, and he’ll get whatever he wants.’ And so Shane wants. Wants to find them, and say it all plainly: everything will be alright. 

It's a selfish and somewhat stupid thought, ultimately. Wishful thinking. But the urge sits heavy in his chest all the same. Would it hurt? Shane doesn’t think it would. If he could do that, ease their fears a little, then maybe something would ripple outward. Maybe the thing inside Shane would finally be able to breathe. Maybe he’d be able to sleep.

Shane tries typing his symptoms up in Google. Repeatedly and obsessively, like he would most things. He phrases and rephrases it so many times: can’t sleep without partner, can’t sleep without husband in the same bed, sudden insomnia when alone but fine otherwise, is it normal to require specific Russian hockey player to achieve REM sleep? 

The results are, frankly, insulting. He gets sleep hygiene tips, which he rolls his eyes at, because he has a great sleeping pattern during the season. Some article about reducing screen time before bed, as if Shane hasn’t already stared into the empty expanse of his ceiling for hours on end with nothing but his own thoughts for company. There’s a forum that suggests meditation. Another one suggests melatonin. One particularly unhelpful blog recommends learning to enjoy the solitude, which Shane finds so deeply offensive that he closes the tab immediately. He’s not learning to enjoy his husband’s absence, thank you very much. 

Shane had tried asking his teammates in what he considered to be a subtle and completely normal way. Some time back and mostly in hypotheticals. None of them offered anything remotely useful. Bood managed to find a way to turn it into a long tangent about protein intake and circadian rhythms. Troy just squinted at him and told him to ask Harris about whatever it was. Then he tried asking his friends, who were somehow less helpful than anyone he’d ever asked combined: Rose laughed outright and hung up the call. Hayden made some crude joke Shane ignored. J.J., lamely, told him to “just sleep, capitaine.”

Which leads him to now, aggressively pressing the delete button on his laptop to re-type his question again. It’s futile, he knows. Likely, the answer is that there is no answer. Perhaps there is no clinical term for what he has and he may, in fact, be the first documented case of whatever this deeply inconvenient and highly specific affliction is. And to top his mounting irritation all off, he still fucking misses his husband.

Jane

Having mom over for today.

We are throwing out all your Boston jerseys.

Lily

That’s okay.

Leave at least one though.

I still want to fuck you while you’re wearing one.

Ew. Pervert.

Ah but you enjoy this pervert.

So what does that say about you?

That I’m probably not normal.

“Did you and dad ever have… marriage problems?”

Fuck. That’s not the question he meant to ask. And Shane knows, from his mom’s face alone, that she knows it wasn’t the question he wanted to ask. Still, she gives him space to try again, not saying anything and just going back to slicing her cucumbers. 

He lets the silence lapse for a while. Then, “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know, honey.”

Shane purses his lips. “I… haven’t been sleeping.”

“Is it because of Ilya?”

“Somewhat,” he sighs. “I don’t… I can’t really explain it. Yes, but also it’s not really him. It’s more my problem than anything.”

His mom hums softly in response. Then she sets the cutting board aside, washes her hands, and reaches for her glass, topping it off with another pour of wine. Great, Shane thinks. She thinks it’s a serious conversation. She glances at him, tilting the bottle slightly in a silent offer. Shane shakes his head. “No, I’m okay.”

He slides into one of the stools by the counter instead, elbows on his knees, fingers threading into his hair. He breathes in, out, a handful of times, forcing his brain to organize its mess into something more coherent. It doesn’t quite work, but before his brain can catch up and talk him out of it, he blurts out: “I can’t sleep whenever Ilya’s not around.”

“Oh,” his mom blinks. Then, “Well, you scared me.”

“How?”

“You asked me if your father and I ever had marriage problems. Here I was thinking it’s something serious. But then I said in my brain, surely my sons haven’t reached that part of the marital life yet—”

“Mom.”

“—because they really love each other, and I haven’t been hearing anything from Ilya—”

“Wait, you talk to Ilya about our marriage?!”

“That’s not the point,” she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. She sets her glass down. “Okay. Okay, let’s focus, okay?” She waits for him to nod before she continues. “Alright. Sweetheart, that’s normal, okay?”

“I don’t think it is,” he says, paired with a yawn just to drive the point. He didn’t even mean to do it, not really. But he fell asleep sometime around 4:30 in the morning and then woke up a mere thirty-five minutes later, and then didn’t fall back asleep again. Surely, the bags beneath his eyes and the puffiness of his face have already spoken for themselves. “It doesn’t feel normal to me.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say it isn’t. After you were born, I wouldn’t let your dad out of my sight for a month. I think that’s why you got so attached to us, you know? ‘Cause we never really left you alone for those first few moments of  your life.”

Shane lights up a little at that. He doesn’t get to hear much about what it was like when he was a baby. His parents are pretty tightlipped about it, and it’s not like Shane asks. There are pictures, sure, scattered all over his childhood home for him to occasionally be embarrassed about and for Ilya to coo at every single time he sees them as if it’s still the first time, but Shane doesn’t know much of the stories behind them, especially those where he wasn’t conscious enough to be storing memories. “Really?”

His mom nods. “Ah, but that was after I had you, though. Your father and I weren’t—I mean, I wasn’t particularly… what’s the word…”

“Clingy?” Shane supplies.

“Kind of? Attached, more like.”

“Same thing.”

“Well,” she rolls her eyes. “Clingy, I guess. But that’s so childish. You’re married. Of course you want to stay with your husband all the time. Not every married couple is the same. Maybe your dad and I weren’t exactly like that, but you and Ilya might just be one of those couples.”

“I don’t think Ilya’s losing sleep over missing me.”

“Have you asked him?”

“I—well—no, I haven’t,” Shane flounders. “It’s really not a big deal.”

“If it wasn’t such a big deal, you wouldn’t be telling me,” she points out and, okay, that’s fair enough. But there have been many “big deals” that Shane never told his mom. Ilya had been one of them for a long time. Close to a decade, even. And her finding out when she did wasn’t even an active choice that he made. 

That, however, did not seem helpful to point out. And so Shane doesn’t, and instead just says, “You know what, ignore me. I think I’m losing my mind.” It’s not entirely a lie; he probably, actually is. 

His mom clicks her tongue immediately, waving a hand at him like she can dispel the thought before he starts to accept it as a reality. “No, none of that,” she says, moving closer and pressing her palm to his cheek. “You’re not losing your mind. You’re tired and you need sleep. There’s a difference.”

Shane huffs out, half a laugh and half a whine. “I can’t sleep,” he reminds her, the frustration slipping through despite his attempt not to let it. “I just—I really can’t mom. Not when he’s not here. I need Ilya here.”

She rolls her eyes again. Shane has half a mind to tell her it’ll get stuck up there behind her lids if she keeps on doing it, but he wasn’t disrespectful like that. Mostly, he just hates how it makes him feel like he’s five and not thirty-one. “Please,” she scoffs. “I raised you for years. You were a nightmare baby who wouldn’t sleep unless everything was exactly the way you wanted it. And I still managed to put you down long before Ilya Rozanov ever existed in your life.” She nudges his shoulder, firm and fond at the same time. “I’m sure I can tire you out again.”

Shane opens his mouth to argue, then closes it, because reluctant as he might be to admit it, there’s something reassuring about her certainty. That there can’t be anything truly wrong with him as long as she says there isn’t, even if he doesn’t quite believe it. His mom, meanwhile, is already moving, setting her glass down on the sink and saying, “Now come on, get your butt off that stool. Are my workout clothes still in the spare room? Let’s go tell your father we’re going on a hike.”

Some years from now, Shane is gonna look back on a particular moment and realize it’s where the problem actually started: sitting beside Ilya, reclined against his headboard, telling him he should be going. Ilya, giving him the option to stay. Shane, bringing up Hayden though his heart’s not really in it, and he’s about made up his mind to stay. Ilya pouncing on the split-second of hesitation, and, well, the convincing didn’t hurt. A soft kiss pressed against Shane’s lips, the quiet murmur of “stay”,  so gentle and tender, so unlike the Rozanov that the rest of the world knew him as. And, really, who was Shane to deny him? Who was Shane to deny himself? And so Shane stayed, and stayed, and stayed. The best sleep he’s ever had. Even after everything that happened.

 

Lily

Good morning light of my life.

My lovely amazing and beautiful husband.

Sexy husband too. Never forgetting that.

Bag is packed and ready.

Will just get breakfast with the guys.

There's a really good diner here.

Next time we are in Montreal, we should go.

And then I will drive home.

I love you

Jane

Good morning, Ilya!

I love you too.

You don’t have to keep updating me…

Oh, I wasn’t expecting you to reply.

Why not?

I want to let my husband know where I am. All the time.

Stupid St. Simon does not update his wife.

I told him, that’s why you’re on your second wife.

I don’t think he liked that joke.

But he forgot about it soon enough.

All I said was, here you go, have another beer.

Don’t be rude to your friends.

But yes, you are the sweetest husband ever.

Is that what you want to hear?

I say it to you all the time. You don’t have to fish. 🙄

Don’t rush, by the way. Take your time. I know you miss them.

And also because I do not want you rushing.

Don’t drive over the speed limit, Ilya.

Eh.

Only a little.

Also I will not drive over the speed limit… ugh.

I’m not even sure our SUV can do that.

Ilya.

Shane.

I promise not to drive over the speed limit.

Somehow, I don’t believe you.

Also, “A little.” Sure, and that’s why your Instagram stories for the past two days have been looking more like a series of dots rather than actual dashes.

Just admit you miss them.

Ugh…

Bad husband making me talk about my feelings.

Kidding. Yes, of course I miss them.

But I will see them again, you know.

Not the end of the world.

Can we call?

Okay.

This time, Shane lets the phone ring a few times before pressing the answer button. Ilya’s brows are scrunched up when his face appears on screen. Shane’s own face splits into a wide grin, which seems to annoy Ilya even further. “Why did you make me wait?” Ilya says.

“You’re so clingy,” Shane rolls his eyes. “It was just a few seconds.”

“Too many seconds without seeing my husband’s face.”

“Okay, sap,” though Shane can already feel the warmth in his cheeks. Ilya can see it too, probably. His annoyance has already melted into that face he makes whenever he realizes he’s managed to fluster Shane. “How are the guys?”

“Alive, mostly,” Ilya groans. “You know, I think Ottawa has made me soft. I had a few drinks last night and then mostly just sat around.”

“Well, that’s good. Taking care of your liver, and all. I do plan on keeping you around until we’re at least eighty.”

“Please. I will live up to a hundred.”

“You might,” Shane sighs, “but what about me?”

“A hundred and one, duh.” Ilya says, rolling his eyes for good measure. Like Shane was stupid for not seeing where he was going with it. Jerk, he thinks fondly. He’s just about to open his mouth to say it when Ilya continues, “Hey, it’s only 4 AM. What are you doing up? I wasn’t expecting you to reply to my text.”

Fuck. “Anya.”

“Shane…”

“No, really. Anya woke me up.” And it’s not even a lie, really. Well, it’s not much of a lie. Anya did in fact get his attention earlier because she got so excited over a loon call that she managed to topple over a vase, which Shane had to clean up. But that had been over an hour ago, and since then Shane’s just been scrolling through his phone, reading Wikipedia articles, waiting for Ilya to inevitably update him with plans he already knew about.

Still. Shane knows that Ilya knows he’s using Anya as a scapegoat. He calls him out on it. “Stop using Anya as an excuse.”

“I’m really not.”

“Hmm, no. I told you, I know when you lie to me. And I know your face when you lie. You have your liar face on.”

“I do not have a liar face, you annoying fucking—”

“And you have such deep eyebags, Shanya,” Ilya continues, and, fuck, he sounds worried now. Shane tries to sit up straighter, moving the camera away from his face, but it’s no use. Ilya has already seen what needs to be seen. “Are you okay?” Ilya asks. “You look… not okay. Are you sick?”

“No,” Shane replies quickly, shaking his head. “No, I’m fine.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything right away. Then, even quieter, “Shanya, are you sure?”

For a moment, Shane hesitates. He can feel the truth rising up, bubbling just beneath his vocal chords, asking to be let out. No, not really, he wants to say. I don’t sleep when you’re not here. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve tried everything, asked everyone I could. Nothing works. I miss you. I miss you so much. Is this what it really feels? I miss you, and I wish getting back home to Ottawa would take you two minutes instead of two hours. So many words. But Shane doesn’t want to worry Ilya now. All that he wants his husband to think of is getting home safe and whole, not anything else. Not attempting to fix something that was two hours and over two hundred miles away. So Shane says, “I’m fine, Ilya,” in a much steadier voice this time. “Really. I’ll try to get some sleep, okay?”

Ilya’s mouth presses into a thin line, entirely unconvinced, but he nods anyway. “Okay. When you wake up, I’ll be there.” 

Shane smiles at that, and some knot inside his chest loosens just a bit. “Okay. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Ilya echoes back, immediately. “Get some sleep. Don’t make me set Yuna loose on you.”

Shane giggles. Ilya makes a face. Their long distance rituals. Like the night before, neither one wants to be the one to say goodbye first. If Shane had his way, they’ll never be saying goodbye to each other ever again.

Shane is sitting on the back porch, leaned back against their outdoor recliner—a wedding gift. Ilya’s chair, really. His favorite, because it makes his lazy days feel even lazier. Shane’s eyes are half-lidded and heavy. The cool air is brushing over his skin, blowing through the strands of his hair. He blinks slowly, lethargic. He tries to lift his arm, but it feels too much like a chore. His body feels buoyant, strangely enough. It reminds him of childhood summers spent at the lake—a different one, somewhere further. Long hours submerged, drifting aimlessly as the current carried him. When he finally left, the push and pull of the waves lingered in his limbs, a phantom motion that reminded him of where he’d been. It’s like that now; a strange, floating exhaustion. I really need to sleep, he thinks, but the systems in his body make no move to shut down. The sky is beginning to soften from a light gray to a pale gold, the sun inching its way up. Another morning without Ilya. But it’s all alright, really. He’ll be here soon. Soon. A good word, Shane decides. His favorite word, apparently. Soon—in the near future, without delay, something that will happen in a short time. Yes, soon. And then the world will right itself again, and everything will be in its rightful place, and Ilya—

“—Shane, hey.”

The first thing Shane notices is that it’s dark. Which, normally, would send him into a panic. The second thing he notices is that the voice beside his ear is familiar, achingly so, and that’s what prevents the panicking from happening.

“Hey,” Shane says as he turns his head towards the voice, eyes still heavy with sleep, body feeling all too much like lead. He tries to blink it all away, clearing the haze until he sees the messy mop of curls. The slope of his husband’s nose. The mole on his cheek. Shane takes a deep breath, and it’s like his senses come back to him all at once. “Hello.”

“Hi,” Ilya murmurs, pushing lightly at Shane’s cheek with two fingers, enough to tilt his face away so he can press a kiss to his forehead. Shane exhales at the gesture, slow and deep. He realizes, belatedly, that he’s no longer sitting on the recliner; he’s sprawled on top of their bed. There’s the faintest of lights streaming through the drawn blinds. Hazarding a guess, it’s likely late in the afternoon already. Or something. Might even be the next day. Time is confusing. He must have fallen asleep earlier while watching the sunrise, missing Ilya’s return home entirely. Shane wonders how that had gone. What Ilya might have thought, coming home to a silent, presumably empty house, only to find Shane asleep on the recliner. What did he do while Shane was dead to the world? Did he kiss him? Did he take a photo and sent it to everyone they knew? Did he just stare? Shane would have let him do anything.

“You’re home,” is what he says instead.

“Yeah, you were knocked out.”

“I was just thinking that,” Shane frowns faintly. Can Ilya read minds now, he thinks, except he probably says it out loud because Ilya laughs.

“No, I cannot read minds.”

“Good. They already say we know too much about each other.”

“Who says that?”

“Our team. Rose. My dad.”

“We are married. Of course we know too much about each other.”

Shane snorts weakly. “Did you carry me inside?”

“No, Shane, I used magic to transport you to the bed.”

“Fuck you. Asshole.”

“Yes, I carried you. You were so heavy. All two hundred pounds of you. You didn’t even wake up.”

“Seriously?”

Ilya hums. “Not one bit.”

But Shane finds he doesn’t really care. Not about that, not about how any of it happened. Ilya could have dragged him by the ankles for all he cares. The only thing that matters to Shane now is this, the facts: Ilya, here. Ilya, real in his hands again. He inches closer, slowly, his arms coming up around Ilya’s torso, tucking himself in until his cheek is pressing against his husband’s chest, until he can feel the steady thumping of his heartbeat under his ear. Shane breathes him in, deep; the first real breath he’s had in two days. Can that happen? Can a person forget how to exhale? It feels too much like that, like he’s only just now remembering what it’s like. “I missed you,” he mumbles into Ilya’s skin.

Ilya’s arms come around him, one hand settling at the back of his head, fingers winding through the tangles at the nape of his neck. “I missed you too,” he replies, voice impossibly softer than Shane’s. They stay like that for a while, all wrapped up in each other, Shane drifting at the edges of consciousness again as he listens to Ilya’s heart. Ilya’s breathing. Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. 

After a few moments, Ilya whispers, “Go back to sleep.” His other hand is running up and down Shane’s spine. Shane hums, and the sound vibrates faintly against Ilya’s chest.

Without meaning to—and, later, he would blame it on his brain malfunctioning due to sleep deprivation—the words slip from Shane: “I haven’t been sleeping when you’re not around.”

There’s a pause, briefly, and then Ilya exhales. “I know,” he replies. “I can’t sleep without you either.”

Shane smiles at that, eyes already closing again. “Really?”

“Really. We’ll talk about it later, okay?”

“Okay,” Shane says, sinking further into the feeling of Ilya pressing kisses on the moon of his temple. Into love. Love, always, all around. Ilya pulls him even closer and does not let him go. There are a great many things that Shane has no plans on telling Ilya. None of it matters. Ilya will know, anyway, and hold him through.

Shane, finally, goes to sleep.