Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

POV Ilya Rozanov, POV Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Autistic Shane Hollander, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander is Obsessed With Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Speaks Russian, Domestic Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ottawa Centaurs Player Ilya Rozanov, Ottawa Centaurs Player Shane Hollander, Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Domestic Fluff, Non-Sexual Intimacy, this is basically 10k of shane and ilya being the most husbands to ever husband, Slice of Life

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-03 Words: 10,921 Chapters: 1/1

all of you, all of me (intertwined)

Summary

Ilya had Shane only in fleeting moments for nearly ten years. Rushed hookups and greedy hands grabbing at anything and everything he could to savor every second of the limited time he knew he was running out of.

And then they got married.

Now, at night, Ilya slips into a bed that’s already warm with his husband.

Or, all the ways Shane and Ilya say I love you without actually saying it.

Notes

hi i'm back ! this is one that i've been working on for a while and means so much to me because i truly love domestic hollanov in all shapes and sizes and so this is so self-indulgent but i hope you guys enjoy <3

usual disclaimer that no ai was used in any part of this and all em dashes are my own !!

also, hover/tap for russian translations as usual :)

Shane likes his routines.

Ilya does not need to be his husband to know that particular fact. Honestly, by now, all of their slightly insane fans on social media probably know that fact.

But Ilya had Shane only in fleeting moments for nearly ten years. Rushed hookups and greedy hands grabbing at anything and everything he could to savor every second of the limited time he knew he was running out of.

And then they got married.

Now, at night, Ilya slips into a bed that’s already warm with his husband.

(That particular word will never get old, he thinks. Ilya loves mouthing it randomly during his day, loves the shape of how it feels, loves the taste of it on his tongue. His husband. Shane is his husband, husband, husband.)

When they get ready to go to bed, he can shuffle closer to him, drape his arm around Shane’s waist and then shuffle a little more closer until they’re sharing a pillow. Let his eyes flutter close as Shane snuggles back into him, half-asleep already. Slowly drift off to sleep with his face buried in the back of Shane’s neck and a leg strewn over one of his.

Ilya’s not one for routines, at least not like Shane is, but he thinks he could do this every single night for the rest of his life over and over again.

And he loves being married to Shane, because now, he gets to learn a whole brand new set of Shane’s habits.

Cause sure, he’s known that Shane gets up at six every morning to go on his run, but now he gets to learn that every night, after his shower but before he gets into bed, Shane will pick out his running clothes and fold them carefully and place them on the bathroom counter, because ‘it makes it easier in the morning, Ilya, fuck off.’

He’s known that Shane is a little anal—ha—about the way he does his laundry, but now he gets to learn that there are four different types of loads that he does every single Sunday of every single week. He gets to learn that he does two in the morning and two after lunch, and that there’s a schedule.

And he’s known that Shane makes himself a smoothie before his morning runs, but now he gets to learn that he actually prepares everything for it the night before. He gets to learn that Shane gets all the ingredients out and measures them and puts them all in a little plastic container which then goes in the fridge for the next morning.

And god, Ilya loves it all so much. Loves waking up each day and knowing that today might be the day he gets to pick up a new Shane habit that he’ll imprint into his brain, memorize for eternity. He feels so goddamn greedy when it comes to his husband, even now; he wants to hoard all these little pieces of him until he knows every molecule of what makes up Shane Hollander.

But the thing about knowing Shane and loving Shane is that Ilya also can see when he’s getting a little too into his routines.

It manifests the most in his eating, of course, and it had taken the both of them a long time to reach the point where Ilya had been able to convince Shane that there is a problem there. To convince him that therapy might be a good decision. It hadn’t been easy, not even close, but Shane had come a long way, relaxing his strictness when it comes to his diet a little, even during the season. It had taken months of sessions and a few breakdowns, but Shane’s working on it, and that is all Ilya can hope for. He tells Shane that whenever he can, of course, tells him how proud he is of it. Of him.

But on the days when everything around him seems to be wrong, when every sound and touch seems to overwhelm him, Shane tends to tighten his hold on food again. It never gets as bad as it used to be before, and that’s how Ilya knows that the therapy is helping, slowly but surely. But healing is not a linear thing—Galina had taught him that phrase, repeated it over and over again until the words had really sunk into Ilya’s brain—and Ilya sees it in the way Shane will choose the bland chicken he used to eat for lunch over the sandwiches Ilya is making. Sees it in the way he will refuse even a single cookie that Cassie or Selena offer him during a barbecue.

Sees it in the way his nightly smoothie preparation becomes impossibly precise and rigid. Ilya will watch from where he’s leaning against the counter as Shane gets out the little kitchen scale and zeroes out the weight of the glass bowl, before carefully measuring out every ingredient. Doesn’t allow even a gram over for any of them.

It will hurt a little, a small tug in Ilya’s chest, as his eyes flicker over his husband’s serious expression, the way his gaze is so focused on the numbers he’s reading. So tuned out of the world around him that he won’t even notice Ilya slink up behind him until his arms are around Shane’s waist, his chin propped against Shane’s shoulder.

“Smoothie prep done?” Ilya will ask, and Shane will simply shake his head. Lean into Ilya’s embrace when he kisses Shane’s neck once, twice, three times, but then straightens up enough to make Ilya get the hint.

“I’ll be done soon,” Shane will answer out loud, and Ilya will accept it, but still feel that sharp tug next to his ribs again. There will be a short pause as Ilya steps back, to go take the trash out or make sure all the doors and windows around the house are locked. “я тебя люблюI love you.”

“я тебя люблюI love you,” Ilya will respond immediately, though he will maybe want to cry, a little bit. Because healing is not a linear thing and this is not something he can snap his fingers to fix and Shane is the fucking love of his life—in every universe, because he’d recently been on the other side of one of Wyatt’s nerdy rants about something called the multiverse, and isn’t it something, to believe that Shane is Ilya’s and Ilya is Shane’s in every possible version that they could ever be?—and all Ilya wants to do is help.

It’s after one of those nights, when Ilya is dragging his feet a little in the frigid November night air, lifting up the lid of the trash can to throw the bag in, that he gets the idea.

Does Ilya think this is going to be the thing that makes Shane stop being extremely careful with his diet forever? No, absolutely not, because he is not a fucking idiot. But does he think that it might be a small, little thing that will maybe make Shane’s day a little better, the same way Shane always makes his bad days better?

Ilya drops the lid of the trash can down gently, and books it back into the house. Shane would be done by now, and probably has already made his way upstairs to shower, as usual. Because it’s Ilya’s job to lock up their home every night, and the whole concept of that does still make Ilya a little thrilled, when he thinks about it. Because yes, Shane has his routines, but now Shane and Ilya also share a routine at night when they’re home, where Shane will do the dishes and update the calendar on their fridge if they need to and Ilya will take out the trash and turn off all the lights before joining Shane upstairs.

The pieces of a life shared, a home shared. Fuck, Ilya loves it so much.

But tonight, before he goes around turning off any lights that are still on, he quietly sneaks into their office room. Peels off a single Post-It note from the pad Shane keeps right next to his laptop and grabs a pen from the dark brown pen holder on the desk. Makes his way back into the kitchen, exhaling softly as he thinks for a minute.

Ilya leans over the counter, and writes have a good run moya lyubov))) in black ink. He accidentally presses a little too hard during moya lyubov and it bleeds a little bit and ends up slightly darker than the rest of the note, but—that is fine, Ilya thinks.

He pulls open the fridge and sticks the yellow note on the lid of Shane’s smoothie prep container, sliding his finger again and again over the top until he’s absolutely certain it will not move until Shane finds it in the morning.

When Ilya wakes up the next day, he’s not surprised to find Shane’s side of the bed empty, of course. Hears the shower going in the bathroom, which means Shane is already back from his run. Which means Shane had already made his smoothie. Ilya’s heart trips over a beat as he lies in bed, waiting for Shane to be done, for no fucking reason, really, because why is he nervous about this?

But even two hours later, when they’re both in the car on the way to practice, Shane had still not brought up the note. And while part of Ilya is a little disappointed, he pushes it aside, because he knows Shane. Knows him better than probably anyone else. Knows that his husband will say something, eventually, but it might not be today because that’s just how his brain is wired, and Ilya loves it and loves him.

He almost doesn’t do it again that night, but then he notices the way Shane’s measuring is still on the wrong side of too meticulous. And so after Shane gets in the shower, Ilya doesn’t hesitate to grab another Post-It, scrawl out what do you call a sad strawberry(( a blueberry!, and draw two tiny frowning circles under the joke that he hopes Shane will understand are blueberries. It’s silly, not even that great of a joke and even worse of a doodle, but his husband’s been on a blueberry smoothie kick recently, so, well. It seems fitting.

The next morning, Ilya wakes up to a weight on his chest and soft lips pressing over his jaw and cheeks.

“Good morning to you too,” Ilya rasps out as he slides an arm around Shane’s back, a smile stretching on his lips when he feels the curve of Shane’s grin against his skin. Shane’s hair is still damp from the shower, and the combination of his body wash and that scent that is uniquely Shane’s overwhelms his senses in the best way. Ilya takes in a breath through his nose, and unsurprisingly, it shoots right down to his cock. “Good run?”

Shane just hums in response, letting more of his body weight sink into Ilya as he kisses his cheekbone, then the spot right under his ear, and then begins to shift down. He presses hot kisses down Ilya’s neck, taking a moment to grab some of the sensitive skin in between his teeth before biting down, and Ilya can’t hold back a moan. The smirk against his throat almost makes him wrap both his arms around Shane and flip them over, but then Shane continues downwards, and the thought briskly leaves Ilya’s mind.

About half an hour—okay, fine, maybe over an hour—later, when they’re both lying on the bed, Ilya’s head resting against the upper part of Shane’s pec, Shane finally says something about it.

“Your joke made me laugh.”

It’s a quiet statement, barely above a murmur, but Ilya can’t stop the wide grin spreading on his face that he tucks into Shane’s chest.

“Yeah?”

Shane combs a hand through Ilya’s curls slowly, and Ilya knows that he might make jokes about Shane being a cat sometimes, but right now, he thinks that he is truly five seconds or so from actually purring, if his husband keeps running his hand through his hair like that.

“Yeah,” Shane answers, a little unnecessarily, but it makes something warm and gooey pulse in Ilya’s chest. They don’t talk about it anymore after that, but when Ilya is looking for the label maker later that afternoon—because he’d noticed that the one on their paprika container is starting to peel and he knows that Shane will hate that when he sees it—and pulls open the drawer next to the fridge, he finds two yellow pieces of paper.

Both of the notes he’d written, with the top slightly folded over neatly so that the sticky part is covered. Ilya stills, and the image of it suddenly, vividly, flashes through his brain.

Shane opening up the refrigerator in the early morning, pulling out his container, and seeing the note Ilya had left. Gently peeling it off, reading it, and—at least for today’s note—softly laughing, eyes bright in that way that Ilya has memorized. Delicately folding the sticky strip in half, then placing it in this drawer.

Yes, Ilya can see this all in his mind, and fuck, all of a sudden, he desperately wants to abandon his search and go launch himself at his husband again. He doesn’t, but if he’s being honest, it takes a lot of restraint on his part. Maybe, he thinks as he slowly pushes the drawer in, he can mention this incredible restraint to Shane after he fixes the paprika label. It will turn Shane on, probably. Most likely. Definitely.

Anyway, now that Ilya knows Shane does in fact like his notes, is keeping them, he knows that he will continue to write them.

Sometimes, they’re funny like that second one, little stupid jokes that he hopes will make Shane snort as he’s making his smoothie. (One of Harris’s gifts for him on his birthday had been a book of puns, and Ilya makes sure to keep it hidden from Shane now, because obviously, he can’t have him spoiling the notes for himself.)

Sometimes, they’re quickly written encouragements, and those are usually on the nights that Ilya almost forgets to do it, because there are more important things on his mind. Specifically, Shane and his mouth and his cock and his ass and his arms and, and—

Sometimes, they’re a little more asshole-y, about Ilya’s team beating Shane’s during the practice scrimmage the day before or Ilya being the favorite uncle or Ilya winning one of their bets and rubbing it in Shane’s face. The mornings after those are always fun, because Shane enjoys bickering and arguing with Ilya as much as Ilya does. It’s a core principle of their relationship, and one Ilya never wants to let go of. Wants to spend the rest of his life bickering with his husband.

And Ilya knows that the notes are not a fix, because Shane will still be a little too controlling with his diet sometimes, but therapy does appear to be helping, as the months pass. And sure, maybe Ilya did start this because of that, but it’s turned into something else, at least a little bit. Turned into something that means something a lot more, to both Ilya and Shane.

Because one day, that drawer next to the fridge will fill up from all of Ilya’s notes. One day, Ilya will watch as Shane transfers them from the drawer to a box, one that will end up in their closet, on the shelf right next to all of their sweatshirts. He’ll watch with furrowed brows as his husband pulls out a few notes, and places those back into the drawer. Before he can ask, though, Shane will close the box softly, walk around the counter to where Ilya is sitting on a bar stool and kiss him, once, and then again, a little longer. A little deeper.

Then, Shane will pull back, just enough to catch Ilya’s gaze—and that says something, it says a lot, Ilya knows—and he will reveal, “Those are my favorite ones.” There will be a small upward quirk on his lips when he continues, “I like rereading them.”

And Ilya will be able to do nothing about the way his heart thumps in his chest in the beat of Shane’s name and he will be able to do nothing except wrap his arms around his husband’s waist and drag him closer.

Because one day, inevitably, the drawer will fill up again, and then again, and Ilya will get to watch Shane’s routine all over again with his heart in his hands and the stars in his eyes and three words on his lips that he doesn’t have to say for Shane to hear them.

☀︎

When the calm, languid high of summer starts wearing off, when the days slowly start getting shorter and colder, when September is less of a faraway concept and more of a looming shadow right around the corner, Ilya starts getting a little reserved.

Not all the time, of course, just glimpses from time to time. But Shane rigorously takes note of them in his head, because this particular turn of the seasons means something else to Ilya.

Means the anniversary of Irina’s death.

Ilya always seems to be a little more in his head as the date creeps closer, and Shane will more frequently than not find him sitting out on the dock with his feet in the water, gaze glazed over and distant on something that he can’t see. And that is one thing he is glad for, that they get to be at the cottage during this time of the year especially, because this place has come to be not just Shane’s private abode anymore, but their haven, now. Ilya has never said it to him directly, but Shane also knows that Ilya feels the closest to his mom here, by this lake. Knows he goes there to talk to his mom, often; sometimes with Shane, sometimes without.

Tonight, Ilya’s already out there without him, and the evening air is starting to cool down, a slight breeze ruffling through his hair as he steps out the door. So, Shane grabs the blanket that they leave out on one of the chairs outside for this exact reason before walking down the dock to where his husband is.

Ilya is holding a mug of herbal tea—a habit that he’s unwittingly picked up from Shane, one he halfheartedly complains about but for some reason never stops even though he could—that he sets down when Shane drapes one side of the throw over his shoulders before settling in next to him.

“Hi,” Shane murmurs as he pulls the other corner around his own shoulder, shuffling closer to Ilya as he does. His husband automatically presses against him, the way they’ve learned to do over all these years. Their bodies molding around each other, as if they had been sculpted specifically to fit together. (Shane is not religious or spiritual or any of that, but he likes to believe that they had, because there is not a single other person in this world like Ilya, for him. When he really thinks about it, he thinks that every sliver that makes up Ilya Rozanov had been forged and constructed just for him. For him to touch, for him to hold, for him to love.)

Ilya lets out a short hum in response that rumbles in his chest, and Shane can feel the vibrations echo through his body. It’s peaceful out here, with the sun’s rays disappearing below the horizon, casting glittering ripples across the water in front of them. There’s honestly nowhere that Shane wouldn’t go if Ilya would be by his side, but this right here, at their cottage wrapped up in a blanket with Ilya’s comforting weight leaning into him, is his favorite one. He could live forever in this moment, he knows. He would, if it was possible.

“Good talk?” Shane asks quietly after a few minutes of silence, because Ilya had said something about it after a session with Galina a month ago. Had brought up that his therapist thinks that maybe it would be good for him, for them, to not treat Ilya’s conversations with his mom as something to lock away and keep hidden all the time. Not that every single one had to be shared, obviously, but later that night, Ilya had hesitantly—while they’d been lying on opposite sides of the couch outside—told him about what he’d talked about earlier that day, on the dock. And Shane had listened. Gotten up to go over to Ilya’s side of the couch when his voice broke slightly, gently pulling him up enough for Shane to slide in behind him so that Ilya could rest his head in the crook of his neck. Held him as close as he possibly could as Ilya continued a story from when he was younger.

Now, though, Ilya’s body tenses just the slightest bit, and Shane feels it immediately. He relaxes a second later, but Shane still straightens up a little, which lifts his shoulder just enough to be in the perfect position for Ilya to lean his head on. The weight of his husband’s head lands on it with a slow, steady exhale, and Shane lets Ilya sink into him as he places one of his hands on Ilya’s thigh, squeezing gently.

“Yes,” Ilya replies softly, then stops. Shane waits, patient. It takes a couple of moments, but Ilya speaks up again. “She would have liked it here, I think.”

Something equal parts bittersweet and melancholic floods through Shane as he processes the words, and he glides his hand up and down over Ilya’s leg. “Tell me something about her?” he asks, and hears the way Ilya’s inhale is a little shaky.

“She had the prettiest hair I have seen,” Ilya starts, voice low and a little raspy. Shane lets his gaze shift to the right just enough to catch the way the last of the lingering sunlight hits Ilya’s hair, little flickers of gold sparking in the curls that Shane loves running his hands through. And he can see it then, an older Russian woman with the same beautiful curls and a gentle smile on her face. Kind eyes that would remind Shane of the love of his life. “She loved her curls, she—she had routine to take care of them. When I was younger, I—” Ilya pauses, a quiet sniffle filling the air. “I would watch, and she would explain. And then, after I asked many times, she would put some of them in my hair, because it was…”

Shane has a feeling he knows what Ilya is about to say, and he tilts his head on top of Ilya’s, a silent acknowledgement and comfort wrapped into one.

“It was just like hers.”

“Ilya—”

“When I got older, I was not allowed to do that anymore,” Ilya cuts him off, and Shane lets him. Understands that Ilya needs to keep telling this story. “And she was always sad, but then there were more bad days than good ones. And her pretty curls—” his voice cracks, and Shane feels something damp hit his shirt. Abruptly, he wants to turn and pull Ilya into his lap. Wrap his arms around him and tuck him into his body and hold him so, so tight, as if he could protect him from anything and everything that comes his way. Protect him from his own mind. But Shane doesn’t get the chance to even shift before Ilya’s voice fills the air again. “They would get…flat, like they were as sad as she was. And I knew how to do her hair, she had explained so many times before, but—but I was not allowed,” Ilya repeats, and now Shane’s own eyes feel a little wet. He blinks a few times, tries to swallow past the small lump stuck in his throat.

And so Shane moves then, leaning back a little so that he can draw one of his legs up to prop it behind Ilya, then uses an arm to tug him in. Ilya’s back presses against his chest, head settling on Shane’s collarbone. Ilya takes in a breath, cuddling back into him as Shane slides both of his arms from Ilya’s sides, around the curve of his ribs, and then across his pecs. He clutches him hard, and senses how Ilya’s body sags into him, bit by bit.

“She was so strong, Shane,” Ilya finishes with a final sigh that Shane feels more than sees leave his lungs. “So strong, and I wish…I wish more people knew that.”

They stay out there for a little longer, Ilya’s story fading into quieter words exchanged, as their bodies stay folded together. In bed later that night, Ilya’s embrace as they drift off is a little tighter than usual, and Shane is not complaining, not even a little bit.

But that conversation by the lake sticks with him, replays in his mind occasionally, and Shane is honestly not exactly sure why. Ilya’s told countless stories about his mom, especially this past summer, but there is something about this particular one that keeps it lodged in his brain; for safekeeping, maybe. However, when days and then weeks pass, Shane stops trying to figure it out constantly, as pre-season creeps up on them and they get back to their jobs.

And then, Ilya has a bad day.

They have optional practice that morning, but Ilya sleeps in with the comforter pulled up above his head, and Shane is not going to leave his husband for anything right now, not even for hockey like some people assume he would.

The day passes quieter than usual, although Shane does eventually get Ilya downstairs to eat some of the fruit he’s cut, despite his lack of appetite. It’s deep into the afternoon, when Shane’s sitting in one corner of the love seat in the living room reading, while Ilya’s lying on the couch on his stomach, a throw tangled up in his legs, that it suddenly hits Shane.

Because as his eyes trail over Ilya’s body, they snag on his hair. The curls are a little limp, lying flatter than normal on Ilya’s head, and Shane counts back the days in his head as he watches Ilya over the top of his book.

It’s hair wash day.

When the season fully ramps up and it feels like they’re constantly either on the ice or in the gym, Ilya washes his hair more frequently, of course. But in the summers and even now, when pre-season is only just starting, Ilya tends to let a few days go by in between washes, telling Shane that it is better for his hair.

(To no one’s surprise and least of all his own, after learning that particular tidbit of information, Shane had gone down multiple deep dives about curly hair, reading article after article about hair care routines and leave-in conditioners and mousses and the pitfalls of towel drying and—well. And so on.)

But today, Shane can tell, is a hair wash day. Or—it would be, but Shane also knows that Ilya probably won’t. Not on days like this, when he seems weighed down and exhausted in a bone-deep sort of way that tugs at Shane’s chest. No, Ilya will probably skip it today, and maybe it’s not the end of the world. Maybe he can just wash his hair tomorrow instead, and that would be fine, probably.

Later that night, though, when Shane guides Ilya into the shower, and Ilya stands there, holding his head tilted back enough that the stream of water isn’t hitting his hair, that’s when Shane remembers.

Remembers her curls would get flat and I knew how to do her hair but I wasn’t allowed and like they were as sad as she was. Remembers it was just like hers, because Ilya is his mother’s son in more ways than one, and Shane knows that sometimes that is a good thing to Ilya, and sometimes that means Ilya’s brain connects dots that makes things even worse.

And, oh. Because Shane—Shane could do this, for Ilya. Knows his routine as well as his own, by this point. Not that his is anywhere near as extensive. Basic shampoo and conditioner is all he’s ever used his entire life for the pin-straight hair he’s inherited from both his parents, and if he’s being honest, he’s never thought about using anything more than that. He hasn’t needed to, until Ilya Rozanov came barging into his life and embedded himself into Shane’s every thought and action, and now he knows more about gels and scrunching and detangling than he will ever need for himself. But this isn’t about himself.

“Hey,” Shane says softly, stepping into the shower behind Ilya with a hand on the curve of his shoulder. “I counted earlier. It’s hair wash day.”

There’s a flicker of an expression on Ilya’s face as he turns towards Shane, before he shakes his head slightly. “Is fine, I—”

Shane doesn’t let him finish. “I’ll do it for you,” he declares, because now that the thought has entered his head, it will not leave him alone—like most thoughts in his life. He steps closer to Ilya, the warm water hitting his arm as he cups the nape of Ilya’s neck and strokes his thumb up and down over the soft skin there. “You don’t have to do anything, just…just stand here.”

“Stand here.” Ilya’s voice is a little flat, a little timid, but—well, he’s not saying no.

“Yeah,” Shane answers easily, searching Ilya’s gaze carefully, and so he sees when a spark of understanding glints in his eyes. Thinks that maybe Ilya is also remembering flat hair and sad days and a shared set of curls years and years ago. “Is that okay?”

Ilya’s eyes flick between both of his for a second, and then another. “Okay,” he whispers, accent suddenly the tiniest bit thicker as he nods once. Shane’s lips quirk up at the corners as he directs Ilya backwards under the shower head, running one hand through blond curls that get darker and then heavier as the water hits them. Ilya’s arms end up circling Shane’s waist, hands resting on the small of his back, but pointedly not moving any lower.

It’s a little…hypnotizing, Shane thinks, doing Ilya’s hair routine on him. He starts with the clarifying shampoo, massaging the product into his scalp. Scrubbing in small, smooth circles with his fingertips. Washing it out carefully, before grabbing the conditioner. And Shane’s not the biggest fan of how this much conditioner feels on his hands, but he pushes that aside as he rakes his fingers through Ilya’s wet hair. Covers every inch with it, because one of the how-to guides that he’d read had emphasized that this is important.

He lets himself take a quick little peek at Ilya’s face when he reaches for the wide-toothed comb on their shower caddy, and he can’t stop the immediate grin that tugs up on his mouth at his husband’s blissed-out expression. Ilya’s eyes are closed and his face is slack and serene, and Shane has to control his urge to kiss or bite or lick his cheeks. Instead, Shane lets his thumb glide over the mole on the left side of his face, before starting on detangling Ilya’s curls.

It takes longer than normal, because Ilya starts slumping into Shane’s body, which makes Shane snort. The angle is a little awkward and in all honesty, not the best for his current task, but he doesn’t say a word as he continues. But the conditioner is eventually washed out, and Shane washes his own hair at probably record-breaking speed, and cleanses both of them thoroughly but faster than usual, because Ilya might just fall asleep standing up at this point.

By the time they get back to their bedroom, Ilya’s hair is still dripping wet, because Shane does not rub his curls dry with a regular towel like he typically does for his own hair (This is apparently a crime against nature, according to almost every blog. Shane takes that advice very seriously). His husband’s eyes are heavy and drooping after they get dressed for bed, and Shane can tell he is probably an hour max from passing out, so he doesn’t hesitate to grab Ilya’s hair gel from the bathroom and an old, clean cotton T-shirt from their closet.

Ilya’s already dropped down to sit on the edge of the bed when Shane gets back, and so Shane lets him lean his forehead on his stomach when he steps into the space between his legs, his arms winding around Shane’s waist again like he did in the shower.

“You’re getting water all over the floor,” Shane teases, not actually meaning it, as he uses the T-shirt to scrunch up Ilya’s hair and get rid of the excess water. The motion and repetition of it is, once again, somewhat hypnotizing, and Shane absentmindedly wonders if Ilya will let him do this whole thing again.

Ilya hums into his shirt, the tip of his nose poking right above Shane’s belly button. “Am not,” he responds with a little whine, voice drowsy and clearly already half-asleep. Shane’s cheeks twitch, because fuck, he loves him. Loves him so much.

“Gel okay?” Shane questions, tossing the T-shirt aside when he determines that it’s sufficiently dried, but still damp. Ilya nods his head just enough for Shane to pick it up, and he grabs a scoop of the gel before rubbing his hands together with the product.

Scrunching up Ilya’s curls with the gel has always been something Shane enjoys watching, even when it’s Ilya doing it and not him. He likes seeing the curls take shape, pretty rings of dark blond falling so perfectly. Being the one to do it makes it a hundred times better, satisfaction and pleasure coursing through his veins as he styles his husband’s beautiful hair.

It takes some time for Shane to finish coating all of Ilya’s hair with the product, but when he finally does, he’s holding up almost all of Ilya’s weight. He wipes his hands on the T-shirt he flung aside earlier, before planting them on Ilya’s shoulders, thumbs digging slightly into the dips above his collarbone.

“Okay,” Shane sighs out, leaning down just enough to plant a light kiss on top of Ilya’s curls. The fresh scent of the hair gel invades his senses as he does, and truly, it’s not his fault that his cock gives a little twitch. He’s almost certain that Ilya can tell, but even if he does, they both ignore it. “All done.”

Ilya doesn’t move or speak for a moment. “Thank you,” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper, and Shane pretends he doesn’t hear the slight crack in it. Ilya’s arms get tighter around him, and Shane runs his nails up and down the indentations of his spine in a silent response.

He doesn’t think he needs to say it out loud into the dimmed atmosphere of their bedroom right now, thinks Ilya hears the words anyway. Because there will be more bad days and there will be more good days and therefore, there will be more days when Shane will take care of Ilya’s hair for him when he can’t.

Because Shane will get to live out the rest of his days holding Ilya’s hand both in private and public and crawling into the space between Ilya’s ribs and kissing him and kissing him and kissing him, and well. That’s all that really matters.

☀︎

Ilya believes that no one else in the entire world is more knowledgeable about all of Shane’s quirks than he is.

Because, sure, Yuna and David raised him, of course they know a lot of things. And, as loathe as Ilya is to admit it, fine, Hayden probably also knows some things about being teammates and friends and sharing a hotel room with Shane for ten years.

But none of them, Ilya thinks, know everything. Because Ilya has spent more than the last decade noticing every single thing that Shane does and collecting all of those little traits in a nicely wrapped box inside his brain that he used to take a peek into when he was miles away from him and was trying his best not to miss him because they couldn’t actually be anything. But that is not the case anymore, and Ilya’s collection of Shane’s characteristics is simply just something he enjoys observing now, because Ilya—no matter how many times he calls Shane boring—will never get bored of anything when it comes to his husband.

He enjoys knowing about Shane’s white socks and the way they’re almost always on Shane’s feet, even when they’re fucking. (If Ilya has grown to develop a Pavlovian sort of reaction to them like they’re somehow a version of lingerie that is only specific to Shane, well. That does not need to be brought up right now.) He enjoys knowing that Shane buys those socks in bulk, always the same brand, always from the same store, always white, because that means they are comfortable and familiar and known, and all of those things are important to Shane.

He enjoys knowing that Shane will almost always fold his clothes carefully after he takes them off and will redo it if it’s not folded right. Even if Ilya is already fully naked and waiting for him in bed; even if Ilya’s cock is hard and on display and his hand is already stroking up and down and Shane’s eyes are a little glazed and he’s struggling a little to pull his gaze away from it. Even then.

He enjoys knowing that Shane’s favorite hoodies are the ones that are years-old, worn in and a little faded, whether they’re Shane’s or Ilya’s. He enjoys knowing that the drawstrings of those hoodies will almost inevitably end up in Shane’s mouth if he is wearing one, and that they will end up chewed and that Ilya will have to replace them eventually so that Shane can chew on them all over again.

Safe to say, Ilya is well-acquainted with Shane and his quirks—one time, Wyatt had let slip a label for what all of this might mean because of his nephew, but Ilya knows that Shane is not someone that necessarily wants labels like that, so he doesn’t bring it up; he doesn’t need to, not when Ilya notices everything about Shane anyway—and loves every one, because they are all a part of what makes Shane who he is.

Which is why Ilya pretty much immediately notices when Shane gets a new package of sweatshirts and tees from his latest Reebok campaign, and he doesn’t wear them. And this is strange, because Ilya knows that Shane finds their clothing loose and comfortable and that’s why he’s been able to still be one of their brand reps for all these years.

So, this—this is weird.

Although, it’s not like Shane doesn’t wear them at all, because he does. It is probably part of his contract that he needs to, so Ilya sees them on him during post-game pressers or when they’re on the way to the rink for practice. But Shane doesn’t wear them at home or on runs or when they go out for groceries.

Something about it bothers Ilya, tugs at something in his head, but he can’t seem to figure it out. Which, in turn, bothers him even more, so that’s great. It ends up taking almost two weeks for it to finally click, but by two weeks later, Ilya starts seeing a pattern.

When Shane does wear the new clothes, he is—well, the only word Ilya can think of is, twitchy. 

Ilya will be in the locker room, taking his time getting dressed because it’s Shane’s turn for media, and his eyes will unavoidably be drawn to the TV screen where his husband is answering a question from some reporter. And Shane will give his composed, media-trained response, like normal, but then Ilya will see it. See the way Shane shifts his shoulders forward and then backward. See the way Shane’s neck jerks a little to the side, and Ilya’s eyes will narrow.

There is something there, he knows.

Or they will be in the car, one of Shane’s hands on the wheel as he drives them to morning practice and the other clasped around Ilya’s on the center console. And then suddenly, Ilya will feel a tug on his hand, because Shane does sort of a half-shrug kind of movement.

“Okay?” Ilya will ask, even though by this point he knows there is something wrong. But he is still not certain of what it is and he’s not sure even Shane knows either.

“M’fine,” Shane will answer, and that will be that since Ilya can tell Shane isn’t actually irritated or anything. Except Shane will still be absurdly twitchy the whole car ride there and during their walk to the locker room, until he finally pulls off whatever he’s wearing to change into his gear.

So, Ilya knows it’s the clothes. He doesn’t know exactly what it is about the clothes, but he knows it’s the clothes and that is a good starting point, he thinks.

He can be a detective, or something.

His first step of business, on a day when Rose is visiting during a short break between filming and she and Shane went out to lunch before her flight, is to pull out every new piece of clothing that Reebok sent Shane and dump them all on the bed. (He will put them back exactly how they were before, of course, because Shane is nothing if not strict about the state of their closet. Although, now that he thinks about it, maybe Ilya can…accidentally mess up the folding for one of the T-shirts. His husband is particularly sexy when he’s mad at him.)

His second step is to thoroughly inspect each one. This takes a good thirty minutes, because he picks at each one attentively, turning them inside-out and flickering his gaze over anything and everything that could possibly be the problem here.

Unfortunately, he finds nothing.

They all seem like basic hoodies and tees and exactly like the ones Shane wears all the time.

“What the fuck is the problem?” he mutters to himself as he turns the last T-shirt right-side out again. Ilya sighs, resigning himself to the fact that this mystery is probably not going to be solved today because Shane will be back in just a little over half an hour, when he pauses, because his index finger grazes something.

Something a little pointed, at least enough that it registers against Ilya’s skin.

Interesting.

He lifts up the collar of the shirt, and, as he suspected, there is a tag on the back of it. A quick check of the rest of the clothes lying on the bed confirms that they all do, in fact. It’s not something that had really stood out to Ilya during his search, because there’s tags on almost everything, but. But.

Ilya darts back to the closet, grabbing one of Shane’s older Reebok hoodies and when he pulls the front of it down, he’s proven right.

No tag.

He makes sure, though, looking through a few more of Shane’s shirts, and he sees no tags on any of them, instead finding printed labels directly on the material. When he runs a thumb over them, there is a slightly lifted texture there, but not nearly as much as the physical tags on the new ones.

Ilya’s lips slowly broaden into a grin, because he figured it out.

It’s the fucking tags.

And Shane probably hadn’t even consciously realized why the new clothes are bothering him, had probably thought they’re just a little annoying in a way that makes him not want to wear them unless he has to. Because none of his old ones had tags, and Shane has a million and one things floating through his brain at almost all times—Ilya is extremely good at dropping that number to exactly one—so it probably hadn’t even occurred to him, really.

But oh, Ilya can fix this for him.

Cutting them off with scissors is probably not the best option, because Ilya knows it will leave a short little stub that will irritate Shane even more than the whole tag. A quick Google search and wikiHow scroll later, Ilya goes searching through the laundry room for a seam ripper, because Shane would probably have one of those stashed somewhere, if only for the fact that Yuna or David likely gave him one at some point in his life and he’s carried it along with him from move to move, just in case it was ever useful.

Six minutes later, he finds one in a small plastic box filled with sewing supplies that looks like it’s never even been opened. Twenty minutes after that, Ilya pulls the tag off the last hoodie with a satisfied grin. It doesn’t leave him with much time to put everything back, but he’s in the process of folding the last shirt when he hears the front door open downstairs and Anya’s barking fill the air right after.

“любимыйLove,” he calls out in a loud voice after he puts the shirt back on the shelf, bounding down the stairs to meet Shane in the kitchen. “How was lunch with ex-girlfriend?”

“Fuck off,” Shane retorts, and Ilya knows he’s rolling his eyes, even though he can’t see it. “It was good,” he continues, not seeming even a little surprised when Ilya makes his way into the room and over to him, his fingers finding their place on his waist and pushing him back against the counter. “Rose says hi, by the way.”

Ilya angles into him, chests pressed together as he gives Shane a featherlight kiss. “Am more interested in saying hi to you,” he murmurs in a low tone right against his lips, holding back a smirk when Shane’s breath hitches slightly. All these years, and he still has the same effect on his husband, and he fucking loves it. (Not to say Shane doesn’t have the same effect on him, because he does. He very, very much does.)

Then, Shane’s hand slips under Ilya’s shirt and wanders up and down, and well. Their plans for the rest of the day involve their couch, and then their bed, and then their shower. With a brief, but important pit stop in front of the bathroom sink.

And so, Ilya kind of forgets about the whole tag situation, since he has other, more prominent things to focus on, per usual. Things that require the entire presence of his mind and body, obviously.

He forgets about it, until he’s sitting at the island in the kitchen a few days later, eating the eggs he made for breakfast while scrolling Twitter, when he hears Shane come back from his run. Ilya still doesn’t remember, though, not until Shane is in the kitchen in front of him, filling up a glass of water by the sink, and his eyes catch on the shirt he’s wearing.

Ilya waits for Shane to turn just a bit, and—yeah. Reebok. More specifically, the new Reebok. He is, all of a sudden, a little giddy for some unknown reason. (It is not unknown. If Ilya really sits down and thinks about it for a second, he will know that it is because he identified the problem and corrected it all by himself for Shane. Made something easier for his husband.)

“Is that one of your new shirts?” Ilya asks casually, taking another bite of his breakfast. Shane gulps down another sip of water as he nods.

“Yeah, one of the Reebok ones,” Shane says, and Ilya lets out a small noise, as if this is new information to him. “It’s weird, though.” Ilya stills, before deliberately loosening his shoulders when Shane glances over at him. “There was something bothering me about them, all the new stuff they sent. I kind of hated wearing them. But all my regular ones are in the wash, so this was my only option.”

Ilya hums, listening to Shane’s story like he would normally. But this is Shane, his husband, and the person who knows Ilya the best in the whole world, and so his eyes are starting to narrow in Ilya’s direction.

“Weirdly enough, nothing about it bothered me today,” Shane states, and the definitive confirmation of it sends a jolt of achievement through Ilya’s body. However, it is overshadowed by the way Shane crosses his arms and stares at Ilya. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

And, well, Ilya can’t really lie here. Why would he, anyway?

“Maybe.”

“Ilya.”

“Fine,” he groans, dragging the word out as he pushes back from the counter and rounds it to get to Shane on the other side. Grabbing one of Shane’s hands in his, he lifts it up until he can drag Shane’s thumb over the inside of the shirt, right where the paper tag used to be but is now gone.

“Wha—”

“They had tags, the new clothes,” Ilya declares, letting go of Shane’s hand to push a wayward strand of hair off of his husband’s face. “I checked, older ones didn’t. Must have changed manufacturer or something boring like that.” Ilya uses his other hand to mime a tear falling down his cheek with an exaggerated pout, though the expression on Shane’s face almost makes him smile. “I could tell something was making you annoyed. I found problem, I fix it. Okay?”

Shane’s eyes flit between his for a couple of seconds. “Ilya,” he starts, voice soft and a little sweet, but doesn’t seem to know what to say after that. He takes a step closer to Ilya, who uses one of his fingers to gently rub his cheekbone, over all of his pretty, pretty freckles.

“Is not big deal, took me like twenty minutes, probably,” Ilya says quietly, but Shane’s eyes go soft anyway. He leans towards him, pressing his lips against Ilya’s firmly, coaxing out a slow, tender kiss.

Ilya lets himself tilt into it, placing both hands on the island behind Shane to deepen the kiss more, to maybe shift and grind forward because they’re both in shorts and it wouldn’t take long to get hard—Ilya is already halfway there—but Shane breaks the kiss before he can do anything.

“Thank you,” Shane rumbles out, and Ilya pauses there for a split-second, because there is something heavy that laces those words. An undercurrent of Shane’s past, of all the times when maybe people have noticed Shane’s quirks, and maybe dismissed them or worse, ridiculed him about them. Even the idea of it sends a pang echoing in Ilya’s chest.

But he does not say you’re welcome, because he thinks Shane can simply hear it in his kiss.

He thinks I will do anything to make life easier for you and you are safe with me, no matter what and you are not and never will be a burden in his head, but he thinks Shane might also hear that.

Probably hears the three words that Ilya doesn’t say out loud, but presses the shape of into Shane’s lips, because they are good at that. And so for now, Ilya will be content with not talking anymore, instead letting their bodies fall into each other like they’ve been learning to do since they were teenagers.

☀︎

It starts, if Shane takes a moment to comb back through his memory, after one of their more brutal practices.

The Cens have been on a winning streak, but their upcoming string of matches against New York, Montreal, and Toronto has everyone, including the coaching staff, a little bit on edge. But this team is good at diffusing that tension, and though Wiebe’s been kind of a hardass the last couple of practices—which he can understand—Shane never feels like the team is being punished during them.

The rooks still goof off a little during the breaks with references that Shane doesn’t understand, Wyatt still overexplains the plot to a movie that Shane still doesn’t know the name of, and Ilya still blows an obnoxious kiss at Zane when the latter makes a particularly difficult shot. All of that, however, doesn’t change the fact that practice—this one, especially—is still exhausting.

Shane drives them home after—his body aching in that way it only does after pushing it to the limits he sometimes forgets about, though he’s gotten better about it compared to before—and when he takes quick peeks out of the corner of his eye, he can see how his husband is just as worn out in the passenger seat.

It doesn’t stop Ilya from loudly arguing with him for ten seconds and then promptly commandeering the aux, playing some song that Shane vaguely recognizes from how often he hears it, given the way Ilya mouths the lyrics along with the artist. It pulls a small smile from his lips, though he hides it into his bicep before his husband can see.

There are times in the car when Ilya sings loudly, offendingly off-key in a way that makes Shane want to smack a hand over his mouth. He knows that Ilya knows that, knows that it only makes Ilya want to do it more, because that’s who Ilya Rozanov has always been. From their first conversation all those years ago when they’d still been teenagers. And Shane would not change any part of it. Of him.

But there are other times, like now, when Ilya is a little quieter with it, mouthing the words instead of voicing them. And it feels…private, somehow. Less of a show, less of a way for Ilya to fondly annoy Shane, and more of Ilya just enjoying the music for what it is. Shane’s never truly gotten music like that—a fact that Ilya and the team make fun of him for nearly weekly, at this point—but there’s something so endearing about it, with Ilya.

Even the smallest things feel endearing, with Ilya, somehow.

So, Shane tucks away that image of Ilya’s head resting back on the seat with his eyes closed as he silently sings into that place in his heart that Ilya’s been carving out for himself since they were seventeen. Lets the warmth in his chest pulse slowly as he drives them back home.

The weird part happens after they make it inside, Shane placing both of their hockey bags in the laundry room as Ilya crouches to play with Anya, before collapsing on the couch in the living room. The slight burn in his thighs is nothing that he’s not used to after all this time, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel good to lie there for a minute, pulling out his phone to scroll through emails.

He hears Ilya in the kitchen, probably to sneak Anya another treat. Shane lets that comforting background noise that comes from sharing a home with his favorite person drift into his ears as he reads through an email from one of his sponsors.

When Ilya finally makes it back into the room, Shane waits for him to lift his legs and slide into the place they were before dropping them back down; the post-practice decompression routine that they’ve perfected so well by now. Waits for Ilya to reach for the TV remote to put on one of the shows they’re slowly making their way through, a random cooking one that Ilya enjoys because of the chef that keeps yelling at everyone and Shane enjoys watching Ilya enjoy it.

It startles him, then, when Ilya does neither of those things. Instead, he plants one of his knees in between Shane’s calves. Doesn’t say a word as grabs the hem of Shane’s—Ilya’s, if he’s being accurate, but it’s Shane’s now in all the ways that matter—hoodie and lifts it up and proceeds to shove his head into it.

Shane almost drops his phone at the shock of Ilya’s slightly cold nose on his upper stomach, but manages to hold onto it as his husband drops down fully, shuffling up and further into his hoodie until Ilya’s face is pressed right up against Shane’s left pec, the rest of his body settling on top of Shane firmly like some kind of weighted blanket.

It’s…nice? It’s also, Shane thinks as he looks down at the lump half-hidden under his hoodie, fucking strange.

“Ilya?”

The responding hum vibrates through his whole body.

“What are you doing?”

Ilya exhales deeply against his bare skin, sending a slight shiver down Shane’s spine. “I am tired. You are warm and comfortable.” There’s a pause as Ilya pats his hand against Shane’s side once, then twice. “Now, shh.”

“You’re stretching out my hoodie.” It’s all that Shane can think of saying at the moment, his brain still trying to piece together what is happening. His husband is clingy on most days, they both are, truthfully, but this is something that he’s not exactly sure how to process. So, the only thing he can process is the way that Ilya’s shoulders are stretching out the material with the way they’re lodged into it along with Shane.

Ilya snorts. “Is my hoodie. I will buy you hundred more if you want, Hollander.”

Shane opens his mouth, but can’t think of anything else to say, honestly, and presses his lips together as he blinks. Ilya’s body heat is seeping into his skin, the slow and steady rise and fall of his husband’s breathing lulling him into a quiet sense of peace that only Ilya can draw out of him.

It’s still a little weird. He doesn’t move, though, even when he feels Ilya’s breath even out as he drifts off into a nap.

What’s weirder, is that it keeps happening.

There’s no pattern to it, really, even if Shane desperately tries to find one. It’s useless, though, because it happens so sporadically, like Ilya just randomly chooses that he absolutely needs to duck his way into the clothes that Shane is wearing, and then accordingly bullies his way into it.

The only thing that appears to be common is the way that Ilya tends to fall asleep that way almost every time, like something about laying in the dark cocoon of Shane’s hoodie with his face squashed against his husband’s skin instantly makes him knock out. After the third time that it happens, Shane starts shifting the book or phone or tablet that he’s holding to one of his hands and lets the other lazily glide up and down the length of Ilya’s spine.

It makes Ilya fall asleep even faster, and it always makes the corner of Shane’s mouth tilt up into a private, tiny smirk. And so, it slowly becomes just another one of Ilya’s little habits that Shane stows away into the crevices of his body. The weight of his husband pressing down onto him, the tickle of his breath against his skin, the hypnotizing back and forth of his thumb over Shane’s hipbone until it comes to a stop when Ilya drifts off.

Little imprints of Ilya that Shane wants to feel forever.

(And he will, because Ilya is his husband, is his, for the rest of their lives, and Shane will hold onto him tightly with both his hands and never let go. Ilya Rozanov is his, and wow, isn’t that still its own kind of revelation, after everything they’ve been through? Isn’t that still its own kind of sanctity, even now?)

But anyway, after the first two times, Shane stops asking what Ilya’s doing, because it’s evident that he won’t get an actual answer out of him. And although part of Shane’s brain won’t let it rest, another part of it acknowledges that the whole thing means something to Ilya, even if that something is just that Shane makes a really nice pillow sometimes.

So, he stops asking, and just lets his own bolt of amusement flicker through him every time Ilya crawls into his hoodie or his T-shirt. It’s its own little routine, in a way. The tugging of whatever he’s wearing, the heat of Ilya’s face against him, the heavy pressure of his husband on top of him from the chest down. Then, his fingers moving up and down Ilya’s back, the flutter of Ilya’s lashes that brush his skin, the relaxed deadweight that Ilya becomes when he’s finally fully passed out.

It’s only natural, then, that the routine eventually breaks, like most tend to do.

Shane likes to believe that he’s attuned to Ilya in a way that he’s never been with anyone else before, never understood until Ilya came along, honestly. There seems to be some part of him that is inexplicably linked to Ilya—now, at least, because they’ve surely been through many years where that had definitely not been the case—and all that really means is that he can almost always tell when Ilya’s brain is starting to steer him down.

He gets quieter, not completely, but enough that it makes a difference. His smiles lose a bit of that light that Shane looks for in his eyes when he makes him laugh. His shoulders sag down, like he’s being crushed by something Shane can’t see, and it always makes something behind his ribs clench.

Since this morning, Shane’s noted every one of those tells.

It’s not something he can fix; he’s come to accept that by now. He can’t wave his arm around, and instantly make Ilya feel okay. It’s not his fault, it’s not Ilya’s fault, it’s just something that is. And that’s okay, he knows that.

It still doesn’t feel any better, though, seeing his husband move through their bedroom on heavy feet. Seeing him lethargically brushing his teeth before slinking over to their bed where Shane is already lying down, the upper half of his torso propped against the headboard as he reads, with his feet pushed under the sheets.

All of a sudden, as Ilya starts sliding into bed, Shane’s hit with the idea. He hesitates with it for just a second, because it’s always been Ilya who’s initiated it. Always been Ilya who slithers his way into Shane’s shirts or hoodies, and Shane is just the willing participant.

Because that’s the drill, it always has been since that day it all started.

Shane’s eyes flicker to his husband, and the slightly glazed look in his eyes. The hesitation passes.

“Ilya.”

His husband’s head rolls to the side, eyes darting to meet Shane’s.

Shane keeps his gaze locked on Ilya’s, slowly reaching one hand down to lift the hem of his T-shirt up.

He holds still as something passes over Ilya’s face, his eyes widening slightly. He’s a little surprised, but Shane also sees the hint of longing splayed across his expression.

Ilya’s eyes flicker to where Shane’s hand grips his own shirt, up and away from his stomach.

Shane inhales and exhales slowly, not reaching towards his husband because Ilya needs to do this by himself. He knows that, and he knows that Ilya knows that, too. The fabric of his shirt crumples a little tighter in his hand as he waits, and he wonders if Ilya can hear what Shane’s thinking. Can understand what Shane’s trying to communicate, because sometimes actually articulating the words out loud that they want to say to each other still isn’t that easy.

(I know this brings you comfort. You’re welcome here. You will always be welcome here, with me. Let me do this for you.)

Ilya languidly shifts without a word, his head ducking down under Shane’s shirt and creeping up until he’s a solid, warm weight against Shane’s body. It takes a few long moments of Shane’s hand running up and down Ilya’s spine, but then he feels his husband’s body loosening, the incremental decline of the tension wracking through him.

He lets a gentle shush leave his lips when he feels Ilya’s head adjust, but a second later, he feels the soft press of Ilya’s lips on the skin between his pecs in a half-kiss. Abruptly, it sends a pang ricocheting through his body, even as he puts his book down on the nightstand and flicks the light off. He cups the back of Ilya’s head over his shirt with his other hand and presses him even closer, like he could somehow stitch the both of them together so that they would never have to be apart again.

His fingers draw meaningless patterns on Ilya’s back, feeling the way his husband starts sinking deeper into Shane’s body as sleep grabs hold of him, like Shane had known it would.

Neither of them say a word. They don't have to.

(I love you, I love you, I love you.)