Chapter Text
“There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will.”
Hamlet, Act 5, Scene 2
Ilya’s mind drifted towards consciousness like a gull floating over dark water until he became aware of a pulsing headache.
Was he… hungover? And why was it so bright?
Fuck, it had been a while. He tried to piece together the night before to see if he could remember who he’d find in bed next to him.
He was used to waking up next to gorgeous, queasy strangers. His smiling deflections and excuses were so well practiced that they were almost automatic. He could politely herd a groggy partner out of his room and back into their own lives before they even realized what was happening. He wasn’t rude; just efficient. He liked the company - there had been many nights that he needed their beauty and their fuckability like a thick blanket under which he could hide himself. And then, when morning came, he set them free.
The sun was still relentlessly trying to slide through any gap in his swollen eyelids, so he clamped them closed even tighter. He rolled over, sending an exploratory hand out in search of a pillow to shield him from the blinding light. His fingers found the corner of a pillowcase and tugged sharply.
It didn’t move.
Cracking one eye open, he saw the pillow was held in place by a shoulder whose shape he knew better than the scars on his own knuckles. A shoulder that did not belong to an anonymous hungover fuckbuddy.
His brain lurched forward. Memories of the day before washed over him like a rogue wave, pinning his drifting mind to the ground. The fighting, the driving, and the dreaming. Then, Shane.
Not a hangover, then. At least, not one caused by alcohol.
Rolling his eyes upwards, he saw Shane propped up against the headboard, book resting in his lap, the pillow in question squished behind his back.
“Good morning,” Ilya murmured, hesitantly.
“Good morning,” Shane said quietly. They hadn’t spoken many words last night, but the weight of everything that had been shared felt big enough to have its own hollow gravity, like a mausoleum or a dying star, and it was pulling everything else in after it.
“I, uh, took the liberty of texting Marlowe from your phone. Told him you were sick and wouldn’t make it to practice. I hope that’s okay.” Ilya nodded, looking around.
“Practice is not until 2 pm. What time is it now?” Shane glanced at his watch.
“Uh, 1:18. I think this might be a record, even for you.” Ilya rubbed his face, still trying to force his eyes to open fully.
“Oh no, 4:42 pm is my personal best. Amsterdam is full of so many beautiful sins.” Shane's eyebrow arched, unimpressed, so Ilya quickly continued, “But thank you for texting him. For letting me sleep.”
“What time is your practice?”
“It was at 11. I called in, too.” Ilya carefully kept his face neutral; he could think of only one other time that Shane had called in sick, and it had literally taken David physically wrestling his car keys out of his feverish hands while Yuna threatened to hold him hostage until he agreed.
“You did not need to do that. I am okay,” His voice sounded hollow, even to him.
Shane closed his book and slid out of bed, carefully not touching Ilya.
“I went out this morning and got some food for us. I’ll get it started.” The sheets were still warm from his body, and Ilya slowly slid his hand across them as he gathered the will to follow.
He straightened the blankets and pillows, then rummaged through the drawers until he found some sweatpants and a t-shirt. All Metros gear, unfortunately, but it would do for now. He shrugged out of his robe, slipped them on, then stopped by the mirror and inspected his face.
His eyes looked sad, even by his standards. His hair had turned into a frizzy gold cloud, the way it often did after Shane’s fingers had run through his curls over and over again. He remembered Shane’s hands last night, gently soothing him, holding him while he sobbed. Those gentle fingers had felt like the last thing keeping him anchored to earth.
How long had he cried? Based on how his head felt, probably years. And Shane had just… been there. Holding him. Not cracking a joke, not trying to rush him. Giving him the extraordinary gift of space and time.
Straightening his cross necklace, he impatiently ran his hands through his hair and tried to look a little less lost.
He knew he needed to sit down and say something to Shane. Several somethings, probably. He bit the inside of his cheek, forehead furrowed in concentration. He stood still for several minutes before finally shaking out his hands and exhaling hard.
He didn’t know how to do this, and that fucking terrified him.
He always had a jab or quip for any situation, usually a half-second before anyone else could open their mouths. Whether it was with words or with hockey, he knew how to run ahead or, if necessary, defend himself until he could slide free of whatever mess he’d gotten into.
That was the trouble; he had decades of practice leaving. He had elevated it into an art form, had made it his entire fucking career. Always flying after the puck, chirping and digging until someone dropped gloves and lunged at him, drinking himself stupid afterwards until he could lose himself in a beautiful stranger’s body.
He had so little practice staying. If he was being honest, he had never wanted to stay until Shane.
For Shane, he would stay. He would fumble around and probably say the wrong thing over and over until he figured that out what the right thing was.
Ilya stepped out into the hall to find his love.
His stomach rumbled as the smell of coffee and melting butter pulled him into the kitchen.
“Pancakes?!” he exclaimed, not trying to hide his excitement. Shane glanced over his shoulder, and the corner of his mouth pulled into a small, lopsided smile.
“Yeah, protein pancakes. They’re nearly ready, give me just two minutes.” He gestured over his shoulder to where Ilya’s favorite mug and the sugar bowl sat on the counter.
Ilya slowly poured himself some coffee before turning to the sugar bowl with delight. He carefully removed the ornate lid and lifted the delicate gold spoon between his thumb and forefinger, quickly adding four scoops to his mug before Shane could see and object.
Ilya clearly remembered the morning he discovered that the most feared and talented player in the MLH, three-time Stanley Cup winner Shane Hollander, not only kept a tiny china sugar bowl at his cottage, but had intentionally chosen one decorated with birds. “You are like a very handsome babushka!” Ilya had laughed, trying to hide how desperately charmed he was by it.
“It has two red cardinals on it. I choose to think of the artist as an ally,” Shane had winked, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.
Ilya had put his pinky up for the rest of the weekend and called Shane ‘Your Highness’ at every opportunity. Shane let Ilya tease him for a day before telling him that if he was going to insist on calling him ‘Highness’, then Ilya should get on his knees and swear his allegiance properly…
Ilya glanced over at Shane’s tense back and stiff shoulders. He was still fixedly facing the stove, singlemindedly poking at a pancake while it bubbled over the heat.
What Ilya wouldn’t give for a little of that ease now.
Shane slid a plate with several pancakes towards Ilya, followed by the maple syrup. Ilya sat and hastily cut off a piece of golden pancake, mouth watering as he smothered it in syrup. He had his fork halfway to his mouth before he noticed Shane still standing by the stove, staring down at his own plate while listlessly stabbing at his butter-less, syrup-less pancake.
Ilya paused, stomach growling. Setting his fork down, he cleared his throat.
“Shane, there’s much for us to say, and I know I’m not always so good at talking, because it is boring, mostly, and because English is a stupid fucking language.” Ilya waved his hand dismissively as if he could forgive the entire language for its foibles.
“But, I am learning that it matters, most of all to you, and I want to try to learn how to do it better.” Shane’s eyes flicked up, meeting Ilya’s with a flash of hope that made Ilya’s heart squeeze.
“I want to start with, ah, thank you,” Ilya said as he blinked hard. “Thank you for coming after me even when you were probably very angry. Thank you for staying and caring for me. Thank you for texting Marlowe, and for pancakes. I… don’t deserve any of it. I don’t deserve you, and I know it.”
Shane set his plate down and folded his arms. “I love you, Ilya. This is how people treat each other when they love each other.”
Ilya used his fork to push a piece of pancake around his plate, drawing circles in the syrup like it was the most important thing he had ever done.
“But I have not treated you like this lately. I have not treated you tenderly,” he whispered.
Shane’s jaw clenched as he crossed his arms, and he stared past Ilya and out at the frozen lake.
“You are very angry at me - that is okay. Tell me, I can take it; I will not get angry back at you. But please, say it all so I know, and so you do not keep carrying it. I do not want it to rot in here,” he said, pointing a finger at his chest. He waited for a few heartbeats, but Shane still wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Ilya took another deep breath and set his palms flat on the cool countertop, spreading his fingers. Practice was the only way to learn this.
“Please, I cannot fix it if I do not know. Is it because I was… too sad?”
“No, it fucking wasn’t, Ilya!” Shane suddenly shouted, eyes shining, “There is quite literally nowhere else that I would rather be. I have moved heaven and earth to have you in my life. You make me. Do you understand that? Loving you makes me who I am. But oh my fucking god–” he vigorously ran his fingers through his hair– “I am so tired of you treating me like absolute dog shit when you get sad! It has to fucking stop.” The last sentence came out in a whisper.
“Ilya, I see your pain. I do, I really do, and I am trying with every cell in my body to understand you better. I’m sorry that I didn’t realize what was going on sooner, and I’m sorry that I didn’t know how much yesterday meant to you,” he said as his eyes finally met Ilya’s. “But just because you are sewn together with pure fucking sadness, or whatever it is that holds you together, does not mean that you can treat me or my family this way. My mother, Ilya. My mother. And I understand there was a lot going on for you, but that,” Shane said, gesturing vaguely towards home, “has got to stop. It’s disrespectful, and it’s awful, and it breaks my fucking heart.”
Ilya closed his eyes against the rushing ‘go go go-gogogogo’ that was threatening to pull him away. Clenching his jaw, he focused, trying to find the correct English words amidst the heartbeats pounding in his ears. It felt like time was running out, like if he didn’t say something soon, then some door would close and he would never-
“Yes. Yes, you are right.” The words rang out between them like the chime of a bell.
“I hurt you, and I hurt Yuna, and I am very sorry. I did it because–” he clenched his eyes closed, focusing– “because I was trying not to think. And I used fighting to keep you away, and to keep my mind busy. I think… I think I have always done this. Poked and fought to keep people away. I have always been a little shit,” he said with a soft smile.
Shane scoffed, “Yeah, I can definitely believe that. But it fucking sucks.”
“Yes, it does. And just because I have always done so, does not mean that I want to keep doing it. I just… I have not practiced another way, not yet. But I want to. I will.” He raised his eyes to meet Shane’s, trying to convey his seriousness.
“I have never had anyone I did not want to chase away, not really. I did not think anyone would ever want to stay, so it would be better if I made them leave first. Then at least it was because I was a dick, not because there was something wrong with me,” Ilya swallowed thickly.
“But I think, for some crazy fucking reason, that I might be stuck with you, Shane Hollander. And I do not ever want you to ever go away. So, I will learn a new way. Because I will still pick at you because you are slow and are the second-best hockey player in the league–” Shane smirked ever-so-slightly at the familiar quip– “But you do not deserve to be my punching bag. I love you too much to keep treating you this way. I am so fucking sorry. I don’t understand myself, but I will figure it out. I promise, it will not happen again.”
Ilya watched as his words landed, as Shane carefully considered them, turning them over in his mind like a Rubik's Cube. Eventually, Shane‘s shoulders dropped half an inch, his breathing evened out, and his jaw lost some of its tension. Ilya felt his own shoulders unclenching and his heart rate finally dropping back into the normal range.
But Shane’s posture didn’t ease entirely.
“There is something else about this that bothers you.” Shane looked away, shaking his head sharply.
“Please, solnyshko. I am not running. I am right here. We cannot figure it out if I don’t know what it is.”
“No, it’s my problem, I’ll deal with it.”
Ilya laughed mirthlessly, “Oh? What the fuck was last night, then? Was that your problem too? No, it was mine, and you helped.” He stood up and took a step towards Shane, “Please. Tell me.”
Shane sighed and looked away. “It’s so selfish. I feel like an ass.”
“Ah, this is very good! I am the best at being selfish, and you tell me all the time that I am an asshole. I’ll know exactly how to help you.”
Shane cracked a smile, “No, you’re not. Not really. You just play one on TV.” Ilya smiled and waited, watching the words roll around inside Shane’s mind until he was finally ready.
“I feel like an ass because there is literally nothing that I can actually do, you know? Like, I can ‘be here’ and ‘hold space’ or whatever the fuck, but I can’t do this for you,” Shane pressed his palms against his eyes.
“In every other aspect of my life, if I focus, commit, and really try, I will eventually get it done, I will win. And I know that’s so lucky and privileged and whatever, but it’s true for me. But now, there’s someone in my life who I love more than anything, and there is nothing I can do about his hurt and pain. And it makes me feel fucking useless. And to make it worse, sometimes while I’m standing here being fucking useless, I get the emotional shit kicked out of me just because I’m the closest thing to you.”
Ilya waited for a moment before quietly walking over to Shane. He put his hands around his wrists, gently pulling them away and wiping the tears from Shane’s cheeks.
“You think last night was nothing?” Ilya murmured, brushing his thumb across Shane’s dappled cheek. “Maybe I do not understand this word, then, because to me, last night was everything. Shane, no one has ever done anything like that for me before.”
Shane grimaced, shaking his head.
“No, it wasn’t nothing, but… I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t even get in my car until I saw you on the security cameras walking down to the lake. I was fucking terrified, and kept thinking about what I would do if something happened to you, and how I could ever go on without you, and I was so sad. But then I realized that the news would break that Ilya Rozenov died at Shane Hollander’s cottage, and there would be an investigation, police, and lawyers, and our relationship would absolutely be found out. And then I was mad at you again because it would be all your fault, but you wouldn’t be here anymore to help me. And then I got sad again,” Shane swallowed hard.
“So, I didn’t come here last night because I loved you. Not at first, anyway.”
“Maybe not, but you stayed because you love me.”
Shane waved his hand dismissively, “Maybe, but I came here because I didn’t want you to do something stupid and permanent. It felt like covering my own ass. Felt like fear.”
Ilya nodded, considering, “Yes, fear is a shitty cousin of love. It arrives at the party to remind us how much we do not want to lose the things we cherish.”
Shane hummed, thinking it over. “I know this is going to sound so fucking arrogant, but I think- I think in some ways I can’t forgive myself for not being able to love you hard enough to take away your pain.”
Ilya closed his eyes as the resonance of that wish rattled in his own chest, pressed on the tender hollowness behind his heart.
“I understand how that feels, solnyshko. And I do not know why, but that is not something we get to do in this life. I loved my mother very much, but her pain was always her own.” Shane’s face spasmed, and he looked so sad for a moment.
“God, I guess that’s true. If anyone could’ve loved someone enough to take away their pain, it would’ve been you for your mom. You love harder than anyone I’ve ever known.” Ilya said nothing, just rubbed his hands comfortingly on Shane’s arms above his stubbornly crossed arms.
“You mean it? This will stop, really?”
“Yes. Yes, I mean it. I, ah,” Ilya pulled on his earlobe, looking away. “I… have been looking up therapists. I have found two that I thought looked like they could maybe help me. I’m sorry that I haven’t called them yet, that I let you get hurt like this before I asked for help. But I will call them today and see whoever can get me first appointment.”
Shane sighed, and his shoulders finally relaxed all the way. “Wow, okay. That’s… that’s a big deal. I didn’t know if you’d be open to something like therapy. Wasn’t sure if that was something Russians usually did,” his eyes held a small spark of their old twinkle.
“No, Russians do not do this. But I need to do things differently, and I don’t know how, so maybe some professional shrink will be able to help me figure it out.”
“Ilya, you try harder than anyone else I know. I believe in you. But you have to do this. And I think- I think that terrifies me,” Shane admitted, exhaling.
“Why does that terrify you?”
“Because… because I’ve never wanted anything as badly as I want you to be happy, and I’ve never had so little control,” Shane bit his lip and looked at Ilya. “I have to let go and just trust you, and, uh, it turns out that I might be a little bit of a control freak.” Ilya tried to bite back a smile.
“Who, you? No, no, must be some other slow hockey player named Shane Hollander, is definitely not you.” Shane smiled wryly.
“I know, I know. I’m working on it.” They paused, standing close, two hearts finally beating in sync.
“What else, sweetheart? I told you, I want to hear it all. You need to get it out of your chest.” Shane scrunched up his forehead, thinking.
“I… I think that’s all. I just don’t always feel like I’m very good at loving you the way that you need.”
Ilya reached out with gentle fingers to tuck a lock of Shane’s hair behind his ear.
“I also think I also must not understand this word.” Shane looked up, questioningly, and Ilya looked him in the eyes. “Love. How can you think you do not love me well? After all of this, the crying and the pancakes, and you still do not think you love me the way I need?”
“I don’t know. I guess, I see you, and you seem to, like, really feel it. I can tell you really feel in love with me. And sometimes I’m so uncertain about feelings, you know? Like, I think what I’m feeling is love, but how do I know for sure, you know?” Ilya's lips quirked in a small smile as he shook his head, and Shane sighed.
"Anyways, I don't understand feelings, and I don't even know what they mean half the time. I envy how strongly you feel them and how confidently you follow them.”
“Shane, we are two very different people. We each have our own beautiful way of showing love.”
Shane looked unconvinced, “I feel like the way I love is sort of… unsexy. Unromantic. It’s spreadsheets, keeping the house clean, and boring stuff like that. I sometimes worry that it might not be what you need. That I’m too boring to be what you need.” Ilya opened his mouth to argue, but Shane rushed on.
“I guess, to me, love is like a - a liturgy. It's a ritual of little, ordinary things that I do over and over and over, reverently, with care. I don't trust feelings. But my actions and my own behavior? That's the only thing I've ever had any control over. I trust that. I can’t make myself feel anything, and even when I do feel something, I’m not always sure of what to do with it. But I know I will act lovingly towards you every single day for the rest of our lives." Shane bit his lip, looking a little embarrassed. Ilya felt tears prickling his eyes. God, how he loved this man.
“What I am hearing is that you worship me as your god. That is what you are saying, yes?” He tried to joke, but his voice was thick from the tears he was holding back. Shane playfully shoved his shoulders.
“You’re such an asshole!”
“Yes, I am teasing you, solnyshko. It looked like you wanted to fall through the floor, so I was trying to break the ice so you had something else to hold onto.” Ilya put his hand on Shane’s neck and pulled their foreheads together.
“Shane Hollander, I do not know what I did to find someone who loves me on purpose as you do. I do not believe I deserve you, though you seem to think so. Probably because of all of your concussions.”
“I’ve only had like two concussions ever!”
“Mm, seems unlikely based on this love behavior I’m seeing.” Ilya’s met Shane’s eyes and let his face become serious. “I will work every single day for the rest of my life to be worthy of the love you give to me as easy as breathing.”
Another silence descended, but this time it felt different. It was empty like a clearing in a dense forest is empty; full of sunshine and deep roots. Now that it had all been spoken and dragged out into the daylight, it was far less overwhelming.
“I think it is time that I call Yuna and apologize. She… she will talk to me, yes?” Shane nodded,
“Yeah, she’ll talk to you. I think she had this figured out way earlier than you and me, but you should definitely still apologize.”
“You will wait here until I come back? It would be a shame to waste a perfectly good sick day,” Ilya gave Shane a lingering glance up and down, sealing it with a wink. Shane rolled his eyes and tried to look annoyed, failing miserably.
“Oh, sure, yeah, let me just sit around and wait for you. I’ve definitely got nothing else going on.” He smiled, then his face got serious again, “I will always be here, Ilya.”
Ilya kissed him on the forehead, then on the lips, before grabbing his phone and walking towards the privacy of the bedroom.
Shane wasn’t leaving him; he hadn’t fucked this up beyond repair. He had stayed, and it hadn’t killed him.
Everything could be mended. He just had to practice, and that was easy - he knew that for Shane Hollander, he would always, always figure it out.