Archive of Our Own ^beta

Shane collapses onto the bench in the locker room. The puck slips from his hand and rolls across the Centaurs logo painted on the floor. He flinches as it clangs into the lockers on the opposite side. The slats of wood dig into his glutes, matched by the twinge of fingernails curling into his palms. His head spins, his ears ring, and his entire body is wound up so, so tight as his teammates crowd into the room. They move in a blur, and their voices bleed together into a horrible rendition of a Lady Gaga song.

The Ottawa Centaurs won the match. The Stanley Cup, actually. They won the season, for the second year running, and Shane is curled up in the corner, head shoved between his knees, unable to breathe.

It was his last match.

The nausea deep in his stomach and the itching, biting, crawling under his skin tell him this isn’t excitement. Not happiness, relief or pride. He scored the winning goal. He should be basking in victory with his teammates.

But it was the last goal of his hockey career. He will never feel that rush of victory again as the fans chant his name. He can’t hide behind his helmet anymore. No more chasing pucks or ramming the opposition against the dashers, no more leaping over the boards into his second, more confident skin. His signature shines in silver ink on the puck he dropped, out of reach.

He feels exposed now. Alone. His world crumbles in one, clean swipe. And he lays under the rubble without the foggiest clue how to start the next chapter.

Shane clamps his hands over his ears and folds deeper into himself. It’s awkward in hockey gear. He doesn’t know where his helmet went. The layers of clothing squeeze his chest impossibly tight, but he can’t move to peel it off. His teammates are still dancing as they change into their own clothes. The acrid stench of sweat fills the air and, despite its familiarity, Shane chokes up. His palms are sweaty and do little to block out the celebrations. The song has changed to something 90s, but he can’t place it through the haze.

He just won the Stanley cup on home ice, and he’s having a fucking meltdown.

His fists curl and he bites down on his knuckles. The nausea sinks deeper, twists and snarls, threatening to turn into anger. Everything is pure noise but he can’t move, no matter how badly he wants to run.

There are hands on him, on his knees and head and shoulders. Someone’s shaking him, but he can’t make out their face. He shouts and they back away, but Shane only feels worse. Did he push away a teammate? Did he push away Ilya? His husband, Ilya, where is Ilya?

More noises scratch his throat. A whimper, perhaps, or a sob. He doesn’t know. He just knows that he can’t breathe, the room still smells terrible, Ilya isn’t with him, and he lashed out on a teammate after winning the Stanley fucking cup. After his last game with the team, his second family.

The music stops. Shane’s ears ring louder and he covers his ears and squeezes his eyes shut and bites the inside of his cheeks but it’s all too much and all too loud and too bright and too much for him to process. He doesn’t know what to do. He cries out, he’s definitely crying, and realises he’s rocking back and forth. He tastes blood in his mouth and his throat burns. His skin is still writhing from his sweaty gear. The tears on his face are cold and itchy and he needs to crawl out of his body and scream at everyone to shut the fuck up and to fuck off and to leave him the fuck alone.

Shane is not okay.

Ilya has sensed it for a while. Since before they were outed. Since before they got married, even. Right from the start something has felt restrained. Something buried deep, a part of Shane that perhaps never flourished, or was never given space to grow in the first place.

He sees it in Shane’s hesitation to enter a bar. Shane’s brief responses at team dinners, well-rehearsed hums as he pushes food around his plate without ever eating a bite. At home, there’s a constant restless energy to him: he rubs his feet together when they’re sprawled out on the sofa, he twists the ring around his finger, he bites his lips and insides of his cheeks and sometimes his knuckles.

He sees it now, from his position in the stands, when Shane falters on the ice. They just won the cup, and Ilya couldn’t be prouder. Weeks of helping Shane pack suitcases and get from one state to the next, of soothing him to sleep, of helping him wake up at ungodly hours of the morning, have led up to this moment. Not the first for Shane, but the first since Ilya’s retirement.

It is the last, however.

He ignores the ache in his chest that longs to be on the ice with him. With his team.

It’s been a hard adjustment for both of them.

Shane shaking on call with the team manager, his mother, and Ilya, deciding that he’s going to retire at the end of the season. Like Ilya had the previous year. Neither can even picture their relationship without hockey. How the dynamics might change. What it will even be like to have such endless time together, no traveling, no interviews, no commercial shoots.

Shane stumbles, and Price steadies him, then Shane pushes off to leave the ice, his number 24 disappearing behind the boards. Something tightens in Ilya’s chest. Brow furrowing, he pushes down the stands and slips round the rink. Shane doesn’t see him, but Ilya sees the flush on Shane’s cheeks, the way he had gripped Ryan’s arm, even the glisten in his eyes as he hugs the winning puck to his chest.

Ilya knows it’s not excitement or happiness or pride.

“Ilya, what-” Svetlana catches up with him, and Ilya barely spares her a glance as he shoves his car keys towards her.

“Wait in the car. I need to get to Shane.”

It’s not easy to push through the crowds. Fans surge towards the gates as the players file off. They scream for photos and autographs and Ilya knows all too well what it’s like to be confronted with the noise of it all. A group of Centaurs fans beat their drums louder, starting another wave of chants, and Ilya knows Shane can hear it all from the locker room.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

Ilya ignores the security guard. He easily hops over the board. He knows the way to the locker room, but it’s blocked by managers and media teams and rink staff. He keeps his head up high: they know who he is, and no one else tries to intercept him.

“Rozy! Good to see you!”

“Rozanov!”

“Hey, man!”

He offers quick smiles and nods. He’ll congratulate them all later. He’ll be at the celebration dinner. Now, his only goal is to get to Shane.

“Rozanov!” He ignores it again. “Rozanov!” More insistent. Ilya’s frown deepens, then he’s stopped by Troy.

“Barrett,” Ilya says, breathless. “Where is Shane?”

“We were hoping you’d come. He’s freaking out. He’s still in his gear.”

“Is he in the locker room?”

Ilya doesn’t wait for a reply. He pushes the door open. He beelines straight for the usual corner, and finds his husband curled up impossibly small.

Ilya is crouched in front of him in an instant. He extends a hand, a small, tentative invite to encroach on Shane’s space.

“Solnyshko?” He says gently. His eyes dart all over his husband to take in the painful sight of his raw knuckles and quivering frame that drowns in his hockey gear. He still has his skates on, Ilya notices, heart clenching.

“Shane?” He tries again.

Shane stops rocking but doesn’t look up. Ilya can hear his gasping breaths as he lifts a hand from over his ears and Ilya takes the opportunity, intertwining their fingers and rubbing gentle circles into the back of Shane’s hand.

“Shane, solnyshko, my love, I’m here,” Ilya says. His own heart beats in his throat and he swallows it down, not wanting any of his own concern to slip through the cracks.

Shane rocks slower now, and he offers a tiny squeeze of Ilya’s hand. Then a second. I love you. Ilya squeezes back, thumb still circling and eyes still scanning.

He’s researched this. He’s spent nights lying awake, phone screen lighting up his face while Shane sleeps curled on his chest. How to manage meltdowns. How to stop meltdowns. What even is a meltdown. Meltdowns vs shutdowns vs panic attacks vs anxiety attacks. It’s all so confusing. So difficult to know what to do. The first time he saw Shane close to this was when Shane’s father saw them at the cottage. It doesn’t happen often, but Ilya hasn't missed the increasing severity.

He bites back the words he wants to say. He has compiled lists of resources, therapists, books, articles, anything he thinks could help Shane understand this part of himself. But has yet to bring it up with him. Ilya softly mentioned the possibility of autism two years ago, and it ended in a situation not dissimilar to this, only Shane had shut himself away in their bedroom and ignored all advances from Ilya. Anya didn’t move from outside the door all afternoon.

Now, Ilya gently places his other hand on Shane’s knee. A small advance. A question. Can I come closer?

Shane sniffs loudly, clears his throat, but his breathing still rattles his chest and his body shakes with the intensity of it all.

“Can I take your skates off?” Ilya asks.

Another squeeze.

Shane doesn’t let go of his hand so Ilya has to remove the skates with only his right hand, which is easier said than done even for a pro hockey player such as himself. The dead weight of Shane’s legs makes it harder. Ilya puts the skates in their bag.

“Can I change your clothes?”

Shane doesn’t squeeze this time, so Ilya waits. Patience, he has learnt, is the only thing he can do right every time. He sees his husband grapple with his desires to both lean into Ilya and to lock the walls tighter around himself; Shane clings onto his hand unbearably tight, yet keeps his knees close to his chest, doesn’t lift his head so Ilya can’t see the extent of his sadness. His panic. His… Ilya isn’t sure of the word. The terminology around autism is new to him, in both Russian and English. But he wants to learn, to be there for Shane.

He breathes slowly and deliberately. The post-game bustle still permeates the walls. The players’ gear is still strewn over the cubbies and benches and floor. They’re alone in the room, but the proximity of the outside world is a sharp reminder that these meltdowns have begun to cloud the most treasured thing in Shane’s life outside of their relationship. Hockey. The crowds gradually die down, leaving the air tense in their wake.

Shane squeezes Ilya’s hand, so Ilya gently but hastily removes Shane’s hockey gear and helps him into his hoodie that is actually Ilya’s, and sweatpants. In doing so, Shane has to look up. He doesn’t meet his eyes, but Ilya sees his freckles glisten with tears and his jaw tightens from the effort of not hugging him tight. He whispers small encouragements throughout. He slings Shane’s sports bag over his shoulder and helps him out the door.

The Centaurs wait in a crowd outside. Everyone else has cleared off, no doubt Ryan’s doing, and Ilya thanks them all and promises to update them later.

Shane slumps into Ilya’s side. Ilya catches him, pulls him close and tenderly squeezes the back of Shane’s neck, just where his hair fades away. Calmer now, Shane shuts his eyes and breathes completely in and out. He’s safe. He’s with his husband. He’s okay. His cheek scratches against the zip of Ilya’s leather jacket. His head pounds, probably dehydration, and his throat is sore, but his body is less tense and he can breathe better and think more clearly. There’s no pressure to speak, he knows that, so he just lets out a small hum and settles.

By the time Svetlana drops them home, Shane’s thoughts have cleared and his stomach and chest and fists have relaxed, and he can see Ilya’s face in front of him.

“Hi,” he says, then grimaces at the croak. “Sorry.”

Ilya pulls him down onto the couch and into a tight embrace. The thumping of Anya’s tail against the rug makes them both giggle.

“No apologies.”

“Sorry.”

“Shane,” Ilya says, a warning laced with a soft, tender laugh that shows he’s not mad at all. Shane still pulls back and examines his face, just to be sure. He meets round eyes that glimmer with concern and love, and lips bitten with worry.

Shane closes the gap between them and they kiss, slow and careful. Shane’s fingers tangle through Ilya’s curls, and Ilya reciprocates by holding his waist, a grounding gesture that has Shane keening.

They pull apart, and Shane is breathless again as their foreheads rest together. Ilya smiles, then kisses his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, before laying down on the couch with Shane pressed to his chest. They lay in silence for a while, fingers quietly exploring but never really going anywhere.

But Shane can sense the unspoken words from Ilya’s clenched jaw and his eyes that look up, or through, the ceiling. Shane has his own things he wants to say. He was on the ice. And then he wasn’t. He was okay. And then he wasn’t.

He was a hockey player, and then he wasn’t.

He swallows and curls his fingers a little tighter into Ilya’s hair. The press of his body against Ilya’s teeters on the edge of too much. Just like how the noise of the fans and his teammates on the ice was just on the edge, enough to be stimulating and pump him with adrenaline, until it was too much and he broke down and wanted it all to go away.

His grits his jaw at the sick thought that his wish has come true. He looks away from the framed photo of the Centaurs, taken mid-season last year, Shane and Ilya next to each other in the middle. It hangs on the wall above the couch, next to a photo of llya and his mother.

He won the Stanley cup and had a breakdown instead of celebrating and congratulating his teammates.

He shouted at one of them. Possibly more. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything, but he wants it all to go away, for the icky feeling of shame that rises quickly through his torso to go away, to leave him and Ilya alone.

Ilya. Ilya helped him. Again. Shane should thank him, apologise, promise that it will never happen again, that he will never spoil a single moment with him again.

Shane sits bolt upright, and his hands go to his own hair and he plants his elbows on his knees and draws a shaky breath. Ilya is right there, sat beside him, hand rubbing his back.

“Hey, moy lyubimyy,” Ilya says. Shane sniffs.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice betrays him because the emotions choke him and he pushes his face into Ilya’s shoulder, and they go through the motions again.

Ilya cradles him, presses kisses over his face and head, rubs his back and neck, reassures him he’s safe. Anya jumps up and wriggles over their laps, inserting herself as gracefully as ever into their embrace, and her unconditional affection warms Shane’s stiff insides.

Then the wave passes, and Shane is left in Ilya’s arms, no more tears but able to breathe again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and is met with Ilya’s soft hushes.

“Is okay. No apologies,” Ilya replies. He cups Shane’s chin. “Would you like to talk about what happened?”

Shane sniffs, and shrugs. It’s an offer for Shane to hear those unspoken words. He knows Ilya is concerned. He knows they have yet to discuss the diagnosis properly. But Shane wants it all to pour out just as much as he wants to keep it bolted away for no one to see.

“You don’t have to,” Ilya continues, “but I am here for you. I will listen.”

Ilya is scanning him over again, and something in Shane writhes at being observed so closely. He’s not new to being taken apart by Ilya’s attentive gaze, but it feels new to be under scrutiny over… this. Whatever this is. He’s cried in front of Ilya countless times. Hell, he cries during sex more often than not. And yet, right now, shaken from tears and reeling from his utter inability to process winning the cup and retiring, Shane feels he is under a new kind of scrutiny.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says.

“Look at you like what?” Ilya asks. It’s a genuine question, and Shane doesn’t even know the answer. Ilya pulls away a little and Shane lets him, but his hand lingers on the small of his back.

“I don’t know.” Shane bites his cheeks. A habit he should stop, he knows, but can’t.

Stimming.

Sensory-seeking behaviour.

The words circle his mind. He feels ridiculed by them. He knows Ilya stays up researching at night. He’s done plenty of googling himself, since his diagnosis. Every new thing he learns bites back at him. It all dances around in his brain in one overwhelming, damning display that won’t quiet down no matter how much he wishes it all to just stop.

He doesn’t want to be autistic. He wishes he wasn’t. He wishes he could go back to the days before he was diagnosed. Before the subject even came up.

He doesn’t like how this label goes everywhere with him. No one knows besides his family, Svetlana and Rose, and his teammates, and yet when out in town he convinces himself people can see it in him, that fans can see it as he’s sat on the bench in the rink. It feels like a mocking, neon sign above his head all the damn time.

“You are thinking. Is very loud,” Ilya says, and Shane blinks and exhales through his nose. “You are like Anya when you breathe like that.”

Shane grunts in reply. He smiles a little and lets Ilya kiss him again. He doesn’t want to talk about it right now. But he knows he can’t avoid the conversation much longer.

“All the clinical signs… repetitive behaviors… sensory issues… literal thinking… limited interests… can confirm your diagnosis of Autism Spectrum Disorder… next steps…”

The psychiatrist continued, but Ilya wasn’t listening anymore. Not really. He was studying Shane’s expression. They were on a Zoom call in the privacy of their own home, before the season really started, and Ilya was sat far enough to be just out of frame but close enough for Shane to quickly meet his eyes and grab his thigh when the psychiatrist confirmed the very thing Shane had been running from.

Shane worried his teeth over his bottom lip and frowned deeply. He was nodding and humming, but Ilya could tell he also wasn’t listening from the bouncing of his knee and unfocused eyes and him twisting his ring around his finger.

The call finally ended, and Shane continued to stare. The glistening marble counters felt mocking, such a contrast to the dishes piled in the sink and the unopened mail scattered about the place and the kitchen cupboards that didn’t quite shut because Ilya had shoved the pots and pans away the night before and neither had bothered to fix them.

Ilya shifted the chair closer but remained quiet. He couldn’t quite tell what Shane was thinking but braced himself for the worse. Shane tended to worry things through on his own. Ilya was determined to not let Shane work through this on his own. He helped him fill out the questionnaires. He filled out the referral form on his behalf. He even attended the doctor’s appointment where Shane quietly admitted he wanted support and would take the leap for a diagnosis.

Ilya took Shane’s hands into his own to stop him twisting the ring.

“You are shaking,” he said.

“No, I’m not,” Shane replied.

Ilya held back a scoff. “How do you feel?” he asked instead.

Shane shrugged. “I…” Ilya’s eyes trailed down to watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat, then to the irregular rise and fall of his chest. His leg was still bouncing. He squeezed Shane’s hands and leaned closer.

“You do not need to answer. We can do something fun. We can watch a movie or go for a walk.”

“I…” Shane tried again, then shook his head. He looked at Ilya. Ilya looked back. Shane darted his eyes down and back to safety, swallowed thickly again, and Ilya breathed slowly in favor of letting his own thoughts run wild.

His husband is autistic.

The little mannerisms that had only made him fall harder for Shane all those years ago made sense now. The times he didn’t quite understand an innuendo made sense. The days Shane was quiet, unable to speak, but also the times he spoke for hours on end about a single topic, it all made sense.

Ilya loves him so much.

“I love you,” he said. Emotions tickled his throat and he swallowed, but the lump only returned thicker.

“Are you upset?”

Ilya hadn’t expected the question. “What?” He wiped his eyes. “No, I am emotional because I love you.”

Shane looked down and smiled. Shaky, but it was there.

“I love you, too. So much.”

They sat in silence again, but it was warmer, the air a tad calmer. Shane suddenly stood and climbed into Ilya’s lap and tucked his head into his neck, hugging him tight.

“I don’t know how I feel,” he finally said. “It’s all so confusing. I… I don’t… I think… ugh, I don’t know what to say. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Is okay,” Ilya replied. He twisted a long lock of Shane’s hair around his finger, and pressed kisses to his head. “We will learn about this together, yes?”

Shane hummed in response.

“This does not change anything about you. I love you, solnyshko. All of you.”

Shane pulled back and looked at Ilya with watery eyes.

“I think…” he drew a shaky breath, closed his eyes, and Ilya waited for him to gather his thoughts, never stopping smiling. “I think I’m happy to finally know the answer.”

The happiness had not lasted long. Shane wasn’t even sure if he was telling the truth, but he trusts that at least a small part of himself was happy in that moment. Shane had called his parents shortly after and they been supportive as ever, apologized all over again for not noticing signs when he was a child, and many I love yous were exchanged before he could hang up and fall into bed with Ilya.

Then he started overthinking, like he is now, when it’s time to go to bed. It’s a daily ritual. His mixed emotions over it all. He hates how the websites all focus on young white boys and what their moms should do for their little darlings. He hates how said moms speak of their children on forums like they’re fragile, delicate beings that should be protected from the world and could never do wrong and are so special. He hates the posts online where people claim to be autistic because of one tiny thing, or people using it as an insult to classmates who get a question wrong or don’t have any friends.

Shane struggled to make friends at school, until hockey came along. Then he had something to talk to his peers about. He wondered if that was the autism. He overthinks everything he says and does these days. The one glass he always drinks out of, the way he makes the bed as soon as he gets up despite Ilya’s sleepy protests, even how he mirrors the style of the person he’s texting. Every tiny part of his day has been suddenly thrown under the microscope of his own brain. It occupies every waking hour. He should be thinking about hockey, about his husband, about… about everything except if he is masking or just being himself. Or maybe being himself is the mask. Or is he a horrible person for making that joke or is he horrible person for pretending to even have autism in the first place.

Now, knowing he will never wear a Centaurs jersey again, he feels hollow. What will his new daily routine look like? What is he supposed to do during the hockey season? Should he still go to the gym? Eat the same high-protein foods? What about his macrobiotic diet?

Who even is he?

“You are not pretending,” Ilya says. Shane doesn’t know how many times he’s asked his husband.

“But how do you know? How do I know?”

Ilya sits up, adjusts the navy covers over their legs, and pulls Shane to his chest. Shane settles on instinct, even with the coil of anxiety in his stomach. Ilya’s hair is damp from showering, several shades darker than when dry, and he smells of aftershave. The hot water has blotched his skin, and the fading scars up his left arm disappear into the blush. His gold cross shines next to Shane’s head, illuminated by the gentle glow from the lamp in the corner, and Shane mindlessly reaches to fiddle with it, the metal surprisingly cold against the heat of Ilya’s bare chest.

“You would know if you are pretending.”

“Would I?”

Ilya gives a pointed look, and Shane sighs.

“I just… I don’t know who I am right now.”

“You are my husband. My beautiful, pretty, amazing husband.”

“Fuck off.” It has no bite, and Shane blushes as he says it.

"Is the truth." Ilya kisses Shane's neck. Shane sighs at the tingle that makes his spine quiver a little. "Moy lyubimyy, you are thinking again." Shane snorts at this but lets Ilya continue. "Is not healthy."

"I overthink every fucking thing I do nowadays," Shane says. He's so tired. "I haven't even celebrated winning the cup with the guys, and I'm so... I'm... I'm so tired and I don't know who I am or what part of me is real and what part is a mask or what is autism or anxiety or... or... who I’m supposed to be without hockey. It’s all I did as a kid. All I ever did, and do, really. And now… now…"

Shane feels Ilya tighten the embrace, and he lets his words trail off. He doesn't need to burden Ilya with all this. He presses his own bare chest against Ilya’s.

"You can use the list the psychiatrist gave you, yes?" Ilya says. The suggestion is always there, Ilya always waiting for Shane to take the bait, but he doesn't. He can't. He doesn't know what is stopping him, but he can't.

Shane crawls out of bed and straightens the sheets. He organizes the hockey and bird books on his nightstand and pads out to the kitchen to refill his glass with water. He gulps down half of it, breathes in, counts to four, then breathes out. When he turns around, Ilya is waiting at the doorway to the bedroom, arms across his chest with gentle questioning and brows knitted a little.

"I'm sorry," Shane blurts out. He chews his cheeks.

Ilya approaches and sits at on a barstool. Anya pads over from where she was inspecting the rug in the living room and settles beneath the chair.

"You can use the support whenever you are ready. I am not going to rush you, ever." Ilya reaches out a hand, and Shane accepts the offer and lets their fingers tangle together. He rests his chin on Ilya's head. He likes the sensation of his curls scratching his skin.

"I'm so scared that I'm not really the person you married."

Ilya looks up at him.

"You are Shane Hollander, yes?"

Shane rolls his eyes, then bites his cheeks again. He places his glass on the counter, picks it up for another sip, then puts it back down.

"I mean... I... I mean, well, because I don't know who I am, I'm scared I'm acting all different with all this trying to unmask stuff, and I'm worried that... I... worried that I'm now really different to the Shane that you fell in love with. I don’t know which is the real me."

It sounds silly, now that he's saying it. He feels his cheeks redden and he starts to backtrack and apologize but Ilya shushes him, cradling his head and pulling their lips together.

"I love all of you, solnyshko. Yes, the meltdowns are more often, maybe. Yes, you let yourself stim more now. But that is all still you. And I love you. I love you, ya tebya lyublyu.”

Shane kisses him, hard. His nose presses again Ilya's cheek, his hands explore Ilya's back under his shirt and their tongues dance together in a ritual that never gets boring, that feels brand new every single time. Shane lets Ilya take control, and he's led back to the bedroom and pushed onto the bed.

"Want me to show you how much I love you?" Ilya asks. His face is already flushed and his eyes shine with a hunger that makes Shane feel mushy and pliant and so, so loved. Chosen. Wanted.

"Fuck, Ilya," Shane replies.

"Do you want it?" Ilya teases his fingertips over the waistband of Shane’s pajama pants. "Do you want to... celebrate winning the cup?" He wriggles his brows, and the tension is gone. Shane's insecurities fizzle away and he tells him yes please fuck me right now or I will fuck you.

While in bed being taken apart by Ilya, Shane knows he is never masking. He moans and whines as Ilya takes his time taking off both their clothes and takes even more time kissing him.

"Hurry up." Shane bucks his hips in search of pleasure, but Ilya only presses him back down and keeps his hand on his waist as he kisses him again. Shane can only whimper into his mouth. Ilya's tongue swipes against his own and Shane feels it right down to his toes, which curl when Ilya traces a lazy finger around his nipples.

"You are so pretty," Ilya says.

"Yes, okay, you too, now fuck me." Shane kicks his legs and uses all his strength to push Ilya off him and roll them both over. Ilya laughs, calls him cute, and Shane releases a noise he didn't even know was possible. “Your hair is gonna get the sheets wet.”

"You are so impatient." Ilya pinches his nipples and Shane gasps, falling loose onto his husband. He lets Ilya flip them again. "You are cup champion. You have scored more goals than any other hockey player ever. I want to take my time celebrating you tonight." Ilya kisses along his jaw, nips at his earlobe, and Shane responds with another whine and finds purchase with his fingers in Ilya's hair. He pulls Ilya away, meets his eyes with his own dark hunger. He wants to be taken apart, agonizingly slow, piece by piece, yet also needs Ilya now.

"I need you," Shane whispers, attempting poorly to rut against his husband's thigh.

"You have me." Shane shudders as Ilya kisses down his neck and latches onto one of his nipples, sucking and biting as he twists the other between his fingers.

Shane throws his head back and gives in, totally pliant and ready for whatever Ilya has planned for tonight. He screws his eyes shut to focus on the pleasure as Ilya continues his trail of kisses down to his hips. He massages slow, teasing circles into his waist, so close yet so far from the ache in his dick. Shane feels his length drip onto his thigh. He's leaking in his underwear, and he squeezes his thighs together in a bleak attempt at stopping it.

"Look at you," Ilya says. Shane opens his eyes, fingers curling into the sheets. The pleasure is already overwhelming. It's all he can feel, and Ilya hasn't even touched his cock yet. He throbs all over, palms sweaty, and his breath hitches as Ilya squeezes his waist and begins work on his other nipple. The pleasure shoots through him and clouds his mind. It drowns all the unwelcome thoughts and leaves only those about Ilya, his husband.

"Fuck," Shane pants.

Ilya keeps going, teeth grazing over the sensitive bud, and Shane grits his own teeth. The pleasure pools dangerously in his cock, which is still leaking and flush with anticipation. Ilya pulls both their pants off, and they join the pile of already discarded laundry, and suddenly grinds down without warning, and the shock of his hard length against Shane's own sends spasms through him. He sways on the edge of an orgasm and grips Ilya's hair so tight his knuckles pale and his legs lock up.

"You are coming already?" Ilya asks. Shane can hear the smirk in his voice and swats at where he thinks his head is but misses, and Ilya catches his hand and sucks his thumb into his mouth. His other hand continues at Shane’s chest.

"Fuck, yes... I'm... I'm..."

Ilya grinds down again and Shane comes undone with a high, long whimper. His eyes squeeze so tight he sees stars and Ilya holds his hand as his toes curl and his release spatters both their stomachs.

"Jesus fucking Christ." Shane sits up on his elbows once the waves have ebbed away. He opens his eyes to Ilya's smug look and can't say another word before he's being kissed back down into the mattress.

They're sticky from his release and he still shivers from orgasm as Ilya marks his neck and holds him close and whispers sweet nothings in Russian. It's overwhelming, the surge of both physical and emotional sensations coursing through his veins, but he lets the waves carry him out to sea, wishing he could drown in it all and stay wrapped in the feeling forever.

Ilya kisses his neck before nuzzling into him.

“Are there even any autistic hockey players? Fucking hell, I..."

Ilya wraps his limbs tighter around him. Shane stares at the ceiling, panting, and feels terrible for ruining the moment with his own anxiety.

"Solnyshko," Ilya cups his cheeks so Shane can't back away. Shane looks at his lips. "Solnyshko, you are incredible player."

"I thought I had a weak backhand," Shane quips, falling back into his argumentative, teasing role so easily as he melts under Ilya's touch.

"Even with weak backhand, you are strong and incredible hockey player. You have led two teams to win the cup. Multiple times. And you were autistic all that time as well."

"But I didn't struggle with such small things back then."

"Doctor said it is normal to... regress? Regress a little," Ilya finds the word. "Skill regression is normal. You are still as good at hockey as you always were. You scored three goals today. Three! You won for the team. You could win the cup all by yourself if you wanted to."

Shane scoffs but drinks up the praise. Ilya reaches over him for a tissue and starts to clean up their stomachs. Meanwhile, Shane thinks of the winning puck he left in the locker room and makes a note to text the team chat to ask if someone can collect it for him, although he can’t imagine it sitting amongst the rest of his trophies. He hasn’t kept a space for his last puck. He had always denied the inevitable, until now.

"Being autistic does not mean you are less of a hockey player, Shane." Ilya is serious again, and Shane feels the hot flush of want return under his skin

"Yes, sir."

"Sir?"

Shane reddens and looks away.

"Sir?" Ilya repeats, and Shane swats him away with a laugh.

"Yes, sir," Shane says it again, this time biting his cheeks afterwards with a glint in his eye.

"You are unbelievable. I am trying to comfort you but you just want my dick, huh?"

"Maybe." Ilya leans over him, caging him in with his arms. Shane grabs his biceps, traces over the veins in the muscles. His eyes linger on the pink scars a tad too long, then he looks back at Ilya’s lips. "You said you'd celebrate my win. That you'd fuck me and show me how much you love me. Want you to fuck me. Until I can’t think anymore."

"You are already hard again." Ilya wraps his hands around Shane's length with no warning, and Shane crumbles.

"Fuck, Ilya."

"Don't you mean sir?"

"Fuck off." But it's a weak whine with no bite because Ilya closes his lips around Shane's cock and takes him straight to the hilt, nose brushing through the hairs and hands pinning his waist down. "Fuck. Oh, fuck."

Ilya pulls off and licks one long, slow line up his shaft before tonguing at the slit. He spits, rubs it up and down until it mixes with the salty precum, and takes him into his mouth again. It's bliss for Shane. Warm, hot, cosy but so, so messy.

"Fuck." He groans again. He's close. He grips Ilya's hair and folds his legs so his knees press around Ilya's head and his heels dig into the mattress.

Ilya pulls off, and Shane is left gasping as the orgasm fizzles away.

"Ilya," Shane starts, but can't continue because Ilya is folding his legs up higher and prodding at his entrance. "Ilya." He keens, clenching down on nothing.

"So pretty."

"Shut up and fuck me."

"Are you ready?"

Shane glares but guesses it doesn't come across with the intended ferocity because Ilya just coos and pecks his lips.

"Well?" Ilya asks again.

"Fuck off. I'm ready."

Ilya makes quick work of opening Shane up. One finger becomes two, and by the third Shane is close to ripping the sheets from pleasure and frustration. "I need you, now." He repeats it over and over, and Ilya only teases his prostate with more vigor, kisses longer trails down his thighs, pumps his fingers faster.

"Ilya fuck, I'm... ah, fuck. Stop, Ilya, stop, I'm gonna..."

Ilya pulls out and sits back. He studies Shane, who catches his breath and wipes his forehead.

"Okay?" Ilya checks in, and Shane swallows and nods.

"Yeah, I... I was gonna come. Want to come with... with you in me." Shane shuts his eyes and sinks into the pillows again. The sheets are itchy and already damp with sweat and precum. His hair is sticking to his forehead in the way that he hates. He can feel his heart beating a little too close to his throat. But he doesn't care. It's verging on too much, but he wants more. Wants Ilya.

"Fuck, Shane."

Ilya grabs the lube again and slicks up his cock, kissing hungrily at Shane's chest and stomach as he does so.

"Tell me if it is too much."

"'M not weak," Shane mumbles back.

"Didn't say you were."

Ilya can just never really tell if Shane's tears are good or bad. They've always been good, but Ilya's gentle concern and utter commitment to consent always makes Shane cry harder. He tears up now and reassures Ilya it's just because he needs to fucking hurry up.

Ilya sinks in slowly, inch by inch, and Shane digs his nails into his back. He pauses halfway, peppering Shane with kisses all over again until Shane pushes for more, and he finally locks all the way in.

They lay there for a while, neither moving, and Shane hooks his legs around Ilya to hold him close. He breathes in the shampoo they share.

"Is okay?" Ilya whispers. He still hasn't moved, and Shane breathes deeply.

"Yes," he replies. His next breath fills his stomach and Ilya's cock twitches against his prostate, sending a jolt of pleasure through him. "Just... adjusting."

He always needs a few quiet minutes to get used to Ilya inside of him, even after over a decade. He feels the fullness all the way to his chest, it makes the edges of his mind fade away, and his toes curl reflexively. Most of all, it feels like nothing else he ever feels. He needs a moment to transition into it, to properly situate himself and lean into the bliss, before he eventually bucks his hips.

Ilya recognizes the signal now and starts with a slow, small thrust. Shane throws his head back and his legs weaken, no longer able to support themselves up so Ilya holds his thighs, brings his legs to rest on his shoulders as he sets a steady pace.

Shane back arches off the bed when Ilya's dick touches his prostate just right. Ilya sinks his teeth into the crease where his neck meets his shoulder, kisses up to behind his ears, back down again. Shane feels each thrust in his gut and in his own cock, which has already filled out again and is leaking at the tip.

Ilya curses in Russian and English into Shane's neck as he quickens the pace. They moan into each other’s mouths. Their hands roam every crevice, no area untouched. Their foreheads settle together and their noses brush. The next kiss is messy, more pants than anything, and Shane can't think or feel anything except Ilya. Ilya.

"Fuck, Ilya."

"Shane."

Ilya rolls Shane onto his side, barely stopping his thrusts, and wraps around his torso and holds his leg up for better access, their bodies perfectly slotting together as they spoon. In this new angle, his cock hits his prostate dead on, and Shane bares his neck as he tries to push back into Ilya. He's weak all over, Ilya doing all the work to hold him in place while he lets him fuck him over and over and over.

"Look at yourself," Ilya grunts. "Fuck..."

Shane opens his eyes and meets his own gaze in the mirror in the corner. He's been fucked against the mirror, and on the chair in front of the mirror, riding Ilya's cock right to heaven, yet somehow none of that compares to the intensity of seeing himself sprawled out, bare, limp at Ilya's mercy.

He whimpers as his eyes trail down his flushed chest, past his swollen nipples to his red, leaking cock.

"Tell yourself how pretty you are," Ilya says. He meets his eyes in the mirror, his own fuck drunk expression only spurring Shane to moan louder. The pleasure mounts impossibly high in his groin. Ilya pulls his leg up higher and Shane feels so exposed in a way he never imagined was possible.

"Say it," Ilya says, sucking a bruising hickey into Shane's neck.

"Ah, fuck, Ilya." Shane nearly topples over, but Ilya catches him and pushes him down into the mattress, now on top and fucking him harder.

"Say. It."

"I'm... fuck... I'm pretty, I'm pretty, I'm... ah, fuck..."

Shane comes all over himself before he can process what is even happening. He scrambles for purchase on the sheets, his cock throbbing with each wave. Ilya presses his hands into Shane's hips and fucks him harder through the orgasm. Shane clenches down tight around his cock, drawing out moans as Ilya chases his own release.

Shane feels the pleasure through his legs, swirling in his stomach, in the tingle in his fingertips and the thumping of his heart in his throat. His cock twitches against the sheets to release its final drops before he falls completely limp. Ilya keeps going, pulling Shane's hips back onto him.

It toes the line between pleasure and pain, and he basks in the overstimulation, so fucked out and whimpering under the hands of his husband. He knows Ilya is close when the grip on his waist tightens.

He whines when Ilya stops, feeling the warmth of his come fill him up to the brim.

"Ilya," he pants, muffled by the pillows.

"Shane," Ilya moans through his own orgasm. He gives a final few thrusts, then gently rolls them onto their sides again.

"'M all sticky," Shane mumbles, but he can't quite bring himself to care about the sensation of come on his stomach and leaking from his ass just yet.

Ilya slowly pulls out, leans for more tissues, and Shane weakly jokes about how they're gonna need to buy even more soon as Ilya wipes the worst off him. Shane's hole clenches around nothing, and he arches his back as he feels come drip out and down the curve of his ass.

"Mhm, love you," Shane says, smiling silly.

"I love you more," Ilya says, aiming the tissues for the bin but missing completely.

"'S good you play hockey not basketball."

"Fuck off."

"Pick them up when I'm done with you."

"Done with me?"

"Mhm. Cuddles and kisses first."

They do just that, and any doubts Shane had before are washed away as he soaks in Ilya's presence. They kiss lazily, and Shane eventually crawls onto Ilya's lap and Ilya rocks him gently, humming a little tune he makes up.

The house is quiet. A car goes past outside, followed by a truck. The fridge hums in the kitchen, but not loud enough for Shane to be bothered by it right now. He plasters himself to Ilya's chest, seeking all the body contact he can find, and twirls Ilya's curls around his fingers over and over again.

"How do you feel?" Ilya asks after a while.

"Nice. Safe." Shane thinks. "I don't care what anyone else thinks right now. The quiet is nice."

"Good. I am glad." Ilya strokes his cheeks and smiles, and Shane inspects his eyes for signs of emotions that might say otherwise. There's a glint, slightly watery, and Shane's breath hitches.

"Are you crying?"

Ilya shakes his head. "I am proud of you."

"Oh," Shane can't help the ejection. He clears his throat and looks away.

"You won the cup. My husband won the Stanley cup!" Ilya shakes him and Shane laughs, falling backwards and dragging Ilya with him. They lay on top of each other. "Of course I am proud. I am proud to be your husband. I will tell the team that."

Shane cups his head and pulls him down and kisses him hard.

“What are you doing?” Shane appears behind Ilya and wraps his arms around his neck as he leans over the back of the couch to peer at his laptop screen. He hands Ilya his morning cup of coffee.

The question was flat, neutral, and Ilya looks up at his husband, pulls the hood of his sweater down, receiving the mug with a short peck to Shane’s lips. Shane reaches to scratch Anya's head.

“Research,” he replies. He flicks through the tabs to show Shane.

Autism in adults.

What is neurodivergent masking?

How to unmask.

So many websites, so many rainbow infinity signs, and Ilya studies Shane’s blank expression as he takes it all in.

“Want to sit?” He offers. Shane silently walks round the sofa and sits down. He leaves a foot of space between them, and Ilya doesn’t comment.

He keeps reading, keeps his breathing steady to ground Shane while he tries to focus on both the information and any subtle signs that Shane might not be okay with his research.

He comes across a new word. Rejection sensitive dysphoria. He opens google translate but doesn’t quite grasp the meaning of the Russian words, so digs a little deeper to try to understand, all while Shane sits quietly, hands twisting in his lap.

Ilya understands it. He pauses, thinks about when he found Shane crying under the covers a few years back when he’d missed a goal and thought his team hated him. About when he wouldn’t speak for days after that dreaded meeting with the league commissioner. Even about those small moments where he’d flinch from someone raising their voice or worry that people were only pretending to like him. How he'd scratched his skin until it bled when the Voyageurs shunted him to the sidelines. Is that rejection sensitivity? He wonders, glancing at Shane, but doesn’t ask.

Memories of their early relationship, if it could even be called that, invade his mind now. How did Shane really react when Ilya wouldn’t message for six entire months? What about following their arguments? Or when Ilya sent him away after that time in Vegas?

Gosh, he’d been stupid. They’d both been young, stupid and lost, but his stomach clenches now at the realisation of just how badly those moments must have eaten away at his husband. Maybe they still do.

“Shane?” Ilya says now. Shane hums, but doesn’t move to sit any closer. “Shane, I… fuck, I know I said bad things and hurt you back then, but I didn’t know it could be like this.” He gestures vaguely to his laptop on his knees and sighs.

He doesn’t know what to do. He clicks on another website, one about how to manage RSD, and Ilya mentally files the acronym away.

“You didn’t take your meds this morning.” Shane breaks the silence.

Ilya turns to look at him. “What?” Shane sips his own mug of green tea to appear busy.

“You haven’t taken your meds yet,” Shane repeats. He’s still tense. His eyes flick to Ilya’s screen and he squirms a little, knuckles whitening around the old snoopy mug.

Ilya knows he hasn’t but looks away from his husband at the confrontation. His head buzzes all of a sudden, a thick, gloopy haze clouding the forefront of his brain so quickly that he struggles to stand. Anya follows him to the kitchen, probably wondering if it's lunchtime already. He realizes he’s shaking a little, his throat is tight, and as he swallows down the first pill and breaks the second in half - he knows that's over his dose, and his throat nearly doesn't let him swallow it - he can only think about every horrible way he might have hurt Shane. Cut deeper wounds than ever intended or expected.

He'd been stupid. How could Shane love him after all that?

Shane wraps his arms around him in the kitchen, and Ilya places the glass in the sink with the rest and hugs back, praying he didn't spot the extra half pill and pressing his face into Shane’s neck. Shane thinks he sees mold on one of the plates in the sink and reminds himself to ask Rose to come over and help them both again.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. He’s apologizing for everything and nothing at the same time.

“For doing research?”

Ilya shakes his head and squeezes him close. “For forgetting my meds again.”

They both know it’s a lie, but Shane doesn’t comment.

Shane’s silence makes Ilya pull away and take in Shane’s expression. He’s frowning now, worrying his teeth over his bottom lip. He avoids Ilya’s eyes and his toes curl in his fluffy duck-themed socks.

“How do you know more about being neurodivergent than I do?”

Ilya laughs now, easing the tension. He moves a few books and the video game controllers off the sofa to the coffee table. “I like learning. It is interesting. But I can stop if you want me to.”

“No!” Shane sits down, up against Ilya now. “No, I mean…” he traces the vein through the back of Ilya’s hand down to his ring finger, where he twists the ring around, watching it glisten in the light. He like watching how it reflects the colors. “No, it’s okay. It’s just… a lot. It’s all new to me. To you, too. And, for the record, it is okay and I am sorry for getting so prickly every time we discuss this.”

“It feels uncomfortable,” Ilya suggests. Shane looks away.

“Yes. I don’t like being perceived.”

“But on ice it is okay, yes?”

“Fuck off.” Shane kisses Ilya’s hand and Ilya moves his laptop to hold him close to his side.

The haze over his brain starts to settle and his throat is less tight. He really should start trying to take the damn sertraline as prescribed. It keeps his mood stable, in a vague middle ground that isn’t too low, but not too high either, and while he sometimes hates how it makes him feel nothing, he likes how it quiets the edge of his anxiety, makes his thoughts slower and less… dark during the night.

“Can I show you something?” Ilya asks, carefully.

Shane sniffs, clears his throat, but leans over to see Ilya’s laptop as he unlocks it and pulls up a particular tab.

Ilya didn’t think the rattle of a pill bottle would ever escape him. First his mother. Then his father. And now himself. It was a curse, he didn’t have any other explanation for his descent. For the darkness that he’d always felt yet only revealed its true form once his father was six foot under. He thought he’d be able to fight it. The orange bottle in front of him said otherwise.

He stood up and paced over to the window, hugged his chest and stared into nowhere. It was dark out. The clock on his nightstand read 3:17am. He wasn’t sure what day of the week it was. Just that it was the anniversary of his mother’s death.

He knew Shane was in San Francisco, though. And he was still in Ottawa. I’ll only be a call away, Shane had reminded him before joining the security queue at the airport. Ilya hugged him hard, and now only wrapped his arms around himself tighter, and the ache in his chest only grew.

Fuck, he couldn’t breathe. He never thought being apart would be this hard. They’d survived a decade of sneaking around, meeting up twice a year and texting only when the coast was clear. Being out in the open, Ilya soon learned, was no easier.

Not when it was all interviewers would ask him about. Not when his playing, his loyalty to his team, his fights on the ice, were all analyzed with Shane in mind, as though neither of them really cared for hockey at all. By then, Ilya knew his love for the sport had long faded. The wins kept him going. His newfound proximity to Shane kept him going. But it hurt him the most to see Shane struggle under the new spotlight, when he knew how deeply Shane cherished – cherishes – hockey. How Shane flinched away from flashing cameras and sat silently in the corner of the locker room and wouldn’t dare hold his hand in public.

Not everyone had been as nice as David and Yuna and the Centaurs.

Ilya sat back down on the bed. Shane’s side. The house was silent without his fiancé. Every time he closed his eyes he saw his mother, limp and lifeless in the bathtub, his father stone cold and distant, Shane tubed and bandaged on a hospital bed.

Ilya didn’t think he’d survive if Shane got hurt that season.

He sat on the bed and let his mind run circles around him. He had no fighting energy left. His mind was hazy from not taking his sertraline for three days. He was unsteady on his feet, nausea permeated every depth of his stomach, he couldn’t keep food down, let alone tidy the house. His tongue felt like sandpaper.

He wanted to keep it clean, to Shane’s standards, while he was gone. But two weeks in, Ilya hadn’t washed a dish or vacuumed a floor or made the bed a single time.

He was a shell of himself. He looked in the mirror and saw his father. He took a painkiller and thought of his mother.

He went to the bathroom and found a blade in his hand, blood pooling over his wrist and onto the floor. It wasn’t the first time, but the first time there was enough blood make a mess.

The rest was always blurry. Sertraline. Too much of it. Not toxic in overdose. Stupid. Vodka. Not enough of it. More vodka.

Hospital.

He’d taken himself there just in time.

“Is there anyone you would like us to call?” The nurse bandaged Ilya’s wrist. He was laying on a hospital bed, IV in his good arm and ECG patches over his torso. The ceiling was too white, the lights too intense, the bandage too tight on his arm.

Ilya contemplated the question. His mother. He wanted his mother. 17 years ago today.

But she was gone.

He wanted his father. Someone to shout some sense into him. But he was gone, too.

Shane. Who else? Shane, Shane, Shane.

He croaked out his response, quietly rattled off his fiancé’s number, and watched the nurse leave the room. The security guard who’d been following him around the hospital between each testing room took her place, and Ilya shut his eyes.

Being followed by security not for his status in the hockey league. But to make sure he didn’t harm himself.

That was a new low for Ilya Rozanov.

Shane had announced his retirement two weeks later.

It takes a moment for Shane to process what he’s seeing, then another for it to really sink in.

“I was thinking we could buy some?” Ilya says slowly, and Shane sits back.

He stares at the computer screen, shakes his head, stares at the ceiling, leans on his elbows, sits back again, and thinks I can’t use fidget toys.

“I don’t need fidget toys,” Shane says.

He immediately regrets the force behind his words, and opens his mouth to take them back but no sounds come out, so he shuts it again and pinches the bridge of his nose. His knee starts to bounce.

“Okay. So we don’t buy them,” Ilya says. He closes the tab.

It reveals the next tab. Autism and eating disorders. Another reads how to cope with autism and life transitions. Those makes Shane’s insides squirm more than he’d ever admit. He rubs his hands over his face, knee bouncing even harder, and sniffs, pretending to not notice the websites.

He knows Ilya is watching him closely. He can feel the eyes on him, like bugs crawling over his skin, but he doesn’t leave. He knows Ilya will be paying attention to how he adjusts to retired life. If he changes his macrobiotic diet. If he cuts himself more slack now he doesn’t strictly need to maintain his fitness, or if he only gets wound up more tightly in all his rituals.

Ilya places a warm hand on his thigh and squeeze gently. It makes Shane’s leg stop, and the excess energy settles.

“Sorry,” Shane starts. “I just,” he looks at Ilya now, “I don’t want to look childish.”

“These are for adults. They look fun, no?” Ilya finds the website again, turning the computer towards his husband so Shane can get a better look now. He motions for Shane to take it and, chest heavy, he does.

He scrolls in silence for a while. Rows and rows of fidgets, all different shapes and colors and textures and he can picture himself with all of them. He shuts away that image. He doesn’t want to give in. It feels like a surrender, like letting the other team score on the ice or something just as bad.

And yet he is fixated by a set of round, silicon magnets. Some are spiky, some soft and round, some with stripes. Distinct textures all in one neat set, with a discrete pouch to store them in. He lets the promotional video play. They seem to have a bit of weight to them as the woman rolls them around in her hands. Shane thinks that might be nice, and he lets that thought linger.

He can hide them. Keep them at home. That way no one else needs to know. It’d only be a test, to see how it feels. He can return them or bury them deep in his sock drawer and forget this ever happened.

“You like them?” Ilya gently takes back the computer.

Shane nods.

“Can I talk to you about birds?”

Ilya looks up from his phone and across the sofa to Shane. They’re laying opposite each other, having agreed on a quiet afternoon before the craziness of the victory party, feet brushing together, and Ilya realizes he hadn’t been looking at his phone. Not really.

He was stuck in his head.

Shane is reading his new book for the sixth time. Birds of Eastern Canada. His glasses are perched on his nose and Ilya immediately settles back in the room at the sight.

“Are you okay?” Shane frowns at Ilya’s glazed expression. Ilya hums in response, tells him of course he can talk about birds, but Shane sits up, closes his book, and lays on top of Ilya.

The pressure is nice. They both like the weight of each others’ bodies when it’s a hard day.

“I love you, you know that, right?” Shane says. Ilya’s hand instinctively finds its place at the back of Shane’s next to pull him down for a gentle kiss. They don’t really move, lips just resting together, then their noses brush and they part just enough for Ilya look into Shane’s eyes.

“I love you too. And yes, I know that you love me,” Ilya replies. He hopes Shane doesn’t notice the tightness of his throat that contorts the words, leaving the ghost of a but that should come next but doesn’t. If he does, Shane doesn’t comment, just examines Ilya’s face.

He can practically hear the cogs whirring in Shane’s mind. Ilya keeps his sadness within the cage of his chest, rarely letting it pierce the surface, making it a forever challenge for Shane to decipher the extent of it.

He learnt soon after the fact that Shane is, actually, incredibly perceptive when it comes to body language. He picks up on every slight hesitation, every tiny sigh, every toss and turn in his sleep. But when out of the country, Shane had missed the events of that night, and Ilya knows Shane blames himself.

But Ilya also blames himself.

Despite Shane’s certainty that he didn’t, Ilya still worries that Shane retired because of him. Shane, ever sweet and loving, even through his own difficulties, decided to retire to make sure Ilya would be okay. It all felt too coincidental for Ilya to be convinced otherwise, but he doesn’t bring it up, not during their peaceful morning when Shane wants to infodump all over again about loons and geese.

“Tell me about the birds,” he says.

Shane sighs happily, kisses him again, and twists Ilya’s hair around a finger as he talks about his favorite birds. Ilya breathes easier as he listens. Shane speaks too quickly for Ilya to understand every word, especially with the technical bird terminology he wouldn’t even understand in Russian, so he just listens to the lilt and dance of it. He makes a note to plan a bird watching date when spring comes round. He plans a picnic, although he’s not sure how he could make them tuna melts in the middle of Canadian nowhere. But they’ll make it work, he’s sure. They always make it work.

Ilya knows he’s smiling silly. He doesn’t try to hide it. Shane’s voice chases the darkness back into its cage.

Neither of them moves until the doorbell rings, announcing Svetlana and Rose's arrival to help them get the house ready for the victory party.