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Shane feels like he’s floating. He stares blankly at the ceiling of the hotel room; it’s a blank white with nothing interesting to look at, but he can’t drag his eyes away. He should never have listened to Hayden. He shouldn’t have let him drag him out to a club to drink away their loss against Boston, and he definitely shouldn’t have given in to his incessant nagging to let the British woman who kept whispering how much she wanted him to fuck her drag him back to her hotel.
He doesn’t even remember her name.
He made her come, and that makes him feel a little better, even if he had to pretend it was Ilya he was eating out, that it was Ilya he was fucking.
Shane feels sick. From the moment she undressed, everything has felt like it was happening in slow motion. Like he wasn’t a participant in what his body was doing. Everything was just happening to him.
He didn’t come. When he pulled out, he tied off the condom and threw it away, hiding the fact that it was empty.
His whole body feels heavy, and his skin feels like it’s buzzing. He doesn’t want to be here.
Shane forces his gaze away from the ceiling as she emerges from the bathroom, naked except for the towel wrapped around her hair. She says something, but the words just wash over him. She crawls back into the bed next to him and presses a kiss to his cheek, and Shane has to fight not to flinch away.
He sits up in a daze, staring down at his still naked body. He’s cold. Why is he cold? He wasn’t cold earlier.
“I should go,” he mutters. “Early flight.”
Shane stumbles off the bed, making his way shakily to the pile of his clothes. He just stares at it for a moment. She just threw his clothes aside the moment she got them off of him. They’re going to be wrinkled.
He hears a sound from behind him and turns around to see her grumble and roll over in the bed, facing away from him.
He knows he should feel bad, but he doesn’t feel anything.
Shane’s hands tremble as he dresses himself. His phone and wallet are still in his pants pockets.
He doesn’t speak as he leaves her hotel room. He doesn’t think he could if he tried. He needs to get out of here.
He brushes his fingertips along the wall to steady himself as he walks to the elevator. He doesn't know how much time passes between pressing the button to call the elevator and when it arrives. But when the door opens, there are people inside. Shane’s stomach churns, but he slips inside, keeping his head bowed. He doesn’t know which floor the women get out on, but by the time the elevator reaches the lobby, he’s alone.
Shane slips through the nearly empty lobby and out into the cold Boston night. He pauses for a moment outside the hotel, trying to figure out what he should do, but his brain feels fuzzy and wrong, and he can barely think. So he just starts walking.
Part of his brain, the part that’s still even slightly there, whispers that he should go back to his hotel. Shane immediately dismisses the thought. He doesn’t want to disappoint Hayden. He was so excited when Shane left with that woman.
Shane’s stomach clenches at the memory of the stupid grin on Hayden’s face. God, why couldn’t he just be normal? Or at least like Ilya. Everything would be so much easier if he could just force himself to like women.
A car without a muffler whizzes by, and the loud growling jolts Shane from his thoughts for a moment with a start. He stops walking and looks around him. It’s dark. Of course it’s dark. The only light comes from the buzzing street lamps. He doesn’t know where he is. That should scare him; part of him knows that, but he just doesn’t care.
The floaty feeling returns, and without really thinking about it, Shane is walking again.
His thoughts feel like they’re slipping through his fingers whenever he tries to grasp them, but the deep underlying feeling of shame and disgust remains constant. Shane wraps his arms around himself and keeps walking.
He blinks, and he’s somewhere else, and the sky is starting to lighten. He doesn’t know where he is or why the houses around him seem familiar. He just feels wrong. He’s all wrong, and he’s so cold.
A sports car drives past and pulls into a driveway ahead of him, and Shane watches blankly as someone climbs out of the driver’s seat and starts sprinting toward him. He blinks, and Ilya’s face is inches away from his own.
“Hollander,” Ilya says. Shane just stares at him. Why is Ilya here? Doesn’t he hate him?
“Hollander!” Ilya repeats, his voice increasingly frantic. “Shane!”
The sound of his name catches Shane by surprise, and he blinks at Ilya. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He can’t make his vocal cords work. His eyes dart around Ilya’s face and then settle over his shoulder, looking at the sun starting to rise behind him.
Hands grab his biceps, and Shane jolts, looking back at Ilya.
“Sorry. Sorry. Did not mean to scare you,” Ilya says softly.
Why is Ilya here? Shane looks to the side. That’s Ilya’s house. Why is he at Ilya’s house?
“Shane.”
Shane drags his attention back to Ilya.
“We go inside, yes?” Ilya’s brow is furrowed, and his mouth is contorted into a grimace. It takes a moment for Shane to get his head to nod, but as soon as he does, Ilya has an arm around his waist and is leading him toward his house. Shane's feet drag on the concrete beneath him.
Shane watches in a daze as Ilya unlocks the door and ushers him inside, quickly relocking it. His hand returns to Shane’s lower back as he tries to guide him further into the house, but Shane doesn’t move. He’s wearing shoes. He can’t go inside with shoes on. It’s rude. It’ll make the floors dirty. He needs to take his shoes off. But he can’t get his body to move.
His vision swims as he stares down at his sneakers.
“Shane?”
Shane doesn’t look up. He needs to take off his shoes.
“Your shoes?” Ilya asks softly. “You want your shoes off?”
Shane manages a slight nod, and immediately, Ilya sinks to his knees. Ilya gently grabs onto Shane’s right ankle, slowly lifting it off the ground and pulling off his shoe. He guides his foot back down and repeats the process with his other shoe. Shane doesn’t move until Ilya is standing again and guiding him toward the couch.
Shane sits heavily on the soft couch. None of this feels real.
“Shane. Shane,” Ilya says. Shane slowly lifts his head to look at him. “I will get you water, okay? I will be right back.”
Shane blinks, and Ilya is gone.
The early morning sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The light reflects off the glass coffee table and into his eyes. Shane blinks hard, squinting against the glare. The sting cuts through some of the fog. He moves a bit to the right, where the light won’t hit his eyes, and looks around. He’s in Ilya’s house. Why is he in Ilya’s house? He feels like a hand has wrapped tightly around his lungs and started to squeeze. He doesn’t know how he got here. It’s morning, fuck, it’s morning. How much time has passed? He has a morning flight.
He lets out a shuddering breath and buries his head in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. Fuck, what is he doing here? He can’t be here; he messed everything up. Ilya hates him. Shane curls his hands into his hair and tugs.
His breathing comes in ragged gasps, and he feels like he’s suffocating. He’s not getting enough air. It’s all too much, but at the same time too little. He feels like he’s outside of his body, and he needs to get back. He’s floating and feeling nothing, but the small part of him that can feel is feeling everything, and he can’t breathe. A broken whimper escapes his throat, and Shane rocks back and forth violently, dragging his nails down his forehead.
It stings, but he’s coming back, so he does it again.
“Shane!” Ilya cries, and suddenly, there are hands on his wrists, gently tugging his hands away from his face. Shane blinks through the tears blurring his vision to see Ilya crouching on the ground in front of him.
No, no. Ilya is here. Ilya is seeing this. He’s not supposed to see this. No one is supposed to see this. He’s supposed to be over this. He was supposed to grow out of this. Now Ilya is going to hate him even more. He’s going to be disgusted.
“‘M sorry, ‘m sorry,” Shane rasps, his voice barely audible. Each inhale is rasping, and each exhale sounds like a pained grunt, and Shane knows how pathetic he looks, but he can’t help it, not when he’s dying like this.
“Shane,” Ilya whispers. Shane shakes his head frantically at the concern in his voice.
“Sorry, ‘m sorry, ‘m so sorry.” He tugs against Ilya’s grip on his wrists, and tears finally start to fall when he can’t break free.
“Hey, Shane, no. You will hurt yourself,” Ilya mutters gently. “I won’t let you hurt yourself. Is not good for you.”
Shane curls in on himself, pressing his head between his knees. He needs to come back. He fights hard against the urge to hit his knees against the side of his head. He doesn’t want to make Ilya mad. He doesn’t want to disappoint him. He doesn’t want to make Ilya hate him even more.
“Shh, shh,” Ilya coos. “Is okay. You’re okay. You are safe.”
Shane can feel his whole body trembling, and, without lifting his head, he reaches with shaking hands to clutch the front of Ilya’s shirt and tug. Ilya makes a confused noise, but follows Shane’s tugging, sitting on the couch next to him, and, keeping both of Shane’s wrists secure in one hand, leans over until his chest is pressed against Shane’s back.
The pressure slingshots Shane back into his body with a shuddering gasp. And he sobs weakly, muttering broken apologies, as Ilya cards his free hand through his hair.
“Is okay, любимый мой.my beloved. Is okay,” Ilya whispers gently into his ear. “I am here. I will stay here. I will not leave. As long as you need, I will stay.”
Shane sits up, knocking Ilya off his back, and practically lunges at him. The sudden movement causes Ilya to lose his grip on Shane’s wrists, and his eyes widen for a moment before Shane wraps his arms around him, holding on as tightly as his exhausted body can manage, burying his face in the crook of Ilya’s neck. Ilya is frozen for a moment before he returns the hug, one hand starting to rub up and down Shane's back.
Neither of them speaks for a while. Shane doesn’t lift his face from Ilya’s neck, just breathing in the scent of him, allowing his body to chase away the cold that had sunk so deep into his bones. Ilya’s hand doesn’t still, but the other comes up to cup the back of Shane’s neck in the way Ilya knows he loves and play with his hair.
“Shane,” Ilya mutters softly.
There’s something in his voice that Shane can’t decipher, and he just hums in response.
Ilya is silent for a moment before he whispers, “Did someone hurt you?”
Shane stiffens. He doesn’t understand, why would Ilya think… “What?”
Ilya takes a shaky breath. “Did someone touch you in way you did not want?” Ilya asks softly, his voice breaks slightly. And oh, he’s scared. Shane scared him. Guilt makes his stomach churn.
Shane shakes his head.
“Shane,” Ilya whispers. “Please tell me truth. I find you, what is word, not here, and alone near my house at 6:00 in morning.”
“No one hurt me,” Shane whispers into Ilya’s neck.
Ilya gently guides him back, looking intently at Shane’s face, searching desperately for any sign that Shane is lying.
“I promise,” Shane says softly. “No one hurt me.”
Ilya lets out a shuddering sigh of relief. “
“Слава Богу,Thank God,” he mutters. “Thank God.”
He pulls Shane back in for another hug, holding tightly like he’s afraid Shane might disappear.
“Did you walk here?”
Shane nods. “I think so. Yeah. I don’t really remember. I don’t know how I ended up here. Her hotel was downtown.”
Ilya stiffens for a moment at his admission. “How long did you walk?”
“I don’t know,” Shane admits in a whisper. "Maybe it was 1:00 when I left? I don’t remember.”
“Fuck,” Ilya breathes. “You walked five hours to suburbs in middle of the night. Not knowing where you were going. You didn’t go back to your hotel, you came here. Why didn’t you call?”
“I don’t know. It didn’t occur to me. I didn’t call Hayden either.”
Ilya takes a deep breath. “Do not do that again. Is not safe. I do not know what I would do if something happened to you.”
“I’m sorry,” Shane mutters.
“Is okay. I am not mad. Just glad you are not hurt.” He pauses for a moment. “Can you tell me what happened?” Ilya asks.
“I, fuck,” Shane sighs, embarrassed. “Hayden and the rest of the team dragged me out to a club. And I, um, I let a woman take me back to her hotel room. Hayden said I should.”
Ilya grumbles.
“Don’t,” Shane interrupts. “It’s not his fault. I agreed to it. I thought he was right, that it would make me feel better.”
“About losing game?” There’s none of the usual teasing in Ilya’s voice when he asks that question.
“That was Hayden’s idea. But, um, I thought it would make me feel better about you.”
Shane feels Ilya’s head turn to look at him, but he doesn’t pull back.
“Feel better about me?”
“I thought that it would help me get over you,” Shane admits, embarrassed. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. “That maybe I could have sex with a girl and realize that I could do it, and then everything would be easier because I could be like you.”
“Like me?” Ilya echoes.
Shane sighs. “Like, also like girls, but I can’t. I’m gay. Just plain old gay.” He sniffles, tears welling in his eyes. “I tried not to be, I really tried not to be. But I just can’t help it.”
“Hey, hey. Is okay,” Ilya mutters, starting to rub Shane’s back again. “You don’t have to like girls.”
“But I should,” Shane argues. “Because I’m a man and men should like women.”
“There is no should, Shane.”
Shane stiffens slightly at his name coming from Ilya’s lips. Now that he’s back to reality and no longer floating or panicking, he finally registers the fact that Ilya’s been using his name the whole time. And, like the last time they were on this couch, it terrifies him how much he likes it.
“Sorry,” Ilya mutters. “Hollander.”
Shane shakes his head. “No, no, Shane is, um, Shane is fine. It’s good, actually.”
“Okay. Shane.”
“Ilya,” he breathes.
Ilya sucks in a breath through his teeth and squeezes Shane tighter.
Shane presses his face further into Ilya’s neck; like if he gets close enough, Ilya’s body will split open and pull him in, and he won’t ever have to leave him. He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ran. I got scared. I was so scared.”
“Is okay,” Ilya says softly. “I am not mad.”
Shane pulls away to look at him. There are tears in Ilya’s eyes, and he quickly wipes them away before Shane can say anything. Shane reaches a hand up to cup Ilya’s cheek, and Ilya’s eyes slip closed as he tilts his head into Shane’s palm with a trembling breath.
“You can be mad,” Shane tells him.
“I know,” Ilya says without opening his eyes. “But I am not. I was mad. Hurt. But I am not anymore.”
“I’m sorry I hurt you.”
“Is okay.”
“No, it’s not,” Shane insists, lowering his hand. “I shouldn’t have left like that. I should have talked to you.”
“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “But is in the past. We don’t need to worry about it now.”
Tears start to well once again in Shane’s eyes, and he quickly wipes them away and climbs fully into Ilya’s lap to hug him, curling inward to press his face into his shoulder. “Fuck,” Shane whispers. “I’m sorry, I love you, I’m sorry.”
Ilya stiffens for a moment, and Shane is nearly launched back into overwhelming panic, until Ilya whispers, “I love you too.”
“Fuck, I love you so much,” Shane rasps through tears. “And it hurts so fucking bad, and I don’t know what to do, but I can’t keep pretending that I feel nothing. Does it hurt you, too?”
“It used to,” Ilya whispers, pressing a kiss to Shane’s forehead. “But not anymore.”
“How?”
“I don’t know,” Ilya admits. “One day it just stopped.”
Shane fists his hands into the back of Ilya’s shirt and tilts his head so his ear is pressed against Ilya’s neck, and all he can hear is the sound of Ilya’s heartbeat and his lungs filling and deflating.
“I want more,” Shane admits softly.
Ilya doesn’t say anything.
“I don’t want us to just be people who fuck. I want to be with you. Like, actually be with you.”
“Are you sure?” Ilya asks. “It will not be easy.”
“I know. But I want it. So bad. Do you want it too?”
“Yes,” Ilya admits. “More than anything.”
“Me too. More than I’ve ever wanted anything before.”
“Then stay,” Ilya whispers.
“What?” Shane asks, pulling back to look at him.
“Then stay. Get a different flight.”
Shane’s eyes widen, and his stomach drops. “Oh, shit. My flight.”
“Hey, hey, is okay,” Ilya soothes. “What time is your flight?”
“At 11:00, fuck, Ilya, I’m going to be late,” he gasps, trying to pull himself from Ilya’s arms.
“Shane,” Ilya says as he releases him. Shane climbs from his lap, but the moment he stands, his body starts to sway unsteadily. “Shane!” Ilya reaches out to steady him, pulling him back onto the couch.
“Sorry, sorry,” Shane mutters. “I don’t… I’m tired, I think.”
“Stay, it’s okay. Get a later flight. Let me take care of my boyfriend.”
The rest of the world feels like it disappears, leaving just him and Ilya. Shane blinks up at him. “Boyfriend?”
“Yes, if you want,” Ilya says awkwardly.
“I want.”
“Then will you stay? Let me take care of you?”
Shane pauses for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, yes. I’ll stay. But what about my stuff? Shit, I should call Hayden, he’s probably worried. Fuck, what do I tell him?”
“Tell him you are at Lily’s house and to bring your stuff,” Ilya says simply.
“But I’m at your house!”
“Yes, and I am Lily.”
“But he’ll know!”
“Does Pike know where I live?” Ilya jokes. “I don’t think I have told him. Only my team and second-best hockey player know where I live. I wouldn’t tell Metro’s 15th best player.”
Shane frowns and playfully shoves him.
“Alright, fine. But, how do I explain why I’m missing the flight? And why I’m here instead of with that girl?”
“Say you ran into me while leaving club and went home with me instead, and now you are sick, so you can’t fly.”
“I’ve flown when sick before, Ilya,” Shane counters.
“Tell him you shit yourself.”
“What? No! I’m not going to say that!”
Ilya just smirks and shrugs. “Is good idea, no?”
“I’ll just tell him I got food poisoning or something, alright?”
Ilya hums dismissively and pulls Shane in for a kiss. The moment their lips touch, Shane melts, but before the kiss can escalate, Ilya pulls back. “Call Pike,” he says. “We kiss more after.”
Shane pouts at him but pulls his phone from his pocket. Miraculously, he still has power left, and when he turns it on, he sees dozens of missed messages and several missed calls from Hayden. The sight is sobering. “Shit,” he whispers.
Shane glances over at Ilya, who has leaned back against the cushions with his hands behind his head. “I will behave,” he says, sounding exasperated. “I will not talk.”
“Thank you,” Shane breathes and calls Hayden back.
He picks up on the second ring, shouting his name.
“Hey, Hayds,” Shane mutters.
“Shit, Shane, where the fuck are you? Are you alright?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he reassures him. “I’m, um, I’m at Lily’s house.”
“Lily? Boston Lily?” Hayden shouts.
Shane winces at the volume, pulling the phone away from his ear slightly. Ilya raises an eyebrow, and Shane glares at him.
“Yeah.”
“I thought you went with that British chick?”
“I, um,” Shane glances back over to Ilya. “I ran into Lily as we left and went with her instead.”
“Damn, Shane, you dog!” Hayden cheers. “But, still, man, where the fuck are you? We’re heading to the airport in an hour and a half.”
“I’m going to fly out later,” Shane says, fighting the anxiety curling in his chest.
“What? Why?” Hayden demands. “This isn’t like you, Shane. Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, I just, I think I got food poisoning.”
“Shit, man, that sucks. Anything I can do?”
“Could you maybe bring my stuff?” Shane asks. “It’s all packed already except my toiletries. I can send you the address, it’s only,” he looks toward Ilya, “how far from downtown?”
“Thirty minutes,” he mouths.
“Thirty minutes from downtown,” Shane finishes.
“Holy shit, is she right there?”
Shane can feel his face burning with embarrassment.
“Um, yeah, she is.” The female pronoun feels wrong on his tongue, but Hayden doesn’t notice.
“Can I meet her?”
“No,” Shane says, probably too quickly. He winces. “Sorry, she’s really shy.”
Ilya raises his eyebrows and lets out a quiet chuckle. Shane swats his arm. Fortunately, Hayden didn’t seem to hear.
“Yeah, no problem, that’s fine. I can bring your stuff. Tell Boston Lily to take good care of you.”
Shane’s face is definitely bright red now. He turns away and tries to hide it from Ilya. “I will. Thank you so much, Hayds. I’ll send you money for the cab.”
“Nah, no need, I’ve got plenty of money.”
“I’m still going to do it,” Shane argues. He doesn’t like feeling like he owes someone. He takes a deep breath. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Yeah. And I’ll tell Coach.”
Shane grimaces. “Do you think he’ll be mad?”
“Not if I tell him you’ve got it coming out of both ends.”
“Ew, Hayden. Gross.”
Hayden just laughs. “Things stop being gross once you have kids.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “I’ll text you the address. Thank you again.”
“See ya, man.”
Shane hangs up, and Ilya immediately starts to cackle. Shane glares at him. “How much did you hear?”
“All of it,” Ilya laughs. “Pike is very loud. If only he was as good at hockey as he is at yelling.”
“Hey, be nice. He’s bringing my stuff.”
Ilya hums and leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to Shane’s lips. “Yes, and I am very grateful.” He slides a hand behind Shane's head and runs his fingers through his hair.
Shane has to force himself to pull away. “Ilya, I need to send him your address.”
Ilya grumbles and flops back, holding out his hand. Shane pulls up his texts with Hayden and hands Ilya the phone, watching over the top as Ilya types out his address to make sure he doesn’t send anything else.
When he’s done, Ilya gives Shane back his phone, and he sets it on the coffee table. Ilya looks at him for a moment before reaching out and brushing Shane’s hair out of his face with a frown.
“Ilya?”
“Your forehead,” Ilya mutters.
“It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt,” Shane insists, gently guiding Ilya’s hand down and pressing a kiss to his knuckles.
“Looks like it hurts.”
“It doesn’t, I promise.”
Ilya hums. “Let me put on Neosporin, yes?”
“Ilya, it’s fine,” Shane sighs.
“Please?” Ilya asks. “Want to take care of my lovely boyfriend.”
Butterflies explode in Shane's stomach, and his cheeks burn. Ilya knows exactly what to say to convince him. Shane smiles softly. “Alright.”
“You stay. I will be right back.”
Shane nods, and Ilya stands and quickly leaves the room.
Shane closes his eyes and leans back against the cushions. He can’t believe he’s doing this. He can’t believe he’s not freaking out about this. He feels happy.
“I am back,” Ilya says, and Shane opens his eyes to see him reenter the living room. Ilya sits on the couch next to him and holds out the tube of Neosporin. He unscrews the cap and squeezes some onto his finger. He hands the tube and the cap to Shane to close and uses his free hand to push Shane’s hair back. He gently spreads the cream over the scratch marks on Shane’s forehead with a focused look on his face.
His expression is mixed with something else Shane can’t decipher, but before he can ask about it, Ilya asks, “Does this happen often?”
“Huh?”
“Scratching yourself.”
Shane doesn’t want to talk about this, but he knows he should. They’re boyfriends now, and Ilya deserves honesty.
“No, not anymore.”
“But it used to?”
“Yeah,” Shane admits. “When I was younger, I would have moments like what happened this morning more often. And I couldn’t do anything about it, I guess, except for that. It was like I was going to explode if I didn’t let all the emotions out, and that was the only way to do it. Or I wouldn’t be feeling enough, and nothing else worked to fix it.”
“Scratching?”
“Yeah, and, um, hitting,” Shane admits. Ilya, having rubbed in all of the cream, lowers his hands and takes Shane’s hands in his. He doesn’t say anything.
Shane looks away, bowing his head slightly. “It would scare the crap out of my parents. I would scream and cry and hit myself. On my thighs, hips, chest, and, um, on my head. And I would try to hit my head against the wall. That’s how I got my first concussion. I locked myself in my room while my parents were making dinner, and I hit my head against my bed frame until they broke the door down and stopped me.”
Shane slowly lifts his gaze to see Ilya staring at him with wide, horrified eyes. “I was diagnosed with Asperger's shortly after.”
“Asperger’s? Like аутизм?autism?”
“Yeah, like autism.”
“Ah, word is the same. But you,” Ilya pauses. “I do not know the right words. I am sorry.”
“It’s okay. I won’t be upset.”
Ilya takes a breath. “But you can talk. And you are very smart and live on your own.”
“Yeah. Asperger’s doesn’t come with intellectual disability. So I’m able to function as an adult, but some things are just harder for me. Some people think Einstein had Asperger’s.”
“Ah, so that is why you are so smart then,” Ilya says.
“Maybe. I don’t know. But I don’t really have moments like that very often anymore. I thought I had grown out of them, but I guess not,” Shane admits dejectedly. He squeezes Ilya’s hands, and Ilya squeezes back.
Shane can feel his eyes starting to water, and without releasing Ilya’s hand, reaches up to wipe them with his arm. “Sorry,” he mutters.
“No sorry,” Ilya says. “You do not need to be sorry.”
“You’re not mad?” Shane asks nervously.
“No.”
“And you don’t think I’m, um, messed up?”
“No. You are perfect,” Ilya says, pressing a quick kiss to Shane’s cheek. Shane flushes.
Ilya pauses for a moment. “I am thinking. Trying to find right words.”
“Take your time,” Shane says softly.
Ilya takes another few seconds before he starts to speak. “In Russia, autism is bad thing. Kids get sent away. It was called childhood, um, шизофрения.schizophrenia. The one where people see things that aren’t there.”
“Schizophrenia?”
“Yes, it only became different in late 90’s, I think. So I do not understand much. But I will research. I will learn, so I can help you whenever you might need it.”
Against his will, Shane’s chin starts to wobble, and he launches forward to hug Ilya again. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve him. He must have been a saint in a past life. “Thank you,” he sighs, his voice wobbling with emotion. “I love you so much.”
“Я тоже тебя люблю.I love you too. I love you too,” Ilya whispers. “I will not tell anyone. I know you are private.”
Shane nods. “Only you and my parents know. And the doctor who diagnosed me, but he was old, so I think he’s dead now.”
Ilya barks out a laugh. “So I am in special club.”
Shane can’t help but laugh at that. “Yeah, I guess.”
A knock on the front door pulls Shane’s attention away with a jolt. “Shit, that must be Hayden.”
“I will hide. You get the door.”
Shane nods, and Ilya quickly slips into another room. As he approaches the door, Shane thanks whatever gods might exist that the floor-to-ceiling windows don’t face the road. He takes a steadying breath and opens to the door to see Hayden standing awkwardly with his backpack and suitcase, his cab waiting at the curb.
“Damn, man, you look like shit.”
Shane scoffs. At least the crying makes his lie believable. “Don’t be an asshole,” he says, taking his stuff from Hayden.
“I’m only teasing. But Jesus, man, your girl is rich as fuck!”
Shane can feel his face burning. “Yeah, um, she has a good job.”
Hayden smiles at him with a look of obvious pride. “She'd better take good care of my best friend.”
“She will.”
“Good.” Hayden claps him on the shoulder. “I’m happy for you, man.”
“Thanks, Hayds.”
“And proud of you for finally getting some.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “Is Coach mad?” he asks nervously.
“Eh, a little put out, but not really. Not once I told him how sick you are.”
“God, man. Please tell me you weren’t gross about it.”
“Nothing’s gross when you have kids, Shane,” Hayden laughs.
“At least tell me you didn’t tell him I shit myself.”
“No?”
“Okay, good,” Shane sighs. “That’s what Lily suggested to make sure Coach wouldn’t get mad.”
Hayden burst out laughing. “She sounds great, man. Can’t wait to meet her one day.”
“Yeah, one day,” Shane mutters.
Hayden pats him on the shoulder once more. “Alright, feel better, man. And have fun with your girl.”
“Thanks, and thanks for bringing my stuff.”
“No problem,” Hayden says, waving over his shoulder as he returns to the cab. Shane stays in the doorway until the cab drives out of sight.
When he closes the door, Ilya pokes his head into the living room from the hallway. “Pike is gone?”
“Yeah, he’s gone.”
“Good,” Ilya says, walking up to take Shane’s bags.
“You don’t have to…” Shane starts to protest.
“I want to. I’m taking care of my boyfriend.”
“Thanks.”
“I have yogurt you eat. We eat breakfast and then shower and sleep,” Ilya says, as he drags Shane’s bags into his bedroom, Shane following close behind.
“Just sleep?” Shane asks.
“Yes, as much as I want to fuck you always, you are tired. You had game yesterday, did not sleep, and walked five hours.”
Now that Ilya mentions it, Shane realizes he’s right; he is exhausted. He'd noticed before, but it hadn't really registered, now that it has, a yawn escapes him.
“I also did not sleep,” Ilya continues, setting Shane’s stuff down. He grabs Shane’s hand and gently pulls him toward the kitchen. “I am also tired. I will fuck you when we wake up, yes?”
“Yeah, okay.” He sits at the island and watches in silent contentment as Ilya makes him a bowl of yogurt and fruit and makes himself a pancake. Ilya sits on the stool next to him, and Shane leans to rest his head on his boyfriend’s shoulder as he eats. He can’t believe they’re boyfriends now. He can’t believe he gets to have this. Afterward, Ilya gently, yet quickly, washes them both in the shower, while Shane focuses all his attention on staying awake and standing. They climb into Ilya’s bed in just their underwear, and Shane immediately curls up into Ilya’s side, resting his head on his chest, his eyes already starting to drift shut.
Ilya presses a soft, barely there kiss on the top of Shane’s head. “I love you,” he whispers.
“Say it in Russian?” Shane requests softly.
“Я тебя люблю.I love you.” Ilya breathes.
Shane does his best to mimic the sounds and say it back. He knows he probably butchered it, but with the way Ilya holds him even tighter, he knows he appreciated it. “I’m going to learn Russian,” Shane decides.
Ilya tilts Shane’s head back and kisses him hard. When he pulls back, Shane can see tears in his eyes as he smiles as wide as Shane has ever seen. “Я люблю тебя всей душой.I love you with all of my soul.” he whispers.
“What does that mean?” Shane asks, yawning around some of the words. He’s barely able to keep his eyes open now.
“I love you with all of my soul,” Ilya breathes.
“I love you with all of mine,” Shane whispers back. They’re alone, but he doesn’t want anyone else to hear. This is just for them. Shane presses a soft kiss to Ilya’s bare chest and falls asleep cradled in his arms.