Chapter Text
Ilya finds the papers on a Tuesday.
It’s pre-season again, and the no-longer-newlyweds have spent a long, glorious summer coming off of the high of finally being able to play together. It has been somehow better than either of them could have imagined, and things have only grown all the sweeter with Shane’s growing confidence in terms of PDA.
At least, this is Shane’s own opinion on the matter. He still hasn’t actually discussed the topic with Ilya. He has, however, noted that Ilya’s smiles appear warmer and that they seem to stay on his face for longer periods of time. There’s an easiness that Shane doesn’t remember being there at the beginning of the previous season, and at night, when he goes to work out the knots in Ilya’s shoulders, Shane imagines them being smaller, too.
It’s not that everything is easy now. There are still outside forces working to sour their relationship. But the voices have grown more subdued. They are easier to ignore. Easier to shut out.
Shane is content with the knowledge that he and Ilya are happier than they have ever been, and he hopes that they will grow happier still in the coming year. And maybe, if they are lucky, next season will end with their first shared Stanley Cup. Lord knows that Ilya deserves to win another one. Shane still feels bad, knowing that his husband would have had at least one more if he hadn’t given up playing for Boston to be closer to Shane.
Ilya, of course, never mentions this. Maintains that a Stanley Cup was a small prize to pay if it meant more mornings waking up with Shane safe in his arms. It doesn’t dissipate the guilt, however, and Shane vows to do everything within his considerable power to let Ilya lift that trophy once more. Preferably more than once, but Shane doesn’t want to be too greedy. Not when he’s secured the greatest prize of all. The most perfect spouse on planet Earth.
Hayden will claim that that’s Jackie, but Hayden is wrong. Shane is quite confident about that.
On the morning that Ilya finds the papers, however, Shane doesn’t think of any of this. In fact, he doesn’t think of anything at all. He’s asleep, one of those rare occurrences on which Ilya is up before him. Usually, his husband must pull out all of the tricks in order to keep Shane in bed for another hour, but one year of marriage has softened Shane. Not a lot, but a little bit.
He’s learning, slowly, that there are things to be gained in slow mornings spent next to Ilya. That unhurried quality time with his husband can be beneficial in ways that morning runs cannot. They’re still learning, both of them, that they have time now. Time to indulge in each other’s company in a way that they couldn’t before. Back when time spent together was a luxury, not a given.
Unbeknownst to Shane, Ilya has risen early on this particular morning due to a troublesome night of little sleep. Ilya is still occasionally haunted by memories of his family, particularly of his mother. Ilya swears that Shane’s now-permanent presence has done wonders in terms of decreasing his nightmares, but it hasn’t managed to dispel them completely.
Once the sun had started rising, Ilya had therefore done so as well, heading down to their home gym in the hopes of quelling some of the uneasiness. Shane has been successful, lately, in convincing him to try yoga, and for the first time, the thought had seemed appealing, even without Shane’s well-intentioned nagging.
What Ilya didn’t know, however, is that Shane uses the cupboard with yoga mats to hide the things that he doesn’t want Ilya to see. Things such as his folder with PDA plans. So, while Shane stays in their bed, catching up on much-deserved sleep, Ilya rifles through every single piece of paper, every vision board, every timeline, every list of PDA suggestions that Shane has made throughout the last year.
Shane hasn’t spared much thought as to what Ilya would do if ever he was to find the papers. This, for the very simple reason that he had never intended for his husband to find them in the first place. However, if he did, he doesn’t think he would have imagined the realization starting with the smell of coffee.
The sweet aromas spread throughout the bedroom, as Shane begins to stir. He’s confused, at first, since coffee-making is usually one of his self-declared morning chores. Ilya likes a cup first thing in the morning, and Shane likes to be the one to make it for him. Occasionally, Shane will indulge in a cup himself, but mostly he just makes the one for Ilya. Rarely, however, do they serve each other coffee in bed, preferring to spend time downstairs in the open kitchen.
Shane sits up, eyes quick to land on Ilya sitting at the foot of the bed. His hair is wet, and he’s dressed in casual clothing. He’s obviously been up for a while, and when the two lock eyes on each other, Ilya offers him a soft, “Morning love,” along with the coffee which Shane takes on auto-pilot.
“Is something wrong?” Shane asks.
Ilya’s expression shifts. “Wrong?” he asks. “Can’t husband bring other husband coffee in bed?” His expression is disturbingly neutral.
Shane’s brow furrows. He takes Ilya in. He looks nothing short of stunning in the light that filters in through the window. He’s opened the doors to the balcony, as he knows Shane likes, but there’s a restlessness about him. Something that Shane can’t quite put his finger on. And when Shane maintains eye contact, Ilya eventually breaks, looking down at the bed instead.
“Baby.” Shane’s voice is soft, soothing. He places the coffee on the nightstand. “What’s wrong?” he whispers.
Ilya looks up at the pet name. It’s another thing that Shane has been trying out recently. Shane loves it when Ilya uses endearments to address him and he had figured that his husband might appreciate it, too.
Shane had thrown out the first one earlier in the summer, and Ilya’s reaction had been one of pure ecstasy. It made Shane feel bad for not thinking of it sooner. He’s still working up the courage to do it in public, but he’s added it to the plan for the upcoming season.
“Do you like calling me that?” Ilya’s question is quiet, unsure. So much so that it takes Shane a moment to realize that he didn’t just imagine it.
Shane’s first instinct is to brush it off, to tell him that it is a silly question. Of course he likes it, otherwise he wouldn’t do it. But there’s something so vulnerable in Ilya’s face, as he looks at him, that Shane takes the time to think through his answer.
“Why do you ask that?” he settles on.
Shane can see Ilya’s jaw working, like he’s considering what to say. Eventually, however, he reaches behind him, pulls forth a binder that he’d kept hidden until now. Shane immediately realizes what it is, ice filling his veins as Ilya begins to open it.
“You weren’t meant to see that,” he blurts out, Ilya only momentarily pausing, before he pulls out the rest of the papers. He spreads them out between them, every careful file that Shane has spent hours pouring over spread before them, every vision board, every timeline laid out in the open.
“Moya lyubov,” Ilya’s voice is quiet, gentle, eyes searching for Shane’s, “What is this?”
Immediately, Shane begins to feel the tell-tale signs of panic clouding his vision. He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what to think. Can’t tell what Ilya’s thinking.
“Sweetheart.” Ilya seems to sense his discomfort. “Please don’t hide from me. I’m simply… what is word… curious?” He reaches forward, grabs Shane’s hand in the comfort of his own. “I don’t know what this means,” he says, nodding towards the pile of papers, “What is this PDA?”
“You didn’t google it?” Of all the things to say, that is what Shane settles on.
Ilya shakes his head, once, shortly. “I wanted to hear it from you.”
“It means –,“ Shane pauses, takes a moment to wet his lips, “It means public display of affection.”
Ilya makes a soft noise as if he’d guessed as much. “And you’ve been working on this?” Another nod towards the papers, “Since last year?”
Shane gives a curt nod. “Since Toronto,” he whispers.
Shane feels immense guilt as he thinks back to that day in the medical room. Back to The IncidenceTM. To that day when he’d hurt Ilya so badly. Ilya who’d wanted nothing except to comfort him, to be with him while he was hurting as he’d vowed to do at their wedding. As they’d both vowed to do.
Shane doesn’t want to hurt him again. Doesn’t want Ilya to think that calling him baby is somehow a chore that Shane grinds through like he does any other training session.
Except, Ilya doesn’t look hurt. In fact, his brow scrunches adorably, not seeming to understand the meaning behind Shane’s words. “Toronto?” he repeats. “What does Toronto have to do with this?”
Shane tightens his fingers around Ilya’s, seeks comfort in the warmth of his husband against his skin. “I told you not to touch me,” Shane whispers, “I – I didn’t mean it, but I was scared… I hurt you.”
Shane meets Ilya’s eyes, terrified of what he’ll see there.
For a moment, his husband doesn’t react. Then, his eyes widen in understanding, his entire body tightening as he realizes what he’s saying. “Shane,” he breathes, voice filled with pure devastation. “This is because of that?”
Shane nods, once, mortified as he begins to feel tears welling in his eyes.
Ilya clicks his tongue, clearly unhappy with whatever Shane has just told him. Then, he rises, and for a terrifying moment, Shane thinks that he is going to leave. Except, Ilya doesn’t walk towards the door. He walks towards Shane’s side of the bed, and suddenly he’s sitting, warm arms pulling Shane against his chest.
For the briefest of moments, Shane is stunned. Then, he lets out a sob, fists coming to curl around the material of Ilya’s shirt. Ilya plants small kisses to his hair, his temples, whispering sweet nothings that Shane can’t catch through the ringing in his ears. Ilya’s hands rise to brush the tears from his cheeks, hands lingering against his freckles.
“I hurt you,” Shane cries, “I never meant to hurt you.”
Ilya shushes him, hands drawing comforting circles against his back, trying to get him to calm down. “You haven’t hurt me,” he whispers, “You could never hurt me, sweetheart, understand? You’re the one thing that never hurts.”
“But you –“ Shane pulls in a breath, “You looked so sad. I did that to you. To us. Your face that day –.”
“Ssshh…” Ilya’s lips have come to rest against his cheek, breath warm and comforting against his skin, “Don’t ever think that,” he whispers, “Don’t you ever think that I’m sad because of you.”
“But I told you to go,” Shane protests, “I did that. I pushed you away.”
“You did.” Ilya nods. “But…” He quiets down, seems to consider his words carefully before continuing. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stop the comforting ministrations across his back. “I’m sad because you were scared, do you understand?”’
Shane isn’t sure that he does, and Ilya lets out a frustrated noise. He pulls back a bit, lifts Shane’s chin so that he’s sure Shane hears him, that he understands him. “You were hurt,” Ilya says, “And I could see in your face that you wanted the comfort, but… you were scared to ask for it. To take it. I was angry because the world has made you scared to let me comfort you. Your own husband. I was angry at the world. Not at you. Never at you, my love.”
Shane’s breath hitches and Ilya lets his fingers trail through his hair, lets him process the words.
For a while, none of them speak. Then, Ilya takes a slow breath. “I know…” he starts, then stops again, seemingly unsure of how to proceed. And then – “I know that Montreal hurt you,” Ilya whispers, carefully gauging Shane’s reaction as he speaks, “I know they left scars. Scars that will probably never go away. And you are so brave –,“ Ilya continues when Shane starts to shake his head, “So brave for leaving them, for coming here, for marrying me, but I need you to know that I understand. Understand that this is scary, this – PDA – you call it.”
Shane’s lips tremble, once again awed by how well Ilya knows him, how well he sees him, better than anyone else has ever done, even his parents.
“And sweetheart, my love,” Ilya lets his fingers brush against his freckles, lets them settle against his cheeks, “I don’t ever want to be the source of your discomfort, you hear me?” Ilya’s gaze burns, insistently, as he looks at him. “I don’t ever want you to do something that makes you uncomfortable because you think that it will please me. That would not be pleasing to me, you understand?”
“I – wait.” Shane cuts him off, but Ilya isn’t done.
“Promise me,” Ilya says.
Shane lets out a shaky breath, fingers tightening against Ilya, “It doesn’t make me uncomfortable, Ilya – baby, don’t ever think that - ”
“Promise me, Shane, please. I need you to.” Ilya sounds absolutely wrecked.
“I – yes, okay, yes, I promise,” Shane says, gently, soothing, “I promise, okay?” He lets his fingers trail up and down Ilya’s arms, comforting, trying to dispel some of his apparent distress, suddenly realizing the root of his uneasiness. Shane lets out a shaky breath before continuing. “But then you must promise to listen to me, too, okay?” He raises his hands, wipes away a stray tear as it escapes Ilya’s eye, “Nothing, do you hear me? Nothing that we have ever done has ever made me uncomfortable. Nothing. And when I call you baby, it’s because you are –“ Shane’s voice breaks, “You are the most important person to me on this planet. Do you understand?”
Shane’s eyes meet Ilya’s broken ones, “I have done all of this because I wanted to. Because I – I didn’t want to hide anymore. Because we have spent eleven years hiding and that hurts more than anything that Montreal has ever done to me.”
Ilya doesn’t seem convinced, and so, Shane grabs hold of Ilya’s hand, squeezes it between his own. “I hold this hand because I want to,” he says. He leans forward, presses a kiss towards his cheek. “I kiss you because I cannot help myself,” Shane whispers, letting soft lips trail across his husband’s skin, “I touch you, baby, because sometimes it feels like I’m going to die if I don’t.”
It’s Ilya’s turn to let out a sob, lips meeting his in a messy kiss. They stay like that, for a while, exchanging soft reassurances as the sun rises. It doesn’t escalate, neither one ready to break the moment between them. Both wanting to stay within their bubble for just a little while longer.
Shane feels somehow easier than he has all year. Even after so many years together, it still surprises him how easy it is to communicate when they remember to do it. He supposes that this, too, is a byproduct of all those years they spent denying their feelings. He makes a mental note to work on this as well. He’s mature enough to know that half their problems would be solved quicker if only they weren’t so scared of hurting the other due to ungrounded fears.
Shane knows that it isn’t going to be easy, but he’s willing to do the hard things for his husband. Willing to always put in the work if it means that Ilya is there, smiling, when they go to bed at night. Shane has spent too many nights alone to ever want to take that for granted. Too many years listening to Ilya’s voice through tiny speakers, both trying to mask how much they missed the other.
When they finally do break apart, Ilya is the first to look around, to take in the mess of papers around them. Shane feels another stab of self-consciousness, but Ilya is, as always, quick to dissipate any uncomfortableness he might feel.
“You really did all of this?” he says, “Because you thought you’d hurt me that day?”
Shane doesn’t miss the wonder in his voice. “I thought you knew,” he says, sheepishly, “I thought you’d realized what I was doing.”
“I noticed… something,” Ilya says, “Noticed you were being more affectionate, but I didn’t suspect… well… this.” He lets his hand trail across the papers, fingertips stretching towards them but never quite touching. Almost as if he’s afraid to ruin them.
“But you like it?” Shane asks, wanting to be absolutely sure, “I haven’t made you uncomfortable either?”
“I love it,” Ilya assures him, tone of voice leaving no room for misinterpretation, “And I suppose I should have realized that you would do something like this. Is very… Shane-like.” He gives him a fond smile, and Shane hums, once again wondering how he came to be so lucky as to be loved by this man.
“One thing I don’t understand,” Ilya says, catching hold of his hand again, tangling their fingers together, “Not everything is on the lists,” he says, “I read them,” he adds, “Twice, to make sure. But the ties and the bonfire cuddles and the awards kiss… None of that was on there.”
Shane feels heat rise to his cheeks, and Ilya’s brow furrows, briefly, before he lets out an incredulous laugh. “Spontaneous?” he asks, his answer confirmed as Shane turns, impossibly, even redder. “My spontaneous husband,” Ilya coos, tackling him onto the bed, as Shane shakes his head, attempts to hold in his own laughter.
“Is very hot,” Ilya reassures him, as Shane tries to hide his face, “My husband can’t keep his hands off me even in public.”
Shane scoffs, but Ilya isn’t done. “Can I help you?” he asks, eagerness overtaking his expression, “I think I saw some things that you haven’t tried yet. Putting hand in back pocket when walking through airport? I can help with that. Maybe try it out for you first.” He waggles his eyebrows.
Shane lets out an embarrassed groan, but he’s too happy to stop Ilya as he continues.
“I crossed out Hunter’s name,” he says, suddenly much more serious, “Hunter should not mark the top end of the scale. I added yours.” Ilya gives him a quick peck. “Kiss at NHL awards beats Stanley Cup kiss.”
“I’m not sure about that,” Shane protests, but Ilya shakes his head.
“Am sure,” he says, “And when we win Stanley Cup next year, we will beat Hunter’s kiss. They’ll have to cut away to commercials before I’m done with you.”
Shane’s toes curl in anticipation, and he leans forward to crash his lips towards Ilya’s. “I’m looking forward to it,” he whispers.