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The months following Shane and Ilya’s coming out and, subsequently, their wedding and Shane’s transfer to the Centaurs are… hectic. Like being swept up in a tornado with no hope of reprieve even in the eye of it all. The days and weeks are packed with an endless schedule of practice, interviews, events, brand deals, with the time in between spent merely recovering and preparing for whatever comes next.
Ilya, despite his reservations, has to feel at least somewhat grateful to Yuna for overseeing it all, the calm amongst the chaos, the firm hand steering the boat. Together with their agent, Farah, fielding the majority of invitations and proposals that come their way, they manage to whittle down the incessant noise to a more manageable level, hand-selecting only the best opportunities for he and Shane to consider. For Ilya, this level of activity is an entirely new experience, used to his life outside of hockey being mostly filled with… well, before Shane, going out, having sex, and playing video games. Unlike Shane who, he now realises sympathetically, has spent his entire career being herded from meeting to meeting, photoshoot to photoshoot, fancy dinner to fancy dinner.
Shane, for all his quiet complaints to Ilya when his mother is out of earshot, deals with things the way he always has. Through routine, and an intense dedication to hockey. Whilst Ilya turns over in bed and pulls the covers tighter, Shane gets up for a morning run – at least 5k, every day.
Then, he showers and makes breakfast. A smoothie. With banana, spinach, ginger, frozen pineapple and blueberries. He drinks it on the way to practice, or, if it’s an off-day, follows it up with some yoga. If it’s a practice day, yoga comes before bed.
For lunch, he preps at least five days worth in advance for easy meals during their busy schedule. Salmon and brown rice with broccoli. Steamed, not fried.
Dinner is arguably less of a strict affair, and Shane is happy to let Ilya cook more often than not, though it has to be served no later than eight to allow Shane time to digest and do his aforementioned yoga, whilst also leaving him an hour or so to read before bed.
Laid out like that, and to anyone else’s ears, it would sound… bizarre, or excessive. Ilya knows this. But it works for Shane, and so for that reason alone, it works for Ilya. Plus, in the months since the whirlwind surrounding their public relationship began, it has become such an ingrained part of their life that it hardly registers as anything but normal anymore. To them, to Shane, it’s just the natural order of things. And Ilya is happy to let Shane have his routine, his pre-made lunches and early dinners and everything in between; he’s just happy he gets to spend it with him, in the light and by his side.
But, that’s not to say it’s always so simple. Nor does everything always go as planned. Between the interviews with various sports news and media outlets, all vying to get a glimpse into the lives of the newly-touted ‘First Husbands of Hockey’, and the regular responsibilities of being team captain and assistant captain of the Centaurs, and the photoshoots for brand X and brand Y, there was always bound to be things that slipped between the gaps.
It just so happens that these things add up in a way that Ilya doesn’t expect them to, until… they do.
*
It starts with Shane missing his morning alarm. By the time Ilya has risen from the depths of sleep and into the world of the living, the sun is shining strongly through the cracks in their blinds and the bed is still warm with the weight of his husband next to him.
That’s not normal.
Blinking away the grogginess and rolling over, Ilya fumbles for his phone on the nightstand and checks the time.
“Mmm, Shane…” he mumbles, rolling onto his back again and stretching an arm out to nudge at his husband’s still form.
Shane stirs slowly, eventually opening his eyes, scrunching his eyebrows as he’s met with the light of day filtering in and washing across his freckled cheeks. “Time’s it?” he slurs.
“Late,” Ilya states, fingertips reaching up to ghost across Shane’s forehead and smooth out the wrinkle that’s formed there. “Nearly nine. Your alarm did not go off, maybe.”
“Oh, fuck,” Shane groans, burying the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbing them a little too harshly. “We have that meeting today, and afternoon practice!”
He’s already moving before Ilya can reach out to comfort him, smooth a palm up his arm or down his back to soothe him, untangling himself from the covers and swinging his legs out the bed.
“Is okay, we have time. We won’t be late,” he offers, though he knows it won’t be much reassurance to his husband, whose mind is undoubtedly already racing ahead.
“No, I know,” Shane gripes as he heads into the bathroom, “but I missed my run, and I won’t have time later.”
The shower bursts to life, and Ilya lets his head flop back into the pillow with a sigh. He knows there’s nothing he’ll be able to say to help, but the least he can do is get out of bed and have the ingredients to Shane’s smoothie out on the counter waiting for him. So, that’s what he does.
*
The following week, their game against San Jose is postponed last minute. With nearly half the team coming down with stomach flu before flying out to Ottawa, there’s no scenario in which the game is going to go ahead. Ilya, and the rest of the Cens for that matter, aren’t too worried, instead relishing the opportunity of a day off. For Shane, the enthusiasm doesn’t come so easily.
“The reschedule is gonna clash with the photoshoot for Men’s Health.”
Ilya, sprawled out on the sofa, looks up from his phone and across the room to where Shane is hunched over their breakfast bar with his face in his laptop. “You are disappointed? I thought you hated magazine shoots.”
Shane sighs and rubs at his eyes with his index finger and thumb. “No, it’s just that if we’d have known the game was going to be postponed, we could have moved the shoot to Wednesday and then had the meeting with CCM on Friday afternoon. Now our schedule is going to be fucked.”
“Moya lyubov,” Ilya starts with a laugh, “we could not have known that San Jose players have such weak immune systems.”
Shane doesn’t laugh, and instead just sighs deeply. His head falls between where it’s cradled in his hands and hangs heavy inside the cage of his arms. Ilya sets his phone down and crosses into the kitchen, wrapping himself around his husband from behind. He presses soft kisses to the crown of Shane’s head, and feels a small amount of satisfaction when he feels Shane relax into him and let out a soft hum.
Ilya takes the opportunity to reach over and close the laptop softly. Surprisingly, Shane doesn’t protest, and instead allows Ilya to swivel him around on the barstool, coming to a stop nestled between Ilya’s thighs, face cupped between his hands. He blinks up at Ilya from behind his glasses, eyes slightly bloodshot and heavy-lidded.
“It will be fine. Your mother and Farah are good team, that is why we have them. To handle this for us, yes?”
From the downturn of his lips and the tight set of his jaw, Ilya can tell Shane isn’t satisfied with that. Of course he isn’t, Ilya should know better than that. His husband is never content to let responsibility fall solely on anyone else’s shoulders – it’s part of what makes him a beautiful captain. But it’s also what makes him like this, tight and coiled up, eyebrows pinched and muscles tense, the weight of it all forcing him inward, curled over himself and tying him in knots.
Ilya expects a rebuttal of some kind, but instead comes another heavy sigh. “Okay. Sorry, these past few weeks have just been a lot, and I just hate when the schedule–”
“I know. I know,” Ilya murmurs, tugging Shane to his chest and leaning down to pepper kisses into his hair. Shane, again, goes willingly, all out of fight. He buries his face into the broad expanse of Ilya’s chest and breathes deeply, surrendering to the warmth and the steady rhythm of Ilya’s heartbeat. “It’s a lot, but we’re doing it together.”
Ilya stays for a while simply carding his hands through the silky strands of Shane’s hair as he nuzzles closer. He lets out more of those incredibly soft, delicate noises, almost as if he’s purring at the contact. Ilya’s heart tightens, and he wonders if Shane can hear how it calls out to him, how it speaks a language only he knows.
Despite how much it hurts him to interrupt Shane’s peace, Ilya eventually draws back, chest aching at the sight of his husband looking so tired.
“Let’s go to bed.”
*
They’re in the car on the way to yet another sponsorship meeting when Shane’s phone rings. Ilya glances over from the driver’s seat, catching the caller ID before Shane answers.
“Hey, Mom.”
Yuna’s voice is muffled through the speaker, and whatever Ilya might have been able to make out is drowned out by the car’s engine.
“Yeah, we’re on our way now. Why?”
Shane’s brow furrows as it always does when he’s listening intently. It’s adorable.
“What? No, this is for the Gatorade campaign. I thought Rolex was next week.”
Uh oh. Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya sees the beginnings of distress start to form on Shane’s face, his elbow coming up to rest against the window, head in his hand. He lets out a tight breath as his mother continues speaking on the other end of the phone, reeling off something that Ilya can’t catch.
The meeting today had been added to their shared calendar by Farah a few days ago, bumped up from next week due to some conflicts on the client side, apparently.
‘ROLEX SPONSORSHIP’, in block capitals. In red.
‘GATORADE CAMPAIGN’, crossed out. Moved to the end of the week.
Ilya remembers seeing it, the notification popping up whilst he was in the gym. Remembers swiping it away to hit shuffle on the next track. He’d deal with it later.
Despite best efforts, it was easy to get wires crossed with the sheer number of meetings and events and appointments he and Shane were constantly being shepherded around to. Ilya had assumed Shane had got the memo, had woken up this morning ready for it like any other meeting. In Ilya’s mind, they were all the same anyway, the same corporate jargon thrown around, the same talk of ‘brand identity and voice’ that made him want to fall into a coma. This one would be no different.
Except, Shane never sees it that way. Can’t afford to, he’d say. We’re brand ambassadors, Ilya, it’s important to know what we’re talking about in these things.
And he was right, of course. But Ilya hadn’t had anyone by his side guiding him through all of this from the start, reminding him how to talk to sponsors and how to make a good impression, how to secure deals. Instead, he had the stoic voice of his father echoing in his ear, reminding him simply how not to be a fuck-up. This, being the poster boy of big brands and making deals and flashing smiles for sponsors, it’s all new.
He’s eternally grateful, of course. And he knows why Yuna pushed so hard for Shane to secure so many deals right from the start of his rookie season, why she felt so strongly about having his face in particular on billboards and TV screens. Both she and Shane had to work twice as hard to get the same amount of recognition, the same amount of respect that was so easily given to other players. The thought makes Ilya’s gut twist. He knows how much pressure Shane puts himself under to succeed, to show up where it matters, to be prepared. He’s had to, to get where he is, Ilya knows that. But it kills him to watch his husband tie himself in knots trying to be perfect, when, to Ilya, he surpasses perfection in every way.
Shane is chewing on his bottom lip aggressively, phone still pressed tightly to his ear.
“I know, Mom. But I didn’t prepare for Rolex today, I don’t have any notes, nothing,” he grits out, voice tight and controlled despite the spiral Ilya knows he’s falling into in his head.
Ilya reaches a hand over the console to grip his thigh tightly, just enough pressure to say, I’m here, it’s okay. Shane’s eyes flick open at the contact, and he reaches his free hand down to cover Ilya’s with his own, fingers gripping tightly as if to tether himself to Ilya’s touch.
“Alright, okay. No, it’ll be fine, we’ll figure it out. Okay, Mom. Bye.”
He hangs up with a shaky breath.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I thought you knew it had been changed,” Ilya says softly, squeezing Shane’s thigh apologetically.
“I didn’t see the notification, there’s been so much shit happening recently. Fuck,” he breathes, kneading his forehead with his fingers.
“I know, I should have checked it with you this morning, I’m sorry. Do you want me to do the talking?”
Shane pauses in the middle of chewing his lip, which is now red raw from his ministrations, and offers a small, tight smile. “Would you?”
Ilya releases his grip on Shane’s thigh and snakes his hand around the back of his neck instead, massaging the tight muscles there and wishing touch alone could make his husband’s stress melt away.
“Of course.”
*
Things come to a breaking point one morning, in the form of a box of blueberries.
Freshly showered and hair still damp on his neck, Shane pads into the kitchen and begins the usual task of making his morning smoothie. Blender, plugged in. Bananas, peeled and chopped. Spinach, washed. Ginger, grated. Pineapple, defrosting.
It’s only when he opens the fridge, taking out the small punnet of blueberries and turning to set them on the counter, that he realises. They’re mouldy. All of them, covered in a soft dusting of white fur, unmistakably bad.
He blinks at them for a long moment, as if staring at them for long enough might suddenly turn them good again, as if he’s merely hallucinating it. He stares for long enough that he almost starts to dissociate, the world narrowing down to a single point, and that point being this stupid fucking punnet of mouldy blueberries in his hands.
At some point, Ilya walks into the kitchen, already halfway through a sentence that Shane belatedly realises he should probably be listening to. But his brain is suddenly foggy, and Ilya’s voice feels like it could be five miles away, and Shane is still looking at the fucking blueberries.
He slowly puts them down on the counter, still unable to lift his gaze and meet Ilya’s eyes when he perches himself down at the breakfast bar somewhere to Shane’s right.
“Shane? Are you okay?”
Pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, Shane just nods. His head feels swimmy, like he’s just stood up too fast.
“Those blueberries look mouldy,” Ilya comments, from somewhere far away. The statement makes annoyance flair in Shane’s gut, all of a sudden irritable.
Ilya continues, “Do you want me to throw them out? I can make omelette instead, if you want. I think we have eggs. Or I can go get some more, if you want the smoothie.”
The sound of his voice, usually music to Shane’s ears, a voice he’d pick out of a crowd and gravitate towards like a planet circling the sun, now sets Shane on edge. It drones in the back of his head, distant and yet altogether too close, too much.
Shane feels like he’s treading water, just trying to stay above the surface and not lose it over the sight of the blueberries staring back at him. He feels insane, close to tears, all for what? Because of some gone off fruit? It’s ridiculous, and yet here he is, on the verge of panic in his kitchen because he can’t make his smoothie for breakfast.
As Ilya’s voice floats through him, Shane looks down and realises his hoodie strings are completely different lengths. He tugs at one side, his hood bunching up against his neck. The other side hikes up, but too far, now shorter than the other. He pulls it back down, trying to match the other side. It’s still not quite right, not quite even. Panic works its way up the back of his throat and sits heavy in his mouth, behind his eyes, which are now somewhat blurry with unshed tears.
It’s not right. Nothing is going right, and he’s sinking. He’s drowning, and he can’t swallow the rising anxiety down, can’t speak, can’t do anything other than turn on his heels and walk out of the kitchen and into their bedroom, knees buckling as he sinks to the floor.
“Shane?”
Ilya rushes after his husband, finding him sitting on the floor with his head between his legs, back pressed up against the foot of the bed. Dropping to his knees in front of him, he reaches to gently stroke the back of Shane’s head, coaxing him up.
“Hey, Shane, look at me.”
Each breath coming in shaky gulps, Shane’s back rises and falls erratically. He doesn’t look up. Ilya moves to drag his palms up and down his husband’s arms in smooth motions, as if trying to warm him up after coming in from the cold.
“Shane, it’s okay. Look at me, I’m here. I’ve got you.”
It takes a few moments, Ilya’s hands working steadily over the taut lines of Shane’s arms, but he eventually raises his head just enough for Ilya to see his eyes, wide and glistening. The sight fucking spears him. His lip is bleeding from where he’s been worrying the skin between his teeth, now split open and flush with red. His eyebrows are knitted together, expression almost pleading.
“What is it, moya lyubov? Are you spiralling?”
Shane simply nods his head, incapable of forming thoughts into words. As if the task would require more mental energy than he’s able to give right now.
Spiralling is the term they had both agreed upon some time ago to describe the occasional states of anxiety that Shane experiences, where his thoughts become a little too loud, a little too much. Sometimes it would happen after a game, particularly a loss, where he’d begin to overthink each move, each missed shot, each fumbled pass, thinking himself into a hole about what he could have done better, where he could improve.
Sometimes it would happen when they were out in public together, still trying to navigate their newfound status in the public eye. Shane had always been the more paranoid of the two of them, justifiably so, and so it wasn’t uncommon for him to start overthinking each glance of a passerby, each touch from Ilya trying to comfort him, all too aware of himself and how they were being perceived.
They had had many long conversations about these so-called ‘episodes’ of Shane’s, and how best to navigate them. Although, Ilya has never quite seen him like this.
Still, at Shane’s confirmation, he plunges into action.
He gets up from the floor, moving to the windows to draw the blinds half-closed, dimming the bright light in the room to a more manageable level. Over to their dresser, he rifles through and pulls out one of his worn T-shirts, stretched and slightly too big, plus a pair of Shane’s sweats that he knows are soft and have the labels cut out, and lays them out on the bed.
“Here,” he murmurs, dipping back down to Shane’s level briefly to smooth a hand over his back and up his neck. “Come change. Then, on the bed.”
He lets Shane follow the instructions in his own time, knowing that he will without question. Doesn’t have to think, knowing Ilya has him, will direct him.
And he does, sitting up with a deep breath and then standing to his feet somewhat unsteadily, wordlessly pulling on the clothes. His expression is still shuttered, still somewhat distant, but the tightness in Ilya’s chest releases ever so slightly as Shane crawls up onto the bed and settles amongst the pillows.
“Good,” Ilya nods. “You want pressure?”
Shane swallows, tongue coming out to wet the torn skin of his lip as he considers. Eventually, he nods. Ilya takes that as his invitation to climb up the bed, bracketing the length of Shane’s body with his arms and capturing his thighs between his own. He takes a beat to press a kiss to his husband’s forehead, then settles down, pressing the entirety of his weight on top of him, enveloping him like a weighted blanket.
Shane had, at one point in time, joked about buying a weighted blanket after seeing them advertised on Instagram. Ilya had, very seriously, told him that that wouldn’t be necessary. For as long as Ilya lived, Shane would not need a weighted blanket when he could simply call upon his husband and have him pressed close, ready and willing to give him everything he could possibly need and more.
Now, determined to live up to his promise, Ilya carefully wraps himself around Shane, tucking his husband’s face into the crook of his neck so that he can breathe easier, small puffs of air tingling across his skin. He feels the faint brush of Shane’s fingers on the outsides of his thighs, where his arms are tucked down by his sides, just the smallest of touches to let Ilya know he’s okay, he’s present.
Ilya resists the urge to press more kisses into Shane’s hair, knowing that all he needs right now is the firm, consistent pressure that Ilya’s body can provide, cautious not to overstimulate him. So, instead, he settles for nuzzling into a spot at the crown of his head, happy to breathe in the familiar scent of mint and seaweed that infuses Shane’s shampoo. It’s bliss.
They stay like that for a long time, and Ilya carefully monitors Shane’s breath as his chest rises and falls beneath him. Eventually, it slows, and the unmistakable noise of his husband’s snores that follow bring a wave of relief that crashes over Ilya and washes his own anxieties out to sea and away. He’s at peace, and that is all Ilya can ask for.
He stays put, not wanting to disturb Shane by moving away too soon and shattering such a serene moment. Instead, he revels in the steady movement of his chest and the faint thump of his heartbeat, lets it lull him deeper, rocking him in its wake, the soundtrack to the best sleep he’s ever had.
Shane wakes up to find himself tangled in his husband’s embrace, legs intertwined messily, the solid expanse of Ilya’s chest pressed firmly up against his back, an arm slung protectively over his stomach and a hand pressed to his heart. They must have been asleep for some time, given the way the faint light between the blinds arcs across the room, painting the far wall with a soft glow.
Ilya stirs as Shane looks around through bleary eyes, and then he feels the delicate press of lips at the back of his neck, and his husband’s warm breath tickling his nape.
“Are you okay?”
Shane inhales deeply, filling his lungs up to the brim, before letting it out in a rush, as if he can expel the weight in his bones along with it. He takes stock of himself, the dizzy, clouded feeling in his head now somewhat abated, the panic that had risen in his chest earlier now dissipated. All that’s left is a bone-deep exhaustion.
“I’m okay,” he murmurs.
He feels Ilya let out a sigh of his own, one that sounds like relief. “What do you need?”
Shane considers the question, but ultimately the weariness that clings to his muscles and tugs at his eyelids makes it hard to answer with anything but, “Just you. Just sleep. M’so tired.”
Another kiss, just under his ear. “Okay. But you must eat later, yes? I will make something for you, you don’t have to worry about anything.”
He hums, managing a small nod, sleep already threatening to pull him under again.
“I love you. I’ve always got you.” Ilya kisses the words into Shane’s skin, imprinting them there like a tattoo, a permanent reminder, a vow.
Shane slips under with the weight of his husband at his back, the weight of his love settling firmly into Shane’s heart, and the weight of the world far, far away.