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one.
The third last day before Ilya has to leave the cottage passes very similarly to all the other days leading up to it, or at least the days since they admitted their true feelings to each other and to Shane’s parents.
Ilya wakes up slowly, his body wrapped around Shane’s. They cuddle in bed for a few minutes, both still revelling in the luxury of having so much uninterrupted time together, before Shane insists on getting up to brush their teeth and eat breakfast.
Shane does a load of laundry while Ilya gets to work on making pancakes - with protein powder in them, so Shane will actually eat them - and juice with the fruit they picked up at a nearby farm stand on the side of the road. It’s a bit of a tedious process, using the old juicer machine he found in the back of the cupboard, but he doesn’t care. He wants to make juice for his boyfriend.
Shane is his boyfriend. It’s enough to make him smile the entire time he’s painstakingly squeezing the oranges.
They go for a swim after they eat, and it might be the most beautiful day they’ve had yet in their time here. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and the water is warm - or at least the warmest it’s been since the first day Ilya swam in it.
The entire world seems brighter and warmer than it typically is right now, actually, but that may just be a side effect of being loved by Shane Hollander.
He’s already dreading the end of their time together, and a part of him is still terrified that this is all a dream and he’s going to wake up all alone in his cold, depressing apartment in Moscow. His memory of watching Shane run out the door of his house in Boston after they said each other’s names in a moment of vulnerability is still fresh.
But the way that Shane has been talking about the future, integrating him into his plans and welcoming him into his family, feels like a strong indication that he isn’t planning on leaving again. Not ever.
It might be a scary thought if it weren’t the one thing Ilya has wanted the most in his entire life.
They shower together after their swim, which inevitably leads to sex in the shower. Shane crying out “fuck, Ilya, I love you,” when he comes is the most beautiful thing Ilya’s ever heard, and highly incentivizes him to make him do it again less than an hour later in bed.
By the late afternoon, they’re both worn out from all the sex, and Shane wants to change the sheets again, so they throw them in the wash and move to the couch. Shane puts on some real estate show on HGTV that neither of them really has to pay attention to, and they settle in on opposite ends of the couch with their legs brushing against each other.
A comfortable silence falls over them, and Ilya relishes the simple intimacy of doing nothing important together. He first got a glimpse of what this would feel like that same fateful day in Boston - before Shane ran out, it was one of the most perfect days he’d ever had. Just existing in the same space together, making him food and cuddling on the couch, felt so good that it was a bit like losing a limb when he left.
Ilya’s completely at peace now, responding to some texts from Svetlana and his agent while half-listening to Shane’s occasional commentary on the home renovation choices of some random couple in Vancouver.
After a while, he notices that Shane hasn’t voiced his admiration for a landscaping job or questioned someone’s choice of kitchen backsplash in some time.
He looks up from his phone, expecting to find that he’s fallen asleep, but instead Shane is staring up at the ceiling, his jaw tighter than normal and his hand pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Shane?” he says, putting his phone down and sitting up straighter. “Are you okay?”
Shane nods, dropping his hand to his side but still not meeting Ilya’s gaze.
“I’m fine, just a headache,” he replies. “It’ll go away soon.”
Shane’s tone is casual, calm, but Ilya feels far from calm about this information. The complete opposite, actually.
Suddenly, he feels like he’s back in Montreal, watching the love of his life lie motionless on the ice and not being able to go to him.
“I thought the headaches were better,” Ilya says, trying to keep his voice steady.
“They are, I haven’t had a bad one since you got here,” Shane assures him quickly. “It’s not, like, debilitating or anything.”
Ilya will have to translate that word later, but he suspects Shane is trying to downplay how bad this is for his sake. Which he absolutely will not allow.
He knows concussion protocol, of course, so he immediately grabs the remote and turns off the TV, eliminating the noise and some of the light in the room. He can’t really do anything about the natural light coming in, but thankfully, it’s not too bright right now.
“You should rest,” Ilya says firmly. “No more screens.”
“I am resting,” Shane says. “You can keep watching TV, if you want. I won’t look at it. Or I can go in the other room.”
“No. Is it too bright for you in here? Do you want me to make the bed so you can lie down?”
Shane shakes his head. “I’m fine, seriously. The doctor said this is normal for this type of concussion, I usually just kinda wait it out.”
Ilya feels panic flaring in his chest, despite the fact that he knows Shane is probably telling the truth and he will be fine. He can’t just sit here doing nothing while his boyfriend is in pain.
Shane must sense this - or maybe the look on Ilya’s face is making it very obvious - because he seems to have read his mind.
“Um, there’s some Advil in the cabinet next to the fridge, and water helps too, if you don’t mind-"
Ilya is already getting up before he can finish, grateful that Shane is letting him do something, anything to help. He was so helpless on that day back in March, watching him get stretchered away and taken to the ambulance.
He quickly finds the pill bottle and fills a glass with water from the fridge before returning to Shane’s side, kneeling in front of him and carefully passing him both.
“Thanks,” Shane says as he takes one of the pills and drinks about half the water, allowing Ilya to set it down on the table for him.
“Anything else?” Ilya asks, sitting back down on the couch facing him, a little closer now. “I can, um, give you space. Or sit here and not talk, maybe talking is not so good-"
“Talking is okay, just quietly,” Shane replies with a small smile. “And I definitely don’t want space.”
This is all the permission Ilya needs to settle back into the corner of the couch and open his arms in invitation.
It’s an action born out of equal parts a desire to comfort Shane and his own selfish need to hold him right now, but Shane takes him up on it.
He shifts over until he’s curled up in Ilya’s arms, his head resting on his chest, and Ilya immediately engulfs him in his embrace. He presses the lightest kiss possible to his forehead, not wanting to cause him any more pain, and begins to gently card his fingers through his hair.
“Is okay?” Ilya whispers.
“Mhm,” Shane nods, nuzzling his face into Ilya’s neck above the hem of his t-shirt and inhaling deeply. “Better.”
Ilya has another flashback, this time to an adorably high Shane in the hospital, his guard dropped low enough from the drugs to openly seek out Ilya’s touch. It killed him to only be able to give him a minute of hand-holding and a brief stroke of his cheek. If they hadn’t been in public, or if things were different, he would’ve probably climbed right into that bed with him and showered him with relieved kisses.
If he had been brave enough, he might’ve even told him that he loved him. He certainly knew it then, if not years before.
Shane ends up drifting off into a nap right on Ilya’s chest, which brings him both relief and some satisfaction that his boyfriend feels comfortable enough to just pass out on him like this.
Ilya isn’t able to fall asleep, so he just holds Shane and watches the sun begin to set outside the cottage. He wishes he could stop time right now, so he wouldn’t have to leave in two days and fly hundreds of miles away from the man in his arms.
When Shane wakes up, he’s sleepy and adorably disoriented, but he seems to be in less pain than before.
“Good nap?” Ilya asks him, careful to keep his voice low. “Your head is better?”
Shane nods, sitting up slowly and looking out the window. “How long was I out?”
“Maybe an hour or two.”
“Sorry, you must’ve been bored. Did you sleep too?”
“Not really, but it’s fine,” Ilya says, lightly stroking his back. “You needed rest.”
Shane looks at him with pure adoration for a second before leaning in for a kiss, which Ilya happily returns.
“Thanks for taking care of me,” he smiles when they pull apart. “I’m feeling a lot better. Wanna start making dinner?”
Ilya tries to respond, but his thoughts continue to drift to the day of Shane’s injury. It was terrifying then, but knowing what he does now - that Shane loves him back, that he wants a life with him - he’s painfully aware of how much he could’ve lost that day.
“Ilya?” Shane says, grabbing his hand. “What’s wrong?”
“You - you scared me.”
Shane’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry, I swear that I’m fine. The headache is gone now, and my doctor-"
“No, I don’t mean-" Ilya shakes his head, holding Shane’s hand a bit tighter to ground himself. “Yes, I was worried today. But I am talking about when you got hurt.”
“Oh,” Shane sighs, obviously thinking back to that day as well. “Yeah, you told me that when you came to see me in the hospital. Unless I hallucinated it, I was pretty out of it.”
“Yes, you were,” Ilya says fondly, unable to resist reaching up to brush his thumb over his freckles as he had done that day. “I did say that, but I did not tell you how much. It was so awful, Shane.“
Shane just continues to look at him with concern, running his thumb over the back of his hand.
“I wanted to hold you so badly, when you were on the ice, and go with you in the ambulance, but I had to finish the whole game not knowing if you were okay,” Ilya elaborates, heart clenching at the terrible memory. “It was probably one of the worst games I ever played, I don’t even remember the score. And then after, I was in the hotel room with Marleau, and I wanted to kill him for hurting you, even though I knew it was accident.”
“Ilya…”
He just shakes his head, fighting back tears. “I stayed up all night, checking the news and social media for any updates. I had to beg my agent to find out what hospital you were in. He was very confused, but I couldn’t fly back to Boston without seeing you.”
It feels like a weight off his chest to finally talk to anyone about how awful that day was, even if it has to be the person who actually experienced it.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Shane says, shifting slightly closer to him. “I remember wanting you, too. I think I told one of the medics to tell you I was okay, but thankfully he didn’t seem to understand me.”
“Don’t apologize, it’s not your fault,” Ilya assures him, cupping his face. “I know you are okay now. I am happy to be able to take care of you a little bit, like I wanted to then.”
“It’s nice to have you here, taking care of me,” Shane admits, leaning into Ilya’s hand. “I really am fine, though. It was just a concussion, a broken bone, normal hockey injuries. I’m sure you’ve seen teammates go through worse.”
This is true - he’s seen some pretty gruesome and even career-ending injuries over the years. But nothing shook him to his core like seeing the man he loves unconscious on the ice.
“Yes,” Ilya nods. “Is different, though.”
“Yeah,” Shane breathes. “If it had been you, I…fuck. I don’t even want to imagine that.”
“You don’t have to, moya lyubov,” Ilya says quickly, running his hand through his hair.
Not that he’s ever planned to get injured, but he makes a vow to do everything in his power to prevent Shane from having to live through the same experience he did.
“Sorry for the - um - heavy conversation, let’s go make dinner?” Ilya suggests.
“Okay,” Shane says, leaning in for another quick kiss. “You can always be honest with me about stuff like this, though. Even heavy stuff.”
Ilya nods, thinking for a moment. “Okay. And you can be honest with me when you are not feeling well, so I can help.”
“Deal,” Shane smiles. “C’mon, I’m starving.”
Ilya follows him into the kitchen and keeps his arms wrapped around Shane’s waist while he chops vegetables, pressing soft kisses to the side of his head. Thankfully, Shane doesn’t seem to mind.
two.
Even now that they live only a two-hour drive apart, Ilya considers all the time that he gets with Shane sacred.
They get more weekends together than they used to, when Ilya was in Boston, but it’s still a struggle to find overlapping gaps in their schedules. This month, for example, there is only one two-day period where they are both home, with no games or practices or other commitments in their schedule.
There is nothing - not a natural disaster, or a nuclear event, or a zombie apocalypse - that would prevent Ilya from making the drive from Ottawa to Montreal for this two-day break they have been blessed with. So he sure as hell isn’t going to be deterred by Shane having a cold.
“You really shouldn’t come, Ilya,” Shane groaned on the phone last night between coughing fits. “You’re gonna get sick.”
“I don’t care,” Ilya said, over and over again, until Shane finally surrendered and said he would see him tomorrow.
He makes the now familiar drive from Ottawa to Montreal as soon as his morning practice is over the next day. He would normally go directly from the rink to Shane’s apartment, not wanting to delay their reunion by even a minute, but he makes a necessary pit stop at Shoppers to grab some cold medicine, Gatorade and VapoRub.
It’s a bit of a struggle, but he manages to carry everything in one trip, including his overnight bag, the supplies from the store, and the freezer bag filled with containers of the soup Yuna had brought over to his house last night when she heard Shane was sick.
When he unlocks and kicks open the door, he finds the apartment dark and mostly quiet, except for the faint sound of the TV coming from the other room.
As he walks into the main living area, he finds Shane asleep on the couch with the highlights from Ottawa’s game against New York yesterday still playing. There’s a Kleenex box on the table in front of him, and a bin nearly filled to the brim with used ones that he must have dragged over to avoid having to get up.
Once he’s dropped all the bags on the dining table and taken off his shoes and coat, he walks over to the couch and crouches down in front of Shane. His nose is red, the rest of his face is pale, and he’s bundled up in two blankets in addition to the warm sweatpants and hoodie - Ilya’s hoodie - that he’s wearing.
As concerned as he is, Ilya can’t help but pause for a moment to appreciate how adorable his boyfriend is.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Ilya says softly, running a hand through Shane’s hair to gently wake him. He would let him sleep, but he’s probably overdue to take medicine and eat something.
Shane blinks awake, his eyes squinting at the very faint amount of light in the room.
“Ilya?”
“Yes, I just got here,” he says. “It’s almost two, have you had lunch yet?”
Shane pauses for a second before shaking his head. “No. I was gonna try to make something, but I fell asleep.”
Ilya glances back at the screen behind him, currently showing his goal from yesterday. Unfortunately, it was only one goal against three from New York, but it was something.
“Ah, watching me play is too boring? Made you sleepy?”
“No, of course not,” Shane says, his brow furrowed. “Something else was on when I fell asleep. LA vs. Colorado.”
Apparently, Shane is too sick to understand sarcasm. It’s a good thing he came.
“I know, lyubimyy, I am joking,” Ilya murmurs quickly, stroking his hair again. “Your mom made you soup and gave it to me to deliver. Can I heat it up for you?”
“Mom made soup? Is it zosui?”
Ilya struggles to recall the name Yuna told him, but he knows it was Japanese and that she told him it was Shane’s favourite growing up when he was sick.
“I think so, yes. I’ll get you some.”
Shane nods and begins to sit up, wincing as he does so. Ilya carefully helps him get into a comfortable position before kissing him on the forehead and heading over to the kitchen.
When Ilya’s done heating it up on the stove, he brings over a bowl of soup for each of them. It smells delicious, and he always loves Yuna’s cooking. He’s had more home-cooked meals in the months since he moved to Ottawa than he has in all the years he’s lived in North America.
He also gives Shane some cold medicine to take with his meal, and a ginger ale from the fridge since the Gatorades he bought are still room temperature.
“Thank you,” Shane says with a small smile as Ilya helps him sit up enough to eat. “You didn’t have to go to the store for me. I have some DayQuil left, I think.”
“Wanted to make sure you have enough,” Ilya shrugs. “I also got that menthol stuff to rub on your chest. Very sexy.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “Can’t wait.”
They continue to watch hockey - there’s an actual live game on now - while they eat, and Ilya is pleased that Shane finishes his bowl.
“Want more?” Ilya offers. “Or something else?”
“Maybe later,” Shane says, reaching for a tissue to blow his nose and then beginning to cough heavily again. Ilya puts his drink down to gently rub his back, but Shane flinches away. “I’m gross. You should keep your distance.”
“No,” Ilya says simply. “I am here to help you, not to sit far away and watch you suffer. What is the point of living in Ottawa if I can’t help my boyfriend when he is sick?”
Shane doesn’t respond, cut off by another coughing fit, but he also doesn’t pull away when Ilya continues to stroke his back and shoulders.
“Can I get you anything?” Ilya offers. “Tea, maybe?”
“Okay,” Shane agrees.
Ilya goes back into the kitchen, turning the kettle on and rinsing both their bowls. He finds an herbal tea in the cupboard and plops a bag into Shane’s favourite mug. He’s happy to see that Shane also has lemons in his fruit bowl and honey in the condiment drawer.
“I added honey and lemon, like my mama used to make when I was sick,” Ilya explains as he sets the mug down in front of Shane. “I think it will help, but I can make again if you don’t like it.”
“No, that’s perfect,” Shane says, smiling and breaking his “no touching while sick” rule to squeeze Ilya’s thigh. “Thank you, babe. My mom makes it like that, too.”
Ilya smiles back, thinking about the universal nature of a mother’s love, traditions that cross borders and oceans.
His heart aches a bit at Shane’s ability to use the present tense in this conversation. As much as he loves Yuna, he really misses his own mom.
Ilya briefly gets up to go to the bathroom and swap the bulky hoodie he was wearing for a t-shirt, since he turned up the thermostat earlier when Shane complained about being cold. While he’s up, he decides to change the bedsheets and start a load of laundry, which he’s certain Shane would’ve already done himself if he weren’t so exhausted.
When he returns, he settles into the corner of the couch and opens his arms.
“Come here.”
Shane looks over at him, tossing another tissue in the bin. “No, Ilya.”
“You don’t want cuddles?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. “I think this illness has done something terrible to you. Changed your whole personality.”
“No, obviously I do, but I don’t want to risk you getting sick,” Shane insists. “You have important games coming up, you can’t afford to miss them.”
“I don’t care, I will play if I am sick,” Ilya shrugs. “Russians do not need sick days. And I have a very good immune system.”
Shane sighs, and Ilya can’t help but smirk - they’ve had different variations of this argument many times. Russians do not get cold, he said once when giving Shane his jacket. Russians don’t cry, he claimed when Shane put on Marley & Me and warned him it might be a bit too emotional (Ilya was quickly proven wrong about that one).
“I still don’t want you to feel as shitty as I do right now,” Shane says, his protests growing weaker. “I’m gonna be in Florida next week, then Edmonton, so I won’t be able to come to Ottawa and take care of you.”
“I will survive,” Ilya insists, patting his lap. “Come cuddle now, please.”
Shane hesitates for a minute before smiling sheepishly and shifting over until he’s fully curled up against Ilya’s chest.
Proving Ilya’s point, Shane immediately relaxes in his arms, burrowing closer and seeking his body heat. It’s a bit different than their typical reunion after time apart, but after weeks without touching or holding his boyfriend, Ilya will happily take any closeness he can get. It feels unbelievably good to have Shane in his embrace.
At some point, Shane sniffles against his chest, and it’s so adorable that Ilya can’t take it anymore - he has to lean down and kiss him softly on the lips.
“You really shouldn’t be kissing me,” Shane mumbles halfheartedly when they pull apart, his eyelids already heavy.
“Worth the risk,” Ilya smiles, kissing him again on the forehead. “Get some rest, moya lyubov.”
three.
It’s never easy for Ilya to be away from Shane, but it’s really fucking hard in the weeks following their being outed to the world.
Thank god, they happen to be together when the video leaks, and they get another brief bit of time together when they’re both benched, but they spend most of the month after that apart. Even when they’re playing against each other in the first round of the playoffs, they only get fleeting moments together before parting ways for the night.
After game seven, when they beat the Metros and progress to the second round, Ilya should be happy. He’s finally turning things around with his team, all of whom have been nothing but supportive since the news broke.
He is happy to be out, regardless of what Commissioner Crowell or any other assholes in the league or the media have to say about it. He can’t go to Russia anymore, but he hasn’t been back in years anyway, and Canada is his home now. His main concern is Shane’s feelings about it all, but he knows he’ll be okay eventually, once the shock of it all wears off.
And then Shane’s team - the same fucking team that he’s captained for a decade and won three cups with - accuses him of tripping on purpose to let Ilya win.
It doesn’t matter how ridiculous that notion is, considering the fact that they’ve been together for years and Shane has beaten him many times, back when he was with Boston and more regularly after he came to Ottawa.
The anger and ignorance and sheer homophobia of this team, from the coach he looked up to for years to the guys he considered friends, has finally come to light.
As much as Ilya is ready to say “fuck them” and help Shane find a suitable team to transfer to - god willing, his team - he knows the feelings were more complicated for Shane.
His sweet, kind, perfect Shane, who never says a bad word about anybody, and has given everything he has to this stupid, shitty team that doesn’t deserve him.
From the moment Shane told him what happened, Ilya desperately wanted to return to Montreal and hold his boyfriend close and make him feel better. He also wanted to fight the entire Metros team (except Hayden, maybe, and the jury’s still out on JJ).
Unfortunately, he could do neither of these things when he was in New York, trying to win a cup for Ottawa for the first time in a century.
When Shane agreed to come to Ottawa to watch his next two games, Ilya was both relieved that he’ll finally get to see him and elated that he’ll have Shane, Yuna, and David in the crowd cheering him on. Not wanting to disturb his focus while he’s in the middle of an intense playoff run, Shane offered to stay at his parents’, but Ilya is very glad he shot that idea down when he gets home that night.
He’s exhausted from a hard-fought win on the ice, and two losses before that in New York, but seeing Shane’s car in the driveway and hearing the sound of Anya barking to welcome him home improves his mood immediately.
“I missed you, too, Anya,” he says to her in Russian as he crouches down to pet her. Even though he’s only home for a few days before heading back to New York for at least one more game, he went to pick her up from her dog hotel the second he got in last night. “Did your other dad feed you your supper?”
He hears footsteps and looks up to see Shane coming down the stairs with a wide smile on his face. He’s already showered and changed into one of Ilya’s hoodies and a pair of sweatpants, having come straight here from the game while Ilya lingered to do press and talk to his teammates.
“Hi, moya lyubov,” Ilya sighs happily, immediately opening his arms and moving toward him.
They meet at the bottom of the staircase, falling into each other’s embrace.
“Fuck, I missed you so much,” Shane mumbles into his neck, tugging desperately at Ilya’s hoodie to pull him closer. “The past few weeks-"
“I know,” Ilya says quietly, kissing the side of his head. “I missed you too. I am sorry I had to be away.”
“Don’t apologize, you’re trying to win a cup,” Shane says, pulling back from the hug and holding his face with both hands. “You played so well tonight, by the way. I loved watching you.”
Ilya smiles, leaning into the warmth of Shane’s touch. “I loved you being there to watch. You and your parents. I felt so lucky.”
It was the first time either of them has actually watched the other play in person without also being on the ice. To feel that kind of support from his partner, and see him smiling in the stands, made him understand why his teammates would get so excited when their wives and girlfriends came to games.
“The team is really coming together,” Shane says. “Hayes was like a brick wall tonight. And Barrett’s assist for your goal in the third was insane.”
“Yes, we are getting there,” Ilya agrees. “Any update from Farah?”
Ever since they discussed the possibility of Shane moving here, of joining the Centaurs, the thought has taken over Ilya’s mind. He didn’t even fully realize how badly he wanted it until it became a potential reality. Before that, it felt like a dream that was too good to be true, one so perfect and unrealistic that he couldn’t dare think about it for too long.
Then again, he used to feel that way about getting to be in a real relationship with Shane, and now they’re about to get married.
“Yeah. I told her Ottawa is my number one choice, which she understood, obviously. She thinks they’ll make it work so they can afford me,” Shane says, smiling. “It won’t be what I’m making now, but I don’t care. I just need to get out of Montreal.“
Ilya nods, sympathetic. “Have you heard from any of the team? Other than Hayden?”
They all owe him a huge fucking apology, as far as Ilya is concerned, but he fears he already knows the answer to this.
Shane shakes his head.
“I doubt I will. They all hate me now, so.”
He tries to say this casually, like he’s just stating a fact, but his face crumples the second he’s done speaking.
“Oh, sweetheart-"
Ilya barely gets those two words out before Shane is falling against his chest again, Ilya’s arms coming back around him to both soothe him and keep him upright.
It makes Ilya want to cry, too. It also makes him want to destroy every single person - his team, his coach, Crowell, fucking Brad who posted the FanMail video - that has made Shane feel like this.
“Shh, Shane, it’s okay,” he whispers as he feels his fiancé’s tears soaking his hoodie and his breathing becoming increasingly erratic. “Let’s go sit down.”
He tries to pull away just slightly, so he can see where he’s going, but Shane refuses to surrender even an inch of space between them. He manages to guide them to the couch anyway, carefully sitting and pulling Shane down next to him, half in his lap.
He holds him for a while longer, stroking his back and kissing his hair, trying to show him how deeply loved he is. He already knows that, of course, considering Ilya’s taken every opportunity to tell him since they first said it almost four years ago, but it feels like he needs a reminder right now.
Eventually, Shane’s sobs subside, and he relaxes in Ilya’s arms, his face still buried in his chest.
“I’m sorry,” Shane mumbles.
“For what? You have nothing to be sorry about,” Ilya says, continuing his soothing motions on Shane’s back.
“Yeah, I-" Shane pulls back, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t be distracting you. You’re in the middle of playoffs, you don’t need me coming here after your game and-"
“Shane,” Ilya says, calm but firm. “Please don’t be ridiculous. You are the most important thing to me, no question.”
Shane blinks at him, wiping the tears from his eyes. Ilya grabs his hand gently and brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss to his palm.
“I am so sorry that your team has been so shitty to you, sweetheart,” Ilya says. “You deserve so much more than that. They are idiots. But I know you considered them your friends, so I am sorry that they treated you like this.”
Shane nods, pressing their foreheads together. “I really thought they were my friends. But, I mean, most of them have treated me at least a little bit differently since I told them I was gay, so that should’ve been my first clue.”
“They’re all assholes,” Ilya agrees. “They will regret being such homophobic pricks next season when Ottawa beats them again, and when they realize they can’t win a cup without you.”
He’s glad that Shane doesn’t dispute how likely that is - it seems the message Ilya sent him back in his trophy room in Montreal finally sank in. Now, he thinks about combining those trophies with his own, not to mention the ones they could win together in the future. Their own hockey dynasty, a massive “fuck you” to all of the haters and bigots.
“I’m so glad your team has supported you, they all seem really nice,” Shane says, smiling a bit.
“They are really nice,” Ilya confirms. “They will love you, I already know it. And I think you will like them, too.”
“I’m sure I will.” Shane hugs him tighter for a moment. “Thank you for letting me join your team. I can’t wait to have you as my captain.”
“Ah, you won’t fight me for the C?” Ilya raises an eyebrow. “The rivalry is dead. Alert the media.”
“No,” Shane says, not detecting his sarcasm. “You’re their captain, Ilya. And you’re a better leader than I am, honestly. I always kinda hated giving the speeches, but I know you live for that stuff."
Ilya smirks. “I am good at the speeches.”
Shane smiles and leans in to kiss him, which Ilya relishes after missing this so badly for the past few weeks.
“What do you need?” Ilya says after they break apart, Shane still in his lap. “I can make something to eat if you’re hungry.”
“I ate with my parents before the game,” Shane says. “You must be exhausted, though. We should just go to bed, I already fed Anya and took out the garbage bins.”
“You are such a good husband already,” Ilya smiles, kissing him again and moving both of them to their feet.
Truthfully, he is beginning to feel the weight of the past week of gruelling playoff hockey as he stands up. That being said, he also really wants to take care of Shane physically at least once tonight, now that he’s already done so emotionally.
“Let’s go to bed,” Ilya agrees, pecking Shane’s lips. “But no sleep yet.”
“Ilya-"
“We have all day tomorrow to sleep and relax,” he insists. “Right now, I want to remind my future husband how much he deserves. And how loved he is.”
Any halfhearted attempts Shane might’ve made beyond that to convince him to go to sleep are lost as Ilya leans in to kiss him again, gently pushing him toward the stairs.
+ one
Days like this don’t come often anymore.
Ilya’s life is very good. Without question, it’s the best it’s ever been. He’s happily married to the love of his life. They live in a beautiful house with their amazing dog. They’re surrounded by friends and family that love them. They have all the money and success they could ever dream of. They’re now in their second season of playing on the same team, and well on their way to a cup, while also having more fun playing than they ever have before.
Most days, this is enough. More than enough, really.
But even with all that, and with therapy and the proper medication, he still has the occasional day where the depression feels heavier. It’s always there, in the back of his mind, but it’s only once in a while that it comes out in full force and makes him feel like he’s drowning in it.
He’s learned, both from his therapist Galina and from experience, how to get through these days. He doesn’t force himself to pretend nothing is happening anymore. He lets himself feel it instead of compartmentalizing and pushing it down and inevitably feeling worse in the long run.
Most importantly, he lets Shane in on it instead of blocking him out.
Today, he wakes up already knowing it’s going to be a bad one.
“Good morning,” Shane whispers to him when they’re both awake, a smile on his face that Ilya doesn’t have the strength to return. “Wanna join me for a run?”
Ilya shakes his head, the slight movement requiring more energy than it should. “Not today, lyubimyy.”
“Okay,” Shane says softly, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “I’ll be back soon. Call me if you need anything.”
It’s been a bit of a tough week. It was the anniversary of his mother’s death, which happened to fall during a series of road games that required his full energy and attention. Shane was supportive, of course, while also respecting his usual desire not to talk about it much - instead, he gave him gentle touches in the locker room between periods and wordlessly washed his hair for him in the hotel shower.
He talked about it with Galina when they got back to Ottawa yesterday, after moving his appointment up a few days earlier at Shane’s suggestion. The session helped, but it also resurfaced some of the memories from that terrible day 19 years ago when he found his mom’s body.
He can’t quite get the image out of his head today, so he’s grateful that Shane lets him stay in bed without pressing him for a reason why. He knows why.
Ilya sinks back into the mattress and closes his eyes, trying hard to fall back asleep. They don’t have to be at practice for a few hours. For now, he can try to sleep and delay the inevitable ache in his chest that will likely linger throughout the day.
His attempts to sleep are unsuccessful, and eventually Anya comes in begging for her breakfast. As difficult as it is right now, he manages to drag himself out of bed and to the kitchen to give it to her.
It’s some small comfort to Ilya that even in his worst moments, he’s still capable of taking care of his loved ones. Galina says it’s probably because he spent so many years without anyone looking after him, so he doesn’t want to put anyone else in that position.
She’s reminded him many times that he has to remember to look after himself, too, and not to deprioritize his own well-being when he’s feeling bad, but he’s still working on that part.
When he climbs back into bed after ensuring Anya has enough food and water, he feels like he’s just run a marathon. Shane gets back a bit later, the late morning sun now fully creeping through their bedroom curtains, and he’s still in the same position - curled up in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Shane’s a bit sweaty from his run, so he wouldn’t dare climb into bed with him, but Ilya hears his husband’s footsteps as he walks around the room to Ilya’s side of the bed. He crouches down in front of him, setting a to-go cup and a brown paper bag on the table.
“I got you a cinnamon latte and a banana muffin,” Shane says, his eyes full of concern but not necessarily surprise that Ilya is still in bed. “I asked for the one with the most chocolate chips.”
Ilya’s heart fills with adoration that he wishes he could properly express right now.
“Thank you,” he says quietly, sitting up a bit. He doesn’t really want to eat, but his stomach is growling, and he knows he should.
Shane passes him the coffee and watches him take a sip. It’s delicious, of course, and contains way more sugar than Shane would typically approve of under normal circumstances.
He also wouldn’t normally let him eat and drink in bed like this, so Ilya assumes he must look as bad as he feels.
“I’m gonna take a shower, and then I’ll come back, okay?” Shane says, lightly squeezing his thigh over the blanket. “You need anything else?”
Ilya shakes his head, immediately missing the comfort of Shane’s touch when he pulls away.
While Shane showers in their ensuite bathroom, Ilya forces down about half the muffin - also delicious, but not very appetizing right now - and scrolls aimlessly on his phone. He has unread texts from Svetlana, the Centaurs group chat, and Yuna, but he can’t bring himself to respond to any of them.
Instead, he puts his phone down and buries himself under the covers again.
Shane gets back into bed less than ten minutes later, freshly changed into sweats and a t-shirt.
“How was the muffin?” he asks, glancing over Ilya at the half-eaten baked good.
“Good,” Ilya says. “I will finish it later.”
Shane shifts over so he’s lying directly behind Ilya, his hand lightly running up and down his arm, his lips pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade.
“I’m glad you ate something,” Shane says. “Is it a really bad one today?”
Ilya hesitates. Even after more than a year of marriage, and about the same amount of time since he fully started letting Shane in on his struggles with his mental health, he still has to fight the instinct to shield him from the darker thoughts.
He doesn’t want to worry him more than necessary, but he also refuses to break any promises he’s made to Shane, and one of those promises was to let him know when it gets bad.
“Not the worst,” Ilya says, truthfully. He’s had worse days, like before he met Shane or when they were still hiding from the world. But this is still pretty bad. “Not good, though.”
“Okay,” Shane says. Ilya can’t see his face right now, still turned away from him, but he can imagine how worried he must look. “Was therapy hard yesterday? After…everything this week?”
Ilya shuts his eyes tightly and takes a deep breath, another technique he learned in therapy. As much as he wants to end this conversation and not talk about anything real for the rest of the day, he knows better now.
He slowly flips himself over so he’s facing Shane, their foreheads almost touching, and reaches up to grab his hand. He places it on his own chest to ground himself.
“It was…productive,” Ilya says after searching for the right word for a moment. “But hard, yes. Hard to relive those memories.”
“Yeah, of course,” Shane murmurs, his gaze impossibly soft. “I know we haven’t talked about her much this week, and I didn’t wanna push you. But you know you always can, right?”
Over the years, he’s told Shane about his mother in small fragments. He wants to tell him more, but it’s hard to talk about her for longer than a minute or two without breaking down completely.
The longest he’s probably ever spoken about her, outside the walls of Galina’s office, was when he gave a brief speech about her at the initial press conference for the Irina Foundation. He had practiced it for weeks, and he managed to get through it without any issues, but he unravelled in Shane’s arms the second they were alone in their hotel room afterward.
“Yes, I know,” Ilya says, squeezing Shane’s fingers. “It’s…too painful right now. Maybe later.”
“Sure, whenever you feel like it. No pressure.”
Shane reaches up to begin combing his fingers through Ilya’s curls, making his eyes flutter shut.
“How are you feeling…um, generally?” Shane asks, his brows furrowed. “Have you been having any of those thoughts?”
Ilya knows that he means suicidal thoughts when he asks this, but he can’t blame Shane for struggling to say the word. His husband is an anxious person, and ever since Ilya told him about his depression, Shane’s been hyper aware of any changes in his mood or behaviour. He always makes sure he takes his meds, and he checks in frequently when they’re apart - which is rare these days.
He doesn’t want Shane to have to think about this stuff, but he can accept that it’s for the best that he does. If his mother had the kind of support that he does now, there’s a chance she might still be here.
“No,” Ilya says honestly. “Nothing like that, I promise. I would tell you.”
He can’t really guarantee that he would confide in Shane if it ever got that bad, but he hopes he would. If not for himself, then for Shane.
Just like he can’t deny Anya her breakfast, he won’t deny his husband the life they are supposed to have together. He won’t leave him.
“Okay,” Shane sighs in relief - that question had obviously been weighing on him. “Thank you.”
Ilya leans in to him a bit more, and Shane presses soft kisses to his nose and forehead, then wraps his arms around him and pulls him close to his chest.
Ilya allows himself to sink into the embrace, burrowing his face in Shane’s neck and tangling their legs together.
Love isn’t a cure for depression, but he thinks of it as something like a soothing balm. Being held by Shane doesn’t magically rewire his brain or change the past, but it really helps.
“I miss her,” Ilya whispers after a while, his eyes brimming with tears.
“I know, baby,” Shane murmurs, kissing the top of his head and holding him tighter. “I’m so sorry.”
They stay like that for a long time, neither of them speaking. There isn’t really anything else to say.
Eventually, Ilya realizes it’s probably time to start getting ready for practice, as much as he’s dreading it.
“We should get up,” he mumbles. “Practice is soon.”
Shane pulls back a bit, holding Ilya’s face in his hands and lightly brushing his tears away with his thumbs.
“Let’s skip it today,” he suggests. “It’s optional. And we’ve won the last five games.”
That may be true, but Ilya is still the captain. He has a duty to his team to show up, even when he doesn’t feel like doing so.
“Shane-"
“Bood can handle it today,” Shane insists, a stern look on his face that Ilya knows well enough to know he is serious about this. “I’ll text Coach, he’ll understand.”
Ilya can’t really argue with either of those statements. He’s lucky to have such a good team.
“I still feel bad skipping for no reason.”
“It’s not for no reason, though,” Shane retorts. “Do you think anyone judged me for missing practice when I sprained my ankle last month?”
“Of course not, but-"
“But nothing, Ilya. Your mental health is just as important as your physical health, and you know that.”
He sighs, leaning back into the pillows. He does know that, now, but years of both Russian and hockey culture instilled in him that he should push through any pain or discomfort. It’s hard to unlearn that, but he’s trying.
“Fine, but you should go,” he says, nudging Shane’s arm. “I know you don’t like to miss practice.”
“It’s just one day, and I would rather stay here with you,” Shane says, smiling, knowing he’s winning this argument. “Come on, we haven’t had a full day off in a while. We can just cuddle on the couch, watch movies, maybe take Anya for a walk later if you’re up for it.”
That does sound like a very good day, even in his current headspace.
“Okay,” Ilya relents. “We will both stay.”
Hours later, when he’s managed to eat some more, forced himself to accompany Shane to take Anya for a short walk around the block, and not looked at his phone once, he does start to feel a bit better. He’s still not okay, necessarily, but he might be tomorrow. Or sometime in the near future, at least.
He’s now lying on the couch with his head in Shane’s lap, his favourite position in the world. Anya is curled up by the fireplace, and there’s a dumb action movie on the TV that he’s been wanting to watch for a while.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” he murmurs against the fabric of Shane’s sweatpants.
Shane looks down at him with so much pure, unadulterated love in his eyes that Ilya feels like his heart could burst.
“Of course, baby,” Shane exhales. “You don’t have to thank me. You take care of me all the time, too.”
“Part of the sickness and health deal, yes?” Ilya says, a soft smile on his face.
Shane bends down to press a soft kiss to his lips, then resumes his gentle strokes of Ilya’s hair.
“Yes it is,” Shane says. “Ya tebya lyublyu.” He then adds, also in Russian, “We will take care of each other for the rest of our lives, my love.”
Ilya smiles, closes his eyes, and drifts off into a peaceful sleep.