Chapter Text
🏒
There was his husband, lying on his stomach wearing nothing but boxers and socks with the entire weight of his body over his arms. When he first noticed Shane's tendency to lay on his stomach, Ilya found it endearing— his back showing a spattering of freckles that only he got to see. He reveled in the intimacy of it, memorizing every freckle and mole in Shane's body. He loved trailing lines in the small of his back to create tiny constellations. He used to call him “moy malen'kiy gimnast” with the way his limbs seemed to make unnatural shapes— his flexibility, though, making things always interesting in bed.
These days, though, Shane seemed to stay in that position for hours in their bedroom with the lights off. Apparently, he just was super tired and this pose made him loosen the knots in his muscles— Ilya didn't believe that. It was pretty obvious that for Shane this was a strategy to calm down, visibly wired after the end of each practice, itching to go home.
"You want me to lay on top of you, yes?" Ilya asked, unable to mask the worry in his tone. On the rare occasion that Shane wanted touch when he got like this, he would ask Ilya to lay on top of him. It was platonic, but Shane's soft moans as he relaxed almost instantly devolved the gesture into sex. Shane almost never minded, though he always asked Ilya to lay on top of him those days. It didn't seem like this would be one of those nights.
The car ride today had been quiet, Shane slumped against the window with his eyes closed as Ilya drove them in his new BMW. He'd taken off his clothes almost as soon as entering their home, barely saying 'hi' to Anya as they came in. Criminal if you ask Ilya. Typically, Ilya would be offended at the antipathy, but Shane seemed miserable, drained. He walked towards the bed like this with zombie-like trance, instantly shutting down.
Shane was affectionate with Anya, usually. Despite being initially skittish, he had no qualms letting Anya cuddle with them —even if he wiped down her paws before she hopped on the bed. Though even that was changing, Ilya remembered.
Last month, his poor Anya tested positive for Hookworms. Ilya, of course, reacted like any father would— how dare a parasite infect his princess? So he told Shane, indignant, of course the vet told him that this could easily be resolved with antiparasitics and recommended a change to her preventative medication.
Shane, though, had a genuine look of fear as he read through the wikipedia page on hookworms. He had banned Anya from the bed until she tested negative. It was killing Ilya.
A whimper from Anya and Shane’s tired sigh bring Ilya back to the present. "Not today." He sounded tired, his voice flat and muffled against the mattress. Ilya couldn't see his face, but he knew Shane was furrowing his eyebrows, the way he always did when something overwhelmed him.
"Okay. I will go walk Anya now." He caressed the nape of Shane's neck, who shivered uncomfortably in response. Ilya sighed. A selfish voice in his head scoffed at the rejection of Ilya's touch, but was soon replaced by concern. Shane adored him, he sacrificed hockey for him, “you want anything from the Thai restaurant down the street?"
"No— My diet. I don't — I can't eat Thai. Make me another shake, please?" Unbelievable. He wasn't sure Shane ate anything other than shakes today, it couldn't be healthy to supplement all of his food intake with protein shakes. The team nutritionist was almost too aware of Shane's bird-like eating habits and if you asked Ilya, it was like he encouraged it. Apparently, Shane worked with a famous nutritionist to develop his overly complex ‘macrobiotic’ diet. Shane said the guy apparently worked with him to come up with it, but it was clear Shane was being more strict than anyone else would be, constantly weighing and comparing food groups. This fact made Ilya uncomfortable, he wasn't sure if it was even true but it was impossible to talk to Shane about it.
Even so, he tried.
"Moy lyubimyy, I think you need real food."
"God, Ilya. The smoothies are fine. They’re real food, they’re easy–It's fine. "
He could hear the annoyance in Shane's creep with every word. He had to keep himself from rolling his eyes, "They have balanced nutrients, protein, fat, vitamins and pre-biotics. It's easier than... Ugh, just forget it." He grabs a pillow and covers his head with it, seemingly to cover the light, "I'll make it myself later, it's too complicated anyways."
Shane didn't even let him try. Ouch. He knows logically that Shane means that explaining his own ordeal is too complicated, that this food stuff was complicated for him too. But he couldn't help but feel like it was a jab at him, too, like Shane thought he wasn't bright enough to get it. He knew it was the negative voice in his head, Galina told him to fight against it— his own insecurities taking Shane's voice even if it's not something Shane would ever say.
Now he was annoyed too—annoyed, guilty, and worried. He was fighting against himself to roll his eyes. Why couldn't Shane see how concerning this was? Whatever.
He looks down at Anya who is holding onto her leash with her mouth and pulling, as if to walk Ilya herself. "Okay," he decides. Shane is an adult, capable of his own decisions. Even if there's no way this is healthy.
His annoyance doesn't make the worry go away. Galina's voice echoes in his mind, ‘he was the one who urged you to get help when you needed it, maybe talk about it with him’.
But that's the thing, Shane is rigid, stubborn, adamant that he is fine when he is not.
Walking out the room, with Anya's leash tugging him away, he finds himself muttering, “...fucking bird food” which has Shane muttering something back from under the bed. Fine.
🏒
Shane was tired.
It had only been two months since he joined the Centaurs, he shows up to practice and it's like a switch turns on where he just pretends.
Pretends he likes Boodram's ideas for Shane-inclusive barbecue food, which just makes him feel different and needy because he's the only one in their team who's this rigid. Pretends that he likes Hayes’ teasing about his awkward habits in front of everyone else, which pisses him off, coming from the guy who brings up Green Lantern comics every other practice. Pretends he likes Harris asking him excited questions about his relationship with Ilya, if the topic doesn't still make him want to rip off his skin. He doesn't know Harris that well and he doesn't know what is appropriate to say. Pretends that Dykstra's chewing isn't too loud, that Troy doesn't slam his locker door at least six times a day, that Luca Haas’ relentless sniffling doesn't drive him insane. Pretends he didn't just get outed in the most horrible way possible. Pretends that the men he thought of as brothers didn't act like he was a plague and practically forced him to switch teams. Pretends his life and career weren't uprooted exactly how he feared— leaving him in a shitty team.
He slumps into the benches, palms in his head, a nauseating combination of guilt, frustration and overwhelm.
He shakes his head, that's not right, the centaurs are good. This is a good team. This is a good team. It's fine. It's fine. His career is fine. Coming out was unavoidable, and it helped him weed out the good people from the bad. Ilya was right. Haas can't help having a nose that's sensitive to the cold rink. Shane slams his own locker door, it would be hypocritical to chirp at Troy for the same. Dykstra eats like a normal person. Harris just wants to be friends. Hayes is just blunt and himself is an awkward sort of guy. Boodram—he bites down the budding frustration as he glances up at Boodram who just asked him another question. Bood is being accommodating for the complicated, finicky, intolerant, mess of a human being Shane is.
Again, he feels his stomach drop with nauseating guilt. He doesn’t want to throw up, but he will if he doesn’t eat something soon enough.
You can be very difficult sometimes, Shane. You're a great kid —the best. But you need to work on being more tolerant, his dad’s voice echoes. He remembers being twelve, face stained with tears, sitting outside the cottage deck after he started yelling at his mom during a family get-together because the way her footsteps sounded with her new sandals drove him insane. Everything tasted bad that day, his clothes making him feel like he was ripping his skin out.
“Yeah, sure. Chicken sounds good, thanks.” His voice sounds foreign to his own ears with a slight vocal fry that grates— but if he speaks any louder, he risks rupturing his eardrums.
It's so fucking loud in here. He would say something, but the thing is that Shane knows himself, he gets like this sometimes. Logically, he knows it's just as loud as usual and like always he's the only person who has issues with anything. Ilya probably is so sick of him at this point, with Shane's relentless nagging.
The answer placates Bood, who is now heading towards Dykstra. He doesn't miss Bood's gaze meeting with Ilya, who shrugs and continues whatever he's doing with Troy. He goes back to staring at his gloved hands, which feel somehow disjoint from his body. The sweat makes his clothes burn his skin, he can feel every point of contact at his touch. He takes off his right glove, then his left. It didn't feel right, so he rubbed the feeling of the gloves leaving his hand. First from the left, then his right.
It's been 10 years since he last tried fitting into a puzzle like this and it's exhausting.
Everyone in the Ottawa team is nice. Nice in a way that Shane is not. They're kind and social in a way the Montreal team never was. It was so foreign to Shane, he found himself missing the brusqueness and pressure that riddled their locker room. He can't help but miss Hayden, who had just been a rookie a couple of seasons when they first met. Even JJ..., he shakes his head. The whole situation in Montreal made a crack in his friendship with JJ, it wasn't the same anymore. He didn't want to reminisce about a team that he led to three fucking Cups and then threw him out like trash. God, remembering the whole thing makes a flush creep up his cheeks from his neck. He knows what people say about him. It made him feel sick, everything made him feel sick these days.
He was so hungry, but he had to follow his diet strictly. He was eating as many calories as he burned, in a controlled and realistic capacity. But everything these days seemed unappetizing, foods he typically loved that were forbidden by his diet and gave him a surge of nausea and anxiety. He didn't believe in cheat days, not when creating made him feel like he was going to puke.
Puke. Even the word alone makes him spiral.
He stares at his nails. He doesn't know how Ilya managed to do this. Ilya didn't, that's the thing, a tiny voice in his head chided. He struggled for months, depressed and miserable. The worst part was that Shane wasn't even there for him— Shane didn't know, maybe he chose not to know. He feels his index finger in his left hand frantically tapping against the wooden bench. Was Ilya happy? His stomach dropped again. He pulls out his phone and texts him, ‘I love you.’ Ilya is literally across the room, one arm around Troy and the other around Luca, smiling.
He puts away his phone quickly, a practiced motion, making sure no one else sees him.
He bites the hanging skin off his thumb's cuticle, lost in thought as he mechanically takes off the rest of his gear, right before left.
He hears Ilya teasing Luca Haas in the background. He bites off a bit of skin again, trying to even out the skin. He didn't want to think about this. It occurred to him now, more than ever, that he never was good at being a captain.
Ilya was a natural at connecting with others, especially kids like Haas. He tastes the iron flavor of blood and sucks on his finger. Ilya shuffles Luca's hair and Shane looks away as their heads turn towards the lockers. Briefly, Shane imagines himself in Ilya's shoes, attempting to do a similar gesture. Even in his mind, Shane is awkward and robotic. Even Barret, who can’t even smile like a normal person, seems to naturally fit in with the rest of them.Shame exists, as it always does, nested between love, jealousy, and envy. The only three emotions he finds himself feeling these days, anxiety and fear being the constant state of his body and not an emotion, per say.
His brain is a step or two behind everyone else and he's playing catch up.
He has too many thoughts to contain them in his head, it’s suffocating. He should call Hayden. He should call Rose. It had been at least a month since he talked to either of them.
JJ— He didn't know what to do with J.J.
He should go over to his parents sometime this week to drop off some packages that arrived at their cottage. Sweetie, you have to be more tolerant of those around you.
Tolerant. It reminds him of how two months ago he was looking through the notes his pre-school teachers left in a little shoebox his mom kept in the attic. Little Shane, you are a pleasure to have in class. But we need to work on your outbursts and intolerance with the other kids. Let's use our words, not our tears.
He can't remember being four, but the word ‘intolerance’ was permanently etched into his mind.
Intolerant. That's what he was.
Finicky, complicated, sensitive, grumpy. He was always like this with people around him, so frustrated at stray touches or sounds, overwhelmed and boiling under his skin.
He felt a painful pang in his stomach.
He didn't want to think about what to eat.
🏒
Ilya drives them home, the only sound being the wind as the vehicle drives through an empty road. His body craved nutrition but the idea of real food still sickened him.
Something about going through the mental energy of deciding what food his brain deems to be okay— It was just too much work and he didn't trust anyone else to get it right. Recently, when he spent the time preparing his bland food, he would just stare at it until the colors melted and his appetite faded and all he felt was disgust. So yeah, shakes was all he was eating.
He slumps against the cool surface of the window. He breathes in for a minute or two, just letting his nerves collapse.
He opens his eyes just a bit, to assess the situation.
He can't handle Ilya's usual speeding today, not when he feels like he's about to burst. He can't find the words to ask Ilya or even try to explain this. He feels them run over a pothole, the degree of jerk serving as an indicator for their current acceleration. He shuts his eyes off.
Jerk is the derivative of acceleration, he tells himself in a weird sort of mantra— Inertia, he recalls, says that bodies in motion have to stay in motion. He imagines the car suddenly coming to a stop, his body lurching forward and his bones breaking as the air bag forcefully collides against him.
He isn't mad, but he knows things from breakfast made the day kind of tense. Ilya hadn't replied to his text, but they were next to each other. Maybe he hadn't seen his phone.
There's a thrum of fear mixed with the overwhelm, a premonition that something bad is going to happen. Something will happen and Shane has no idea how to prevent it. We were going to crash. Ilya is going to divorce me, he's going to see just how not normal I am. He's going to find out.
We are going to crash.
He opens his eyes just a bit, enough to see red lights of the cars in front of him blurred against his narrow eyelashes.
“Careful Ilya, we're going to crash if you keep driving like this.” He feels his own chest heave, each breath heavy against his ribs. He can feel the jolting of the car against the rough texture of the road.
“Hollander, was a pothole. I am more than two car's distance from the car ahead of me.” He can tell Ilya is annoyed with him, he seems to have been annoyed with him all day it seems.
Something must've shown in Shane's posture because all Ilya says is, “we're okay.” He feels Ilya's hand over his own, a reconciliation of sorts.
Ilya should be driving with both hands on the wheel. We are going to crash.
Shane opens his eyes. Ilya's touch is uncomfortable. Silence hangs in the air with a certain weight. Ilya keeps the speed a mile consistently below the speed limit.
He picks again at his thumb nail, the skin pink and unable to heal from the constant prodding. He gets an image in his mind of a necrotic wound, could something like that happen? He shakes his head. No, that's irrational. It's so small.
Yet it feels bigger than yesterday, because yesterday it was just a hangnail he hadn't picked at. Today, it's tender and bleeding. He knows Ilya is glancing at him as he sucks the blood in his fingertip.
“Bandaids are in glove box.” Ilya says, not unkindly. Shane nods and opens it, grabbing a bandaid.
Ilya seems to hesitate before speaking, “Boodram was worried about you today, I think.”
He can't hear this. “I think he really wants you at the barbecue tomorrow, lyubimyy.”
I can't.
“He's a sweet guy, nice. Very caring. I think you would like him, I think you need friends here. Ottawa is nice, not like Montreal. Would be good for you. I know you don't want—”
“It's not that I don't want it, Ilya—”
“I know it's hard. We didn't come out on our own terms. The team is new. I know you don't want to go, but—”
I really can't.
“—it would mean a lot to me. It would mean a lot to the guys. We have good chance for the cup this year, yes? Having you there… good for morale.”
“I can't, Ilya.”
“Might even be good for you, I told you. You and Barret are very similar, you might even become friends.”
“No. If I say I can't it's because I can't. I can’t.”
“You can't or you won't? You don't even try? Hollander, is like you don't even care. We are out! There is literally nothing to lose now.” The tone in the other man's voice was setting off warning signals in Shane's brain. Ilya was clearly starting to get upset at him, which wasn't fair. Couldn't he see? Shane was trying.
“Fuck off, Ilya! Just stop it!” Shane spat, grasping his hair with his hands and pulling, looking for something to help him feel put-together. He feels strands rip away from his scalp, “I'll go! I'll socialize! I'll be the best funniest, fucking guy ever! I'll make sure to be tolerant, nice and everything I am not!” I hate being rigid like this too! This is so hard for me too. “This is me, Ilya! I nag, I am annoying. I'm high-maintenance, intolerant, and more importantly, boring. This is who you married! I can't fucking change this! If I could I would!” he feels an indomitable rage and frustration just build up on him until he bursts. His eyes are starting to prickle with tears and his nostrils are round, fuming.
It feels like hours, the lights flashing across the road and the warm air from the heater the only thing he can feel. Eventually, he feels his heart rate slow so that the only thing he can hear is the silence of the road and not the blood rushing through his ears.
“Okay.” That's all Ilya says.
Shane buries his face in his hands, his face noticeably wet.
A sob escapes from his throat, without meaning to. He imagines Ilya, turning to him, telling him this would never work. How could this ever work? Shane revealed a rotten part of himself once again, this would be the thing to end them.
“Lyubimyy, is okay.” His voice was so needlessly gentle, but Shane could sense the confusion and frustration there too.“Is okay, is okay.”
His hands against his scalp, soothed Shane enough that he could open his eyes without the world overwhelming him. Ilya had pulled up to a gas station parking lot, which was as empty and private as it could be.
God he was such a baby, who else would make this big of a deal at going to a teammates house? Shane hated this part of himself so much, the part that struggled with change. Ilya wanted him to fit into the team, their team.
He wanted Shane to get to know his friends.
It takes him back to a year before, when Ilya invited Shane ‘as a friend’ to Boodram's place. Shane rejected the invitation, caught up in the fear of their relationship being outed. This preempted a big argument between both of them. Ilya sacrificed so much, through the last couple of years and Shane didn't even have the gall to notice, he still felt guilty. “I know you want to go, I can go. I'll feel better tomorrow, I think.”
“We do not have to, Shane. Is not that serious. I am sorry, I was not fair,” the gaze in his eyes is intense and it hurts Shane so much that he's someone that needs to be accommodated and worked around.
“I just need to hype myself up. Today was a shit night, I'm tired and stressed.” Shane said, eyes closed but his body upright, “I want to be with you, okay?”
“I know, lyubimyy. I know. We will talk about it tomorrow, yes?” Ilya mapped Shane's knuckles with his thumb. He sounded so doubtful and for the thirtieth time that day Shane just wanted to be normal.
"Yeah, tomorrow." But Shane didn't know how to start, he didn't know what he would say if Ilya asked. He didn't know what he felt.