Archive of Our Own

Ilya hadn't seen it coming. Not in the slightest.

Shane knows this because he knows Ilya, and Ilya hadn't braced himself for the hit. He hadn't stiffened, hadn't angled his body in a way that would protect himself, hadn't attempted to avoid the collision by skating faster - he'd been completely blindsided. Caught unawares.

Shane knows this because he feels the boards reverberate as he slams Ilya against them.

The crowd roars at the impact, the Ottawa home fans rising out of their seats to yell angrily, likely cursing Shane's name for targeting their captain and accusing him of playing dirty, and the minority of Montreal fans in the stands are similarly loud, but they're delighted, gleeful at the sight of the attack on the opposing team. The players themselves react, a furious shout tearing from the Centaurs Alternate Captain's mouth - Shane can't remember his name right now. It's not important.

Shane doesn't hear anything because all he can hear is the way Ilya's breath leaves him in a rush, the way his body shudders and almost goes down before he catches himself. But Shane also sees his face, the flashes of emotions Ilya rarely allows to be seen.

His brow furrows and his mouth falls open. Pain. Rapid blinking and hitched breath. Shock.

Eyes flickering upwards towards Shane, wide and glassy. Hurt.

It vanishes in an instant, but Shane doesn't think he'll ever forget the sight. It's already burning into his brain, looping and getting caught, a constant alarm bell that won't be silenced.

The noise of the stadium falls away. The cold from the ice beneath his skates seeps into his bones.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry -" he tries to say, but it comes out as a whisper, choked, "Ilya."

He moves away as he should already have done so, the way most players would have after a clean hit against an opponent they hardly even knew the name of, who they only played against a few times a year, someone who didn't mean anything to them outside of a sporting capacity. But Shane can't move too far, because it's not true. He remains too much in Ilya's space, too obvious, because how can he pretend Ilya means nothing to him when Ilya means everything to him?

And he'd hurt him. Checked him into the boards like any other player, and worse, he'd done it too hard, he'd surprised Ilya with the force of the hit, enough that it had shown in his eyes as he looked at Shane.

"Ilya-" he tries again. Ilya isn't looking at him anymore, is busy straightening up and moving away, shaking his limbs out. His face is blank. Flat. Empty. Shane can't read him at all.

And then people descend on them, finally, their very public bubble broken. Someone is shoving Shane's shoulder, yelling in his face, a Centaur, another one close behind, and there's a medic gently easing Ilya away from the altercation, quietly asking him questions in a low voice that Shane can't hear the answer to over the angry Alternate Captain in front of him.

"Bood." Ilya calls across, the first thing he's said since colliding with the boards. His voice is firm, and he doesn't look at Shane. "Leave it. Was clean hit."

Zane Boodram, because now Shane remembers his name - Ilya's loyal teammate who seems to genuinely give a shit about him - glances back to his captain, face contorted in confusion as he questions the order. "Leave it? But he -"

"Boodram." Is all Ilya says, attention already returning to the concerned medic, and Bood obviously has no choice but to drop the matter, not when Ilya uses that tone. He skates backwards slightly, but his face is hard as he watches Shane, who only now realises that behind him is Troy Barrett, expression equally intense, and Hayden, poised between them all as if ready to leap in and defend Shane if necessary. None of the other Metros had come forwards, he can't help but notice, though this is by far a secondary worry.

"Don't try that again, Hollander." Bood warns him darkly, before shaking his head and signalling for Barrett to follow him away while the officials decide in the background what to rule for the incident. Hayden doesn't move, eyes closely watching Shane's face - too close, too much, too seeing.

"You okay, man?" he murmurs quietly, something like worry in his voice. Shane wonders what he sees.

Behind them, Ilya has convinced the medic that he's okay and doesn't need an evaluation, but his coach is waving him towards the bench anyway. It makes sense. Shane would have done the same if he'd watched one of his players be slammed that hard against the boards.

By his boyfriend. Who should have known better. Who should have been better. Who had hurt him.

There's nothing in Ilya's expression to be read anymore as he sits himself down carefully on the bench. He's quiet. Everything is quiet.

He doesn't look at Shane once.

Shane receives a short penalty for the check and Ilya ends up sitting out for the rest of the period. The penalty doesn't feel long enough for what he did, though rationally he knows it was pretty much a clean hit, but the punishment is for the force he did it with.

He hadn't meant to. His weight had been all off, and Ilya hadn't been able to prepare for it, and Shane had hurt him.

He tries to slip into that state of hyperfocus that usually carries through him a game, allowing for no distractions, not even from his own boyfriend - because last time he'd done that, he'd been flattened for his troubles - yet he can't. The focus is there but he can't manage it, it's not malleable the way it normally is because all he can think about is that awful look on Ilya's face, his hurt ringing in Shane's ears, his shock a brand across Shane's brain. He's latched onto that image now, his mind getting caught and circling back despite his desperate attempts to redirect his attention onto the game at hand.

He'd never forgive himself if he threw the game because of his relationship; his mom wouldn't forgive him, and Ilya certainly wouldn't. He doesn't want to throw the game. He wants to win.

More than anything, he wants his boyfriend to look at him.

The world is white around the edges by the time the game ends, Montreal securing a decisive victory over Ottawa, though not due to any particularly exceptional playing on Shane's part. Logically, he knows that he's good enough that a mediocre showing from him is still better than most other players', but he's never been able to internalise it, never been able to see a breach in perfection as anything but failure. Ilya, too, clearly isn't at his best either as the commentators seem to enjoy remarking upon. He's skating slower, protecting his body more than he had before, as if he were injured, and he's quieter, chirping less and generally not acting like himself.

A quiet Ilya is a warning sign, Shane has learnt. A warning for what, he hasn't yet discovered, but he's gotten the sense that Ilya tends to get lost in his head a lot, that there's a lot more going on in there than he lets on. More than he can handle sometimes, possibly.

Shane hates to think that he may have just compounded the problem.

The atmosphere amongst the Centaurs as a team is similarly subdued, the players evidently picking up on their captain's mood - whether consciously or not. Bood keeps throwing Ilya little looks of concern throughout the game, but Ilya gives him nothing back. Of course, he's in Captain mode, as commanding as ever, because he's a professional and Shane loves that about him. He loves pretty much everything about him, really.

They shake hands at the end of the game, and if Shane grips Ilya's a little too tightly and holds on a modicum too long, then that's no one's business. Ilya nods at him as he always does, and it's the first time he's looked at Shane since the hit, and something inside of him cracks open. Ilya is just so beautiful, and now is no exception. His eyes are clear and bright, cheeks flushed with exertion, his curls damp and clinging to his forehead, and no one has ever been more beautiful than Ilya. Not to Shane.

"Ilya..." he murmurs now. It's okay if they take a bit longer at the end of the game, given the hit. People would expect Shane to apologise, or at least acknowledge the situation, so he's not particularly worried about how this interaction will be perceived. "I'm so sorry. I just -" The words get caught in his throat, and he looks helplessly at the other man. "Sorry, I-"

"Shane." Ilya's voice is pitched low, and finally, finally, he's responding to Shane. His face is calm and professional, all business, but something in his voice has changed; there's a warmth there that matches his eyes, and there he is, there's Shane's Ilya. "Is okay. I am okay."

He says something in Russian then, much too fast for Shane's poor understanding of Ilya's mother tongue, before continuing on to shake Hayden's hand behind Shane. Shane forces himself to do the same, Boodram the first in line after Ilya.

The other man appears to have forgiven him, likely having heard his stuttered apology to Ilya, if the vague look of respect and perhaps a little resignation is anything to go by. "Don't sweat it, Hollander." His lips quirk up slightly as he says it. Shane wonders if this is Bood's own way of expressing remorse for his reaction earlier, and decides to take it as an olive branch. He can't bring himself to smile - the world is far too loud and wrong for that - but he can nod in appreciation for the gesture.

And then he's in the locker room untying his skates and removing his gear, as he always does, except something feels wrong. Something feels knocked loose inside him. He's functioning well on the outside, doing everything as he should and completing all his tasks as usual, but his face feels too hot and his thoughts are racing, and he needs to release this tension from his chest before he screams. His face is burning with icy heat, his hands trembling as they work. Breathing deeply feels more difficult.

"Hey, man, you okay?" Hayden asks him quietly from his position by Shane's side, and Shane wonders what he'd been doing that had alerted Hayden to his distress. He'd been sure he'd been controlling his body and expression well.

Words rose to his mind, possible responses running through his head. Yeah, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be? No, I feel like I'm going to die. Leave it. Leave me alone. Find Ilya. Tell him I love him and I'm sorry. I love him. I hurt him.

Yet nothing comes out of his mouth when he tries to respond. He has absolutely no energy to speak, the effort to do so feeling like he's wading through water, the river rushing past him but his feet sinking into the earth below. He can't speak - he's gone quiet on the outside while everything rages on the inside.

"Shane?" Hayden stops taking his uniform off at Shane's silence. "Are you alright?"

Shane doesn't think he could look over at him even if he tried, keeping his gaze fixed on the ground so that he doesn't have to look into Hayden's eyes. He continues undressing, shakily folding his clothing onto the bench in silence.

Hayden pauses for a long moment, and Shane can feel his gaze roaming over him even as the locker room vibrates with the noise of a triumphant team. "Shit." He mutters finally. "Come on. Follow me."

He doesn't try to touch Shane, which he's very grateful for, but he does rise to his feet and stand patiently in front of him until Shane musters up the will to do as he's told. Hayden leads him out into the corridor and then keeps walking until they're in a small outdoor area only accessible to players and members of staff, that Shane knows many people use for cigarette breaks, much to his disapproval. He wonders distantly when the last time Ilya smoked was, but shuts that thought down before it can snowball into something far uglier.

Hayden is quiet for a moment, just allowing him to catch his breath in the blissful solitude he's found for them, and Shane is reminded once again that Hayden does have four children. He knows how to take care of someone he loves when they're in distress, and he's been his best friend for long enough to know all of Shane's quirks and preferences. He knows not to touch him yet, not until Shane initiates it himself, and he also knows when to speak, lest Shane's mind run away from him, as was his wont.

Case in point, Hayden's calm voice fills the space between them, a bridge. "Is this about Rozanov?"

Words are still too difficult. Shane manages to nod, eyes on the ground. Shane's all about Ilya, so why wouldn't this be too?

"About how you checked him earlier?"

Fuck's sake, Hayden. Another nod.

"Shane. You can't beat yourself up about that."

Easier said than fucking done, Hayden. You didn't slam the love of your life into a board and make him give you that look, like you'd surprised him and he didn't want it. You didn't have to skate off and pretend it meant nothing to you when your boyfriend was being seen for medical evaluation because of you. Shut up, Hayden.

"Come on, man, don't give me that look. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that it was all your fault that you checked Rozanov into the boards-" who else's fault was it then? - "and you're worried that you've hurt him, and that he's angry with you. Am I right?"

Shane tilts his head in reluctant agreement. His breathing has slowed considerably just in the short while they've been outside, and he becomes aware of the slight chill in the air. Hayden must be growing cold, given his lack of warm clothing - he really had been mid-undressing.

His mind is still racing, but he finds it a little easier to focus on Hayden's voice than the one in his head.

"Well, you have to know that's bullshit, then."

Fuck off.

"Hey, there's that look again. Hear me out, okay? It's bullshit because for one, Rozanov is fucking obsessed with you. Like, I know I'm not his biggest fan or anything, but he is so obsessed with you, I can't even believe he's the same Rozanov who used to sleep with every woman he -"

Shane finally sends a quick glare up at him, face dark in warning. He doesn't want to fucking hear about all the other people Ilya has been with right now. Or ever.

To his credit, Hayden gets the message immediately. "Not the time? Okay. Fair enough. Anyway, my point is, that man loves you. He moved to fucking Ottawa for you, dude, and we both know that team fucking sucks. I actually don't think you could ever do anything that would make him less crazy about you."

How about running out of his house after agreeing to stay, eating the tuna melt he'd made for you and drinking the ginger ale he'd bought especially for you, all while his father was dying and his brother was leaching off his money, and then very publicly dating a woman and bringing her to your games in your jersey number?

Although that hadn't made Ilya less crazy about him. In fact, if anything, it had only riled him up more, if his - now in hindsight - jealous gaze at that stupid nightclub in Montreal had been anything to go by, though Shane finds that night difficult to remember, given the way Ilya had been dancing with another woman.

Fuck, maybe there really isn't anything he could do to make Ilya love him less. The thought, as ridiculous and dredged in somewhat painful memories as it is, eases his mind slightly.

Hayden continues, seeming to sense that he's making progress. "Also, he literally defended you when his teammates came for you afterwards. I heard him, he told them it was a clean hit and to lay off. What about that makes him think he's angry at you?"

Maybe the way he wouldn't look at me?

"Shane, man, I don't get why you're taking this so hard. You guys have played each other so many times and have checked each other more than most players - why is this time different? It's just hockey." Hayden doesn't sound judgemental, despite his words, or even irritated. When Shane glances up at his face once more, Hayden's eyes are searching his face with genuine curiosity, as if he truly doesn't understand what the heart of the issue is.

"Because he's my boyfriend now." Shane's voice emerges, quiet but steady.

Surprise flickers across Hayden's face at the verbal response, but then he frowns at the words themselves. Shane can't bring himself to hold the eye contact any longer, so he fixes his gaze on the door they'd come through before. The handle is worn, rusty. It probably needs cleaning.

"Yeah, but you haven't just started having feelings for each other, have you? Just because you're officially together now doesn't mean you didn't like each other all those times before. If that makes sense."

"I hurt him, Hayden. I saw it on his face." Shane admits quietly. Something in his chest clenches. "He didn't expect me to check him because he trusted me not to. He didn't think I'd hurt him, and I did. I can't, I can't -" I can't pretend he means nothing to me. Not when he's everything.

It occurs to him all of a sudden that he's saying all of this to the wrong person. He loves Hayden, and he's so very grateful for his support in this moment, but more than anything, he needs to find Ilya, and he needs to tell him he's sorry, that he didn't mean to hurt him, that he won't do it again.

God, what if Ilya's as upset as Shane is right now? He has no one else he can speak to about this - he doesn't have his own Hayden because he fucking moved to Ottawa for Shane and Shane can't even give him the comfort of having a friend he can talk to them about them, because Shane's parents aren't exactly neutral, and they're not ready for the world to know about them yet. Ilya wakes up alone in his big, empty house and goes to sleep alone in his big, empty house, and Shane had hurt him.

Fuck, he's spiralling again. He takes several deep breaths. He refuses to fall any lower, not when he has so much to say. Some semblance of calm washes over him, artificial and precarious, but it's enough.

"I need to talk to Ilya." He looks directly at Hayden and holds the eye contact.

One side of Hayden's mouth quirks up slightly, grim amusement despite the situation. "Please do. I don't want to have to do it."

Shane can't help but roll his eyes, laughing slightly despite himself. "You're an asshole." A pause, and then, "Thank you."

"Anytime, man." Then Hayden winces. "Also, I hate to say it, but you have to do press first. Rozanov's gonna have to wait."

It's almost the worst thing to happen to Shane today.

Talking to the press and doing post-game interviews is predictably torture, talking to anyone but Ilya - or his parents, at a push - like pulling teeth, requiring concentration that he simply doesn't want to waste on a win as shitty as this one. They all want so much from him, the chance to ask Shane Hollander a question, no matter how boring, the rights to plastering his face across the Internet as he says nothing of any particular importance.

Why can't he just play hockey and have people leave him alone? Would that be so difficult? The downside of actually being good at the sport, he supposes - everyone wants to hear from him. It sometimes feels like punishment for being talented.

He's exhausted by the time he makes it to where his parents are waiting in the car for him, practically crawling into the back seat and immediately closing his eyes as he rests his head against the seat. Thank God they're in Ottawa. He'd hate to have to drive anywhere tonight or stay in some hotel.

His parents congratulate him on the win, of course, but know him well enough to not get too much into the actual details of the game yet; his tiredness weighs on him like a physical entity resting on his chest for all the world to see, and he knows they can see it keenly. His mom will absolutely discuss everything with him later, but for now, she smiles and reaches back to squeeze his hand between hers. The gesture warms him, the way the child in him always reacts to his mother's comfort.

"Ilya's meeting us at ours." His dad announces not long into the drive, his tone suggesting that he thinks Shane is already aware of this.

Shane, in fact, hadn't been aware of this.

The simple statement is enough to make his heartbeat spike as he scrambles to sit up properly, searching in his bag for his phone with a sudden energy he hadn't possessed before. His phone had been the last thing on his mind, yet it had been the only way for Ilya to reach him, the one thing Shane had wanted. And it had slipped his mind entirely.

What if Ilya had texted him earlier? And Shane hadn't responded? Had he made everything worse again?

"Shane, honey..." his mom murmurs, voice soft and sad, as if she knows what he's thinking. Of course, she'd already worked out the issue, had probably known this was coming the second the hit had occurred and Shane had proceeded to play like shit.

Ilya hadn't tried to call him, but he had left a few messages.

Lily: your mom is very scary when she wants something. even texting.

Lily: she is making me go to their house after this. will not take no as answer.

Lily: of course I go.

Lily: see you there sweetheart I love you.

That had been twenty minutes ago, so Shane knew he must be driving by now. He'd probably beat them home, at this rate. God, he hopes Ilya is actually okay to drive - he'd been fine to finish playing the game, but he has no idea how injured he is, and what if something were to happen while he was driving and there was no one there to help?

Unhelpful thoughts. Unproductive spiralling.

He focuses on the words in the messages themselves, the way he can almost hear Ilya saying them, his deep voice and his gorgeous accent wrapping itself around English. He can imagine the softness in his expression, just for Shane, the slight, crooked smile of his and those grounding, gentle eyes. He'd called him 'sweetheart' in his message, as if he'd sensed that Shane needed the endearment they rarely used, at least not in English. Ilya is always calling Shane something or other in Russian, but he's not been able to translate a single one of them yet given that his current capabilities are limited to: 'Hello, my name is Shane'.

It fills him with guilt sometimes that Ilya can fluently speak Shane's language - or one of them, at least, because Ilya's French is quite something to witness - but the reverse cannot be said. How would it feel to always have to translate everything in his head, to resign himself to never being able to fully express himself and his thoughts as he would in his native language, to have to put in conscious effort to understand the people around him? Shane recalls watching videos of Ilya at press conferences right at the start of their careers and, even then, finding it disappointing that Ilya hadn't been given anything to help him translate, the journalists not cutting him any slack when it was evident that he either hadn't understood the question or didn't have the vocabulary to respond.

Ilya had been so brave - a teenager, moving halfway across the world to a country that spoke an entirely different language and mocked his accent mercilessly, completely alone. An escape from his life in Russia.

And he's just done it again as an adult. Because he loves Shane. And Shane loves him.

He's never been particularly adept at recognising his own feelings, but he's never been more certain of anything in his entire life than his love for Ilya. It floods his veins, sets him alight and settles so deeply within his core that a Shane without Ilya no longer exists. It's the fundamental truth of his being.

He wonders if other people feel like this about their partners, or whether this is just another one of those things that he's far too intense about, as he often has been throughout his life, caring too much about something everyone else has already moved on from?

Not Ilya, though. Never Ilya. He'll endure Hayden calling him obsessed forever if it means at least one person can even fathom the depth of his adoration for Ilya Rozanov.

The car rolls to a gentle stop around him, and Shane abruptly realises that he's still clutching his phone in his hand but hasn't replied to the messages. His mom's hand is on his knee, and he gets the impression she's been trying to get his attention for a while and, upon failing, had settled for this morsel of contact between them.

"Shane, honey, we're here." She murmurs softly, the car quiet now that the engine has been turned off. There's Ilya's car beside theirs, the lights on inside the house.

"You back with us?" Shane's dad asks him, voice mild as it always is. As if this is something they're accustomed to - Shane in his head, needing nothing but a safe pair of arms and a kind voice when he emerges. He loves them too, as easy as breathing.

He manages to nod, pocketing his phone now that texting Ilya is redundant. "Y-yeah, I'm here. Thanks for driving me." His voice comes out shakier than he'd like so he takes a deep breath and takes a moment to reconfigure himself into the version that he'd like to present to Ilya: calm but remorseful, decidedly not a teary-eyed mess.

His mom squeezes his knee once, as if she can hear his thoughts and disagrees, but says nothing as they quietly leave the car and make their way over to the house in silence. The night closes in around them, the moon prominent against the inky blackness.

Ilya is inside this very house and Shane needs to plan what he's going to say to him, should have already done it by now but it hadn't even occurred to him yet - why the hell hadn't he prepared for this? I'm sorry for hurting you earlier, I shouldn't have been so forceful, and I won't do it again. No, that's complete bullshit. Is he apologising to his boyfriend or to a kid at school he accidentally bumped into on the playground? Words are important, he knows, and he has to get this right, or the matter won't be resolved and Ilya will grow to resent him -

The door opens -

And there's Ilya.

He's wearing fairly nondescript clothing, a Centaurs jumper and plain trousers - a step up from his usual athletic wear, presumably out of respect for Shane's parents, but he hasn't dressed up either. Shane can instantly tell that he showered after the game because, although his hair is dry now, it's more wild than usual, his beautiful curls less defined in the way it always is when Ilya showers without the products Shane bought him once and Ilya had loved. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Shane had loved the way Ilya's hair had looked, and Ilya loves Shane so he'd kept using them. Ilya had laughed once that Svetlana was fuming that it had taken a mystery 'girlfriend' for him to start doing something with his curls, when she'd been trying to ply him with products for years.

Ilya's stance is loose and relaxed, tired, reflected in the way his eyes are half-lidded and he's blinking slower than normal. Yet there's a soft smile on his face as they approach, and Shane truly has never seen anyone more beautiful in his life, and doubtless never will. The twinkle in his bright eyes, even tired as they are, the curve of his lips, the way his curls frame his face, all as if he'd been dreamed up in Shane's mind.

He's moving before consciously deciding to, hurrying up the remaining steps in quick succession to reach Ilya, his heart racing in his chest. He feels vaguely sick all of a sudden - with what, he's not sure. Ilya's smiling tiredly at him, so he doesn't know why adrenaline is unexpectedly coursing through him.

Ilya holds his arms out as soon as Shane is within reach, and Shane practically falls into his hold. He buries his head into Ilya's neck, and Ilya rests his cheek against it with a quiet, pleased sigh. His hands are around Shane's waist, steady and unshakeable.

"It is good to see you too, котик." Ilya's voice is soft and amused by Shane's ear. Merely the sound of it is enough to soothe his racing thoughts and heartbeat, even if only for this moment.

Shane doesn't have words yet, which Ilya already seems to have gathered because they stand there for a long moment in silence, just holding one another. Ilya apparently has a sixth sense for what Shane needs at all times because he doesn't try to make him talk or move him anywhere, instinctively understanding that this embrace is all he requires. Shane isn't sure how he got quite so lucky, to be known so well.

Eventually, the sounds of his parents pottering about in the kitchen bleeds into his awareness. He isn't sure when they passed them to go inside, or how long the two of them have been standing here in the doorway, likely letting all the bugs and cold air in, but no one seems to mind.

Shane draws back, reluctantly, but keeps one hand around Ilya's waist. This close, he can see the bags beneath his eyes, and suspects that Ilya hasn't been sleeping that well lately. His face also looks perhaps a little sharper than the last time Shane had been in Ottawa, two weeks ago before the Voyageurs gone on their last road trip. He doesn't look bad per se - Shane's not convinced Ilya could look bad, even if he tried - but neither does he look his best. His skin is slightly too pale, as if he's spent a lot of time inside lately, and he just looks so tired.

It's a worrying sight to behold, and not one that Shane knows how to remedy either. He wishes suddenly, and not for the first time, that he didn't have to leave again so soon, in two days time for his Monday skate. He wants to stay in Ottawa and take care of his boyfriend in the way Ilya evidently hasn't been taking care of himself - wants to cook dinner with him every night, to keep him in company in that huge, empty house of his, to hold him as he slips into sleep. He wants to not have to say goodbye.

Ilya has seemed so down lately when he thinks Shane isn't looking and Shane just doesn't know what to do about it. Checking him hard against the boards almost certainly won't have helped, in any case.

"You are okay?" Ilya breaks the silence, voice soft.

Shane almost laughs at the absurdity of the question, at the idea of Ilya worrying about Shane when it should be the other way around, as if Shane were the one who deserved comfort right now. He doesn't think laughter is quite the appropriate reaction, though, and the thought of saying anything else makes his throat tighten so he just nods, probably unconvincingly. Ilya doesn't seem satisfied with this response, so Shane reaches up and lays his hand on the other man's cheek gently. He pulls him in for another kiss, slow and sweet.

When they break apart, Ilya appears marginally more relaxed. "Let's go inside, okay?" He pulls Shane towards the door. "You will get cold soon."

Shane manages to find words to answer this time. "Me?" He laughs shakily. "What about you?"

Ilya simply shrugs as they make their way to the kitchen. "I am Russian. I do not get cold."

Shane's mom, having now heard the tail-end of this remark, frowns from where she and his dad are busying themselves with preparing dinner. Her lips quirk upwards. "Now I know that's not true." She raises an eyebrow at Ilya across the room, while Shane's dad laughs.

Ilya spreads his hands out in a gesture of helplessness, shrugging, "Is true. Russians are not capable of feeling cold. You Canadians would not understand."

Shane's mom laughs, the sound bright in the softly-lit room. "Of course," she replies, "we have no idea what cold is up here in Canada."

Ilya looks to Shane then, making a gesture with his hands as if to say 'you see?', and Shane just huffs out a breath of amused laughter and leans in to his boyfriend again.

The whole thing feels somewhat like a production, Ilya playing himself up slightly as if to smooth over any lingering upset from the game, like he knows that Shane needs normalcy right now. They'll talk about what happened later - of that Shane is sure - but for now the gentle ribbing and light atmosphere are a balm for his frayed nerves. As is Ilya's hand, running down Shane's back.

Sometimes Shane feels inadequate in how he expresses his love - Ilya is so exuberant and so affectionate that Shane just doesn't know how he can possibly reciprocate that level of obvious care, having never been particularly good at it. He's always been better at showing rather than telling, doing little things for the people he loves and doing his best to take care of them when he can. But open affectionate has never come easily for him - he'd always been uncomfortable when friends had hugged him, and actually telling someone he cared about them made him feel so awkward that he ended up staying silent.

People had liked to call him a robot his whole life, which he'd started to believe eventually. There must be something wrong with him if the thought of hugging his friends made his stomach twist in knots and his heartbeat race, because what if he did it wrong? What if he held on too long, or held them too tightly or loosely, and it ended up being worse than if they'd done nothing at all? It had always seemed best to avoid the whole thing entirely.

But with Ilya, Shane is entirely unburdened by these hangups - it's the most natural thing in the world to touch his boyfriend, to hold his hand and run his fingers through his lovely hair. It had been frightening at first to realise just how much he liked touching Ilya Rozanov, when he'd always shied away from other people.

And yet Ilya somehow has to beat him at being a good boyfriend, too, because even with all this newfound intimacy, Shane has never once doubted how much Ilya loves him. And he's not certain he can say the reverse - if he truly were a good boyfriend, would Ilya be stood here looking like he hasn't slept in days? Clearly, he's doing something wrong if Ilya won't confide in him about whatever's wrong with him, which can only mean that Shane is what's wrong.

And then he'd slammed him into the boards.

The thought is like glass in his chest, and won't leave him. He struggles to eat the dinner his parents kindly made for them, all within his macrobiotic diet, and he catches all three of them shooting him looks of concern throughout the meal. They keep talking as if nothing were wrong and Shane hasn't gone quiet again, but at some point Ilya's hand makes it way onto Shane's thigh under the table.

Shane's in his head again. He knows it, they all know it, and he hates that he can't find his way out.

It makes him feel like a child, like he's just sulking about something inconsequential and everyone's sitting around in annoyance waiting for him to get over himself. He knows, logically, no one at this table thinks that but knowing and feeling are two different things entirely.

Once they've finished dinner, Shane managing to choke down everything on his plate out of respect for his parents, Ilya tactfully thanks them for the wonderful meal but says how very tired he is, so unfortunately they must be off back to Ilya's. Of course, everyone knows that he's actually taking Shane home, where Shane will either a) calm down or b) fall apart, but the fact it remains unsaid is appreciated, either way.

Shane's mom hesitates before she hugs him at the door, Ilya already climbing into the car outside after whispering about something with her that Shane hadn't caught. He's sure he knows what they were discussing, though.

"Honey, will you be okay?" his mom runs her hands gently over his shoulders as she asks, not forcing eye contact because he's not sure he's capable of it yet. "Do you need anything?"

Shane manages to shake his head and murmur, "No, I'm okay, Mom." Then, because he loves her more than nearly anything in the world, and he can hear the strain in her voice, he adds, "thank you."

"Okay, that's okay, then, honey." She squeezes his arms once. "If you need anything at all, let us know. You know that, but just in case. I love you."

He nods and musters up enough force of will to briefly meet her worried gaze. "I love you too, Mom. Good night."

And then he's pulling away and walking towards the car, to where Ilya is waiting in the driver's seat, having driven himself here. Shane would normally prefer to drive, but his car is currently in Montreal. He likes driving, enjoys the way the monotony allows his mind to both wander and focus simultaneously, with nothing else pressing to do in that moment and only requiring him to concentrate on the road. It's the same reason he does yoga - he finds it calms his mind down to and allows him to think about everything without the possibility that his thoughts may begin to spiral. He feels down to earth, like a real person.

He also enjoys driving Ilya around, likes the way his boyfriend cradles his hand in his lap and trusts Shane to take him anywhere. He thinks maybe Ilya finds it relaxing too, in place of the hedonistic recklessness of his own driving, just letting someone else take the reins. Ilya's been taking care of himself since he was 12 years old, so Shane always endeavours to make him see that he doesn't need to anymore.

"Ready to go?" Ilya murmurs once Shane is strapped in, and Shane nods.

The drive is comfortably quiet, neither saying much at all, nor needing to. Shane keeps Ilya's hand between his while the darkness passes them by, with only the moon as their witness.

He could stay right here forever, he thinks to himself with sudden clarity. Quiet, unobserved, with the love of his life by his side.

The way that Ilya's body relaxes throughout the drive mirrors the calming of his own nerves, and Shane feels far more in his own body when they eventually pull into the driveway of Ilya's large, lonely house. He could see himself living here one day, their children running around after a pet of some kind - Ilya adores dogs, but Shane has always preferred cats, though he's not sure he'd ever truly be able to deny Ilya anything. The two of them, together and uncaring of the world around them. Their cars side by side in the drive, their bed inside, their photos on the wall.

Shane imagines, and longs, and aches.

He can't bring himself to let go of Ilya's hand as they enter the house together, not that Ilya appears to be in much of a rush to do so either, despite the logistical problems this presents when they head straight upstairs. Shane doesn't think they'll do anything more than go to bed together tonight, not with the conversation he knows is due. Besides, Shane wants to make sure that Ilya sleeps well tonight given the exhaustion written all over his features.

Getting ready for bed doesn't take long at all, although Ilya certainly doesn't help matters when he attaches himself to Shane's back while Shane valiantly tries to brush his teeth, planting soft kisses up the nape of his neck. Fuck, maybe they will do something tonight. Ilya's hands move lower down, and suddenly Shane's oral hygiene doesn't seem as imperative.

They fall into bed together, Shane's hands running over Ilya's body like he were something precious - and he is, he's the most precious thing Shane has ever had to himself, priceless and beautiful, a work of art. Ilya can't seem to stop kissing him, barely coming up for air as he appears to try and imprint himself onto Shane's body, for the whole world to see.

Shane loses himself in the feel of Ilya, intoxicated and soothed all at once as he buries his fingers into Ilya's wonderful mass of curls. His emotions, calmed from the drive home, surge once more in his chest, euphoric and exhilarating, lighting up his veins. He's overwhelmed, and never wants to be anything but, wants to stay here forever.

It's only when he begins to scrabble at Ilya's top that he's forced to confront reality. The shirt moves over Ilya's head easily, likely because Shane hadn't exactly shown much restraint.

Shane goes to cup Ilya's bare torso, and Ilya -

Ilya flinches.

And Shane freezes -

because now he can see the vague mottling of light bruises across Ilya's chest. Bruises, because - because Shane had - he has visible bruising after their game because -

"I hurt you."

Shane hardly recognises his own voice. It's flat, disbelieving, too loud in the quiet of the room.

Regret flashes across Ilya's face immediately, and he reaches out towards Shane, who hadn't realised he'd sat bolt upright and forced Ilya to move backwards. Ilya tries to catch his eye, but Shane can't tear his gaze from his boyfriend's chest. They've bruised each other before, in games and during other activities, but somehow Ilya looks wrong now, wounded because Shane had wounded him. Instead of protecting him, he'd been the source of his pain and the Centaurs had been the ones to leap to his defence, when it should have been Shane.

"Stay there," Shane hears himself say as if through a distant tunnel, "I'm going to get ice."

Ilya says something in return, but Shane doesn't hear the words as he's pushing himself away from the bed, the journey from the bedroom to the kitchen blurring around him. His hands find an icepack in the freezer, and he turns back to find that Ilya has followed him, probably trying to speak to him if only he had heard him.

"What are you doing up?" Shane chides, irritation sharpening his mind. "I told you to stay in bed."

There's a pause as Ilya seems at a loss for words, simply watching Shane from across the kitchen in the same way he does when he hasn't understood something in English. In lieu of speaking, he moves towards Shane, moving carefully as if to signpost his actions.

"I can't believe you didn't mention the bruising before," Shane continues brusquely, busying himself with wrapping the icepack in a tea towel so that it wouldn't be too cold for Ilya's skin. "Why did your team doctor let you go home like that? Do you need tape?"

Ilya scoffs slightly, "Shane, is not that bad. My ribs are not broken. Terry had a look and said it was just bruising on - on top. On the surface."

Shane shakes his head in exasperation, reaching out and carefully placing the icepack on the darkest of the contusions. "Yeah, but you flinched like it hurt. That's not nothing."

"It barely hurt. Not now or earlier." Ilya dismisses it with a quiet shake of his head.

"Ilya."

"Well, maybe a little." Ilya admits, and Shane looks away, tears rising in his eyes despite his best efforts. "But," Ilya continues, his voice softening, "is nothing I have not had before. Is not bad, I promise. You did not hurt me."

Shane doesn't reply, gaze fixed on the ground, vision blurry. He feels Ilya tug the icepack from his hands, irritatingly placing it on the table rather than using it for its intended purpose. When Shane goes to grab it again, Ilya takes hold of his outstretched fingers runs his thumbs over Shane's.

"I did hurt you, though. I saw your face earlier." Shane's voice is hardly a whisper now, and he feels stupid and small and guilty. He hates feeling this way, like Ilya has to take care of him because he's too sensitive - it always reminds him of all those homophobic comments he's heard over the years, in locker rooms and class rooms, about who was the 'woman' in gay relationships. And there's nothing wrong with being like a woman, of course, he knows that, his parents instilled him with that knowledge from a very young age, but he can't help the shame that burns through him. It had always felt like it was bad enough that he was (secretly) gay, but to not even be the 'dominant' one in the relationship had felt even more humiliating.

"Hollander, Shane," Ilya's lovely voice draws him from his head, "I do not understand why you are so - how do you say - so worked up? We have checked each other many times before and you were not upset then. Why is it different now?"

Shane feels his brow furrow, and his mouth turn downwards. "Because I love you - because you're my boyfriend now. I can't hurt you, even for hockey. I don't - I don't want to hurt you."

"But you wanted to before?"

"Ilya, I'm serious. It didn't feel this bad before, but it happened today and I felt so awful, Ilya, you have to believe me, I didn't mean to -"

Ilya takes him by the wrists and pulls him towards him, his face calm. "Shane - Shane, I know. I know you did not. I am not upset, sweetheart. I was just surprised before, but it was just hockey, yes?" His eyebrows raise as he attempts to make eye contact with Shane.

"And you're 'just' my boyfriend." Shane fires back, voice a tad louder than necessary. He lowers it hurriedly as he continues, "Ilya, I can't - I can't be the reason you - what if you'd been seriously hurt, because of me?"

"But I was not, Shane. Is okay. I am okay."

Shane shakes his head rapidly, swallowing hard and looking at the ground still. "I hurt you," he whispers. "You were hurt. Because of me. I did that."

The tears he'd tried so hard to rein in rose again to his eyes - he knows he can't allow them to fall, because that would make everything real, and then where would that leave them? It isn't Ilya's responsibility to console him after Shane's own fuck up, the evidence of which is smattered across Ilya's lovely chest. He exhales roughly, hands tightening around Ilya's.

"Shane - Shane." Ilya's voice is low now to match the sudden hush in the room. "Is okay, I am okay. Is not bad."

Shane works up the courage to cast his gaze upwards, meeting Ilya's tired eyes - so plaintive and so tired - where they are fixed on his face. Ilya flicks a glance over him in return, before folding Shane into his arms with the same ease and security as he always did. Shane knows this is for his sake, so that he's not forced to maintain eye contact during an already difficult conversation, something his boyfriend must have picked up on at some point, though Shane hardly ever struggles to do so with Ilya.

"Shane," Ilya continues softly, "You do not need to feel bad. These bruises mean nothing, yes? Nothing is changed between us, I am not mad, I only want you to stop feeling bad. Please, любимый, you are good. I swear it. You are good here with me."

The words wash over Shane like a balm, even just the rumble of Ilya's voice and the strength of his embrace calming to his racing mind and hitching breath. But still, the anxiety lingered, not so easily quelled.

"But your team, your A," he mumbled into Ilya's hair, "they were so angry." He's not certain what point he's trying to make, but it feels like the truth.

Shane is hardly ever on the receiving end of other players’ ire when it comes to below the belt playing and has been in a grand total of one fight in his entire career, so perhaps that's why the memory of Barrett and Boodram's hard expressions burns him still. He doesn't enjoy others being upset with him, especially when he knows he's fucked up, doesn't share Ilya's enjoyment of riling others up. It had always felt permanent to him, that if he got the chirp wrong or pissed them off too much, then that would be it and they'd hate him forever. And he knows the Centaurs don't know him personally or what he means to Ilya, but Shane does, and he cares what they think of him as Ilya's partner.

It comes as a surprise when Ilya has the nerve to actually chuckle, "Ah, is their job to defend the honour of their captain." He reasons, shrugging in Shane's arms. "They are good people and they have been good to me, even though they do not know me so well. You do not need to worry about them, Hollander, but is sweet that you do."

Shane blushes despite himself. "It's not sweet. I'm - I'm... tough. And -" He can't think of anything else to finish the sentence that isn't some embarrassing variation of 'manly'. He thinks of his mom suddenly, the toughest person he knows but not masculine in any way.

"Yes, you are." Ilya agrees easily, as if he's speaking the absolute truth and not just saying it to make Shane feel better. "You are tough, is true, and you are also sweet. You can be both."

A long pause follows his words, before Shane pulls away and makes a point of letting his gaze wash over Ilya's beautiful face. Ilya smiles crookedly, a small but genuine upturn of his lips lighting up his face in a way that only highlights how dim it had been before. His eyes appear to twinkle in the darkness of the kitchen, flecks of some bright, unnameable colour sparking in his irises.

"My sweet Shane." Ilya murmurs, almost as if without realising. "You care so much about everything and everyone, even when they do not deserve it." There is something heavier in his voice that rings confusingly in Shane's mind, not dissimilar to a distant alarm that he doesn't know the meaning of, but he can't ponder this too long because Ilya keeps going, "I love that you care so much. Is why I love you."

Shane feels himself smile back, the words still piercing his deepest defences despite how many times they've said it to each other now. He leans in for a slow, gentle kiss, unhurried and tender. Ilya is sweet too, in his own way, and equal parts tough. Perhaps, Shane needn't be so ashamed. Perhaps, this is how people in love are allowed to behave with one another, to show each other parts of themselves others rarely saw. And if other people did see, then so what?

"I love you too," he finds himself whispering into Ilya's mouth, as if he were speaking to his very soul. "I love you so much, oh my God."

Ilya makes a pleased noise in response before deepening the kiss, arms still holding Shane in a tight embrace. He feels secure in a way he hasn't truly since that horrible check earlier, when he'd feared that Ilya wouldn't be able to look at him again or want to hold him in his arms.

Now that the feelings of panic and shame are retreating to the recesses of his mind, he feels a little silly about his somewhat disproportionate reaction that has managed to span an entire evening and worry his partner, his parents and his best friend in one fell swoop. Ilya's right, they've checked each other countless times and left bruises on the other in many, often pleasurable, situations. Even just in hockey, he recalls the horrible season that was 2016 when Ilya hadn't been able to even look in Shane's direction, the only interaction between them being when Ilya sent him into the boards at any opportunity he saw.

Still, while extreme guilt perhaps isn't the most productive response, he can instead try and make sure he's more careful in future. For Ilya, and for himself.

"I am sorry," he repeats for a final time, cutting Ilya off as his boyfriend immediately opens his mouth, "no, wait, I want to say this. Please."

Ilya watches him silently for a moment, eyes raking over his face, expression soft and concerned. Then, he nods.

"I'm sorry I hurt you." Shane lets his thumb run over Ilya's cheek as he speaks. "It was an accident, and I know you don't want me to feel too bad, so I'll try not to. But I'm going to be more careful in future, okay? I know you don't care as much about it, but I didn't like how surprised you were, or that I made your teammates mad. I don't want to be the reason you're hurt, even if it's an accident. That's not - I just - I just can't. Okay?"

A smile, equally amused and affectionate, curves Ilya's lips upwards, his eyes crinkling and his head tilted to one side. "Okay." He murmurs, so quiet Shane can hardly hear him.

It empowers him to brush a lock of curled hair aside and say, because he doesn't want there to be any doubt whatsoever, "I'm sorry, and I love you."

When Ilya leans in once more, a soft laugh escaping him, Shane hears it as I love you, too.