Chapter Text
Shane needed to cool off. At least that’s what he had said before leaving. As Ilya stood now in the front hall of Shane’s Cottage, he realized how little he had actually ever observed of the place. It felt different, without Shane in it. Empty, a little colder. Like the feeling of getting back home after hanging out with friends. Just hyper aware of the silence. He hated when they argued. Most couples did, he assumed, but it just always felt like a waste of their time together. They lived their life in chopped up, stolen moments. A weekend here, a night there. Living only for the summers in the cottage.
He grabbed a Coke from the fridge and cracked it as he sat at the counter and rubbed his face with his hands. What the hell was happening? He felt like he had given everything for Shane. For a chance at a life with him. And he still couldn’t bring himself to let Shane in. To let him know how he was actually doing. Ilya knew this fight was his fault. Shane had been concerned (when wasn’t he?) about Ilya, and had been encouraging him to go to therapy. Ilya joked about it, deflecting it. And after a few minutes of that continuing, Shane had left. Ilya understood why he was upset. But a part of him missed when things weren’t so serious between them. Not most of him. But a tiny, tiny part missed the safety of the avoidance. The safety in not having to tell anyone how he was actually doing, and no one really asking. Obviously it was lonely. But whenever it was him and Shane it was just… easy. It was fun. He could make jokes and flirt and- Shane would think he was cool. Shane would think he was cool and hot and mysterious. And never had to find out how deeply uncool it is to be depressed. How deeply unsexy it is to feel lonely in a packed nightclub. Those parts of himself had been a secret for so long, it felt like moving tectonic plates just to bring some of it to the surface.
He carried the Coke with him to the doorway to their bedroom. Shane’s bedroom. Ilya did not live here. Not technically. And not if almost anyone asked. But it was the only place in a long long time he felt like home. This was the only bedroom in a long long time that actually felt like his. He glanced to the left of the door into Shane’s walk in closet, where he had, with great difficulty, cleared out about a quarter of it for Ilya to use when he was here. He looked at the hardwood floor and remembered Shane sitting cross-legged facetiming his stylist, Mira, for permission on what to get rid of. In the end, almost everything had just gone to one of the closets in the guest rooms. For someone who used to only wear sweatpants, Shane had quite the attachment to clothing now.
God, Shane kept this place cold. Something about metabolism? Or circadian rhythm? Ilya couldn’t remember. He went into the closet and reached for one of his hoodies before changing his mind and grabbing one of Shane’s. It was an old one, from when Shane played for the Canadian World Juniors in 2008. It was worn soft though, and the front pocket was ripped a little at the corner. It smelled like him. How long of a drive was he going to go on? Ilya considered texting him an apology. But he likely wouldn’t look at his phone while driving anyways. He could call him, but it’s probably better to just let him cool off. Right? He pulled on Shane’s hoodie. It fit him a little snug but it fit. And he loved this thing.
Sometimes he imagined what it would have been like if everything had been different. If when they had met then, Ilya had said everything he had been thinking. If Shane had said it all back. He imagined them dating, in the open. Wearing Shane’s jersey, or hoodie. Having an excuse to watch all of the Canada games in person, instead of just the ones that really mattered for standings. How much would’ve needed to be different. How much they would’ve needed to be different.
He leaned with his back to the doorframe of the closet and sank down to sit on the floor. He looked at the assembled shoes, lined up neatly, their respective boxes behind them. These, Shane had explained, were his second line of shoes. They were some of his favorites, but too nice to wear regularly, or just didn’t go with a lot of his outfits. The first line was kept on a rack by the front door, organized, of course, by occasion. As he studied the different sneakers, dress shoes, and sandals, one shoe box in the corner of the closet caught his eye. This shoe box didn’t have the label facing out. He counted, ten pairs, eleven boxes. It looked like plain cardboard, or maybe the type of shoe had been worn off some time ago. Curiosity piqued, Ilya reached for it and pulled it out from under the other two. Snagging slightly as it slid out was some kind of label. As he unfolded it, he saw it was a postcard taped to the top of the shoebox.
Welcome to Beautiful Quebec!
The words danced across the card in front of a picture of a loon looking out onto the lake. A sunset in the background turned the water orange and yellow underneath its black wings. What is this? It looked like some kind of memory box. He felt like he was trespassing into Shane’s life. Clearly if he had wanted to show him this he would’ve. But, he could just peek. Right? See whatever boring postcards he had saved from his aunt or grandma and close it. He could just see what was in it, he didn’t have to snoop through it. As he gingerly removed the lid, immediately he was wrong. It wasn’t Christmas cards or old ticket stubs or whatever else he expected to see. He was met with stacks of tri-folded looseleaf sheets. The one on top labeled
Ilya.
His breath caught in his throat. Fuck. He really shouldn’t be looking at this. But as he kept looking, he saw the next letter underneath it, with the name partially obscured. he moved the first and saw it again.
Ilya.
As he flipped through the letters he saw his name over, and over, and over again.
In Shane’s handwriting. Ilya. Ilya. To: Ilya. For: Ilya.
As tears welled in his eyes, he couldn’t stop himself. He opened the letter on top.
May 8th, 2020
Christ he wrote this last week
Dear Ilya,
I dreamt about you again last night. I dream about you most nights, when I do at all. I wish they were fun sex dreams. The center ice one was fun. But most of them aren’t that. Last night it was this recurring one, about your mother.
A lump formed in Ilya’s throat
I dream that you and her are talking, but I just see your back. You turn and call me over to meet her and as soon as I try to come over, I am miles away. I can see you, just barely, across the distance. I start running and running as hard as I can but I can’t make it to you. I can’t meet her. I woke up this morning sweating.
Ilya was fully crying now. As tears ran down his cheeks, he remembered his own dream.
Of Shane not coming to see his mother before she disappeared. Of course Shane would come. Here he was having his own version of the same dream. Why wouldn’t he tell me about it? ‘You didn’t tell him about yours’ A voice in his head reminded him. Ilya kept reading.
I wish I could’ve met her. I wish I could thank her for creating the man I love. And I wish-
I wish I could’ve told her that I’ll take care of you. That you’ll be okay, because i’ll make sure of it. I wish she could see her son be loved so so deeply. I never knew her, but I like to think we would have gotten along.
Ilya chuckled through his tears. She would have loved him. He imagined Shane, meeting her in Moscow, walking in, unsure where to sit. His mom quickly would have given him a task, something that she definitely didn’t need help with. But she was so good at making people feel like they belonged there. She would have poked fun at Ilya, and gotten Shane to laugh.
I want you to know how much that’s true, Ilya. How deeply I love you.
Ilya knew.
How much I want to take care of you and protect you from the world.
I don’t nee-
Even though you don’t need it.
goddamnit.
I want to do it. I want to keep you safe, and I want to make you happy. I want to make your life easy. I want you to be okay. And I want you to tell me when you’re not. I want to help you through the shit. And if I can’t, I want to sit in it with you.
a lump once again formed in Ilya’s throat. ‘
I love you.
Let me.
Love,
Shane
Ilya let his arm fall down to his lap, still holding the letter. He let out a deep sigh, his chest exhausted from the crying. How the hell did he get so lucky? He didn’t deserve this man. He sat, staring at the ceiling for a few minutes. He was so tired. So tired of pretending to be okay. Pretending to be unaffected. Pretending like his mother’s death didn’t still affect him. Mostly, he was so tired of keeping Shane at arms length. All he wanted was to fall onto his chest. He closed his eyes and just sat in the silence, head leaning back against the door frame.
His eyes shot open as he heard soft footsteps entering the room.