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“Hi, this is Ilya. I will never listen to your voicemail.”
Shane hangs up immediately, dropping the phone like it’s on fire. He’s not sure what even possessed him to make the call in the first place because this is definitively not something they do, not something they have ever done.
You never used to cry in each other’s arms, either, says the voice in the back of his head, and Shane is reminded once more of all the rules they broke in Tampa, of all the words and the touches and the moments that they won’t ever be able to take back.
Not that he wants to.
And yet he can’t help but feel that they’re existing in some kind of liminal space that he doesn’t know how to name, that something had been set irreversibly in motion the moment he’d crawled into Ilya’s lap and tasted the salt of his tears on his lips. He doesn’t have a name for whatever they are to each other because the last thing he wants to do is pressure Ilya for something he can’t allow himself to give. Ilya, who had broken down in tears at the prospect of being unable to return to the country that will never allow him to exist as the truest version of himself. Ilya, who had kissed Shane like he was something precious, held him like he was the last stable thing on earth.
He doesn’t have a name for what they are, but surely they’ve reached the point where they can call each other on the phone. Right?
When Ilya finally calls him back, Shane feels something inside his chest loosen as the crushing weight he hasn’t even realized he’s been carrying begins to dissipate. He realizes that even after all of the walls they’d torn down in Tampa, he’d still feared – subconsciously, maybe – that there was something insurmountable between them. And it’s not like anything has changed, really – their situation still feels beyond impossible – but there had been an emotional shift in the time before Shane had left Ilya’s hotel room, a moment of silent acknowledgment that maybe they can’t be more, not out loud, but that they’ve become something either way. A cascade of inevitability like the water that flows in a river, unaware of its final destination and yet powerless to resist the forces carrying it there.
He doesn’t have a name for what they are, but Ilya calls and he answers, and maybe being willing to move heaven and earth for someone is a label in and of itself.
He doesn’t have a name for what they are, but Ilya needs him, and that’s all that matters.
Shane’s heart breaks when Ilya calls Moscow home, but who is he to argue that it’s not a home if the only love there is bought, especially when this is the only reality Ilya has ever known. He thinks – again – about the way Ilya had cried in his arms in Tampa and wonders if it was the first time in his adult life that he’d felt safe enough to let himself feel. Shane remembers being terrified, trying his best to appear calm and sure of himself as he’d taken Ilya’s face in his hands and turned it firmly towards him, but all the while desperately afraid that this show of vulnerability would walk everything back, destroy all of the progress they’d just made.
He wants to tell Ilya that maybe home can be a hotel room in Tampa Bay but he doesn’t know how to say this without it sounding too much like I love you, so instead he says I want to help if I can and he hopes it’s enough.
He doesn’t have a name for what they are, but he hears the raw emotion in Ilya’s voice and knows that this – whatever it is – may be one of the only things Ilya has left, and so Shane will be whatever he needs to be in this moment.
And so he pours his heart into I wish you were here right now, because he’s spent the past nine years playing scared when it comes to this, and he’s not letting himself do that anymore now that he knows what he wants. He doesn’t understand Ilya’s response, but he doesn’t need to, and he may not have words for this thing between them but he hangs up the phone with a fragile kind of hope in his heart, and that’s something.
The second time Shane calls, he waits until he knows it’s the middle of the night in Moscow. He holds his breath as the phone rings, wondering if Ilya might answer anyway, wondering what he’ll even say if he does. He’s convinced himself this is stupid, is seconds away from hanging up, when finally–
“Hi, this is Ilya. I will never listen to your voicemail.”
There’s a beep from the other end of the line, and all of a sudden Shane realizes in a panic that he hasn’t planned this far ahead, that he doesn’t know what he’s going to say. He clears his throat awkwardly.
“Um…hi.”
Great start.
“I know you don’t…I mean, you probably won’t listen to this. Or whatever. I just wanted to…fuck.” He sighs, dragging a hand across his face, internally cringing at how ridiculous he must sound right now. “I miss you. And I know that’s stupid, but I need to say it because I’ve spent way too long not saying things. And,” Shane adds, out of fear that this might all be tragically misinterpreted, “this doesn’t mean that I need you to be…anything that you can’t. I just want you to know that I’m here, and that I…miss you,” he finishes lamely.
The second he hangs up, he throws himself face first onto his bed with an audible groan. He lies there for a moment before another wave of panic overtakes him and he searches frantically for his phone, pulling up a browser tab and typing ‘can I unsend a voicemail?’ into the search bar. When this query – unsurprisingly – yields null results, Shane powers off his phone entirely, placing it face down on the bedside table before burying his face in his pillow once more, allowing it to muffle another groan of frustration.
Maybe it didn’t sound as pathetic as he thinks it did. Maybe Ilya won’t even listen to it.
Maybe the ground will open up and swallow him whole.
When he finally works up the courage to check his phone the next morning, Shane finds nothing. Which is exactly what he would expect – he reminds himself – from someone who threatens to never listen to their voicemail.
Part of him wants to pretend that it never happened. But another, bigger part of him – the part that is incapable of letting things go – desperately needs some kind of acknowledgment. And so he sends Ilya a text; short, innocent, to the point. You okay?
The response comes back quickly, almost like Ilya was waiting for him, and Shane tries not to think too hard about what this means. I am okay. I will be back in time for our game.
Ilya doesn’t mention the call, and Shane doesn’t ask, and that in itself tells him everything he needs to know.
The third time Shane calls, Ilya is in the middle of a playoff game. He’s watching from the couch at his parents’ cottage, his arm still in a sling, and normally his parents would be (lovingly) giving him shit about spending so long staring at the TV when he’s still recovering from a concussion, but luckily they’re far too immersed in the game to care. Nevertheless, Yuna shoots him a look when Shane mutters something about going to lie down during the second intermission to rest his eyes, which even he will admit have still been getting tired more quickly than normal. The team physiotherapists have told him this is normal, that he’s hitting all the benchmarks of healing at the appropriate times, but he still can’t help but be anxious about it all.
Shane makes his way over to the hammock that he and his dad had set up at the beginning of the summer. It’s awkward trying to get situated with only one working arm but he finally makes it work, listening to the phone ring on the other end of the line as he readjusts his body until he finds a comfortable position.
“Hi, this is Ilya. I will never listen to your voicemail.”
“Hey,” Shane says as soon as he hears the message indicator tone. It’s less awkward, this time. Partially because he’s planned out part of what he’s going to say and has spent the past hour and a half rehearsing it in his mind, but also partially because everything feels easier now – has, really, since the hospital. He doesn’t remember much about the forty-eight hours after his injury but he remembers the haunted look in Ilya’s eyes, the gentleness in his hands as he’d touched Shane as if he was something Ilya had just realized could be broken. He remembers replaying those touches in his mind in the days that followed, desperately trying to cling to them even as he allowed the rest of his memories to fade into a haze of uncertainty.
“I, uh…I told my parents about you,” Shane begins. “I mean, not about…you know. But I told my mom that you came to see me in the hospital. I just…I don’t know, I guess I want people to hate you less. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person who knows you, you know? I just…want them to see you the way I do.”
Shane takes a deep breath, trying to collect his thoughts. “This is stupid. Sorry. I’m…uh, I’m watching your game right now. You shouldn’t be playing with that rib fracture. And the offer still stands, obviously. I mean, if you want to come up to the cottage during the off-season. I know I was half-high when I invited you but I still…fuck, what does it matter, it’s not like you’re going to listen to this. Anyways, I…I’ll talk to you later.”
Shane hangs up with his heart pounding, the words that he absolutely cannot say balancing on the tip of his tongue like they’re ready to fling themselves into some kind of abyss. “Third period just started,” his mom calls from the doorway and Shane shoves his phone back into his pocket, welcoming the distraction, even if it does nothing to take his thoughts off of the words that are still marinating slowly in the back of his mind, waiting to be acknowledged.
By the fourth time Shane leaves a message, everything is out in the open. He watches the clock as he drives back from the airport, waiting until he’s certain that Ilya’s flight to Boston is in the air before he pulls into a Tim Hortons drive-through. Armed with a large black coffee, Shane finds a spot in the corner of the parking lot and pulls his phone out of his pocket.
“Hi, this is Ilya. I will never listen to your voicemail.”
“Hey. I know you just left, but I miss you. I…don’t know how I’m going to do this, actually. It feels impossible. But like, impossible in a different way than it used to, if that makes sense. Anyways, I love you. Text me when you get home.”
He watches the road through a haze of tears for the rest of the drive as the flat highways and suburban farmlands of Ottawa give way to the winding, evergreen-lined backcountry roads of Quebec. When he finally makes it back to his now-empty cottage, Shane barely makes it through the door before he collapses against the wall, sliding to the ground, his body shaking with the sobs he’d spent the entire drive trying to hold back. He’s not even sure what the tears are for, exactly; maybe it’s the lost years that they’ve both spent loving each other in secret, maybe it’s the prospect of another full year ahead of them where all they’ll have of each other is stolen moments in the darkness. Maybe it’s the way that the late afternoon light filters through the cottage and illuminates all the empty spaces, the way he feels Ilya’s absence like a physical ache, the way that this space – which has been Shane’s refuge for years – now feels incomplete.
His phone buzzes in his hand and the message from Ilya reads I made it back and Shane is wildly, absurdly glad that Ilya hasn’t used the word home.
And then Shane remembers the voicemail, and text me when you get home, and he wracks his brain trying to remember if he’d said something similar in person as Ilya had left his car at the airport, his ball cap pulled low over his face so he wouldn’t be recognized.
I wish you were here, he replies, choosing to play the same game as before, not acknowledging the missed call unless Ilya does first.
I wish I was, too, comes the response, and there’s an undercurrent of I love you to all of it that neither of them need to hide anymore, and for now it’s enough.
It had started out as a joke among his teammates after the fifth time Marleau had called him out in the locker room for not knowing how to check his voicemail. “I know how to check,” Ilya had argued playfully over the raucous laughter. “Is just not important.” They’d talked him into recording the message later that night as they’d celebrated their win over shared pitchers of beer and someone – he still can’t remember who – had convinced him to leave it like that until he scored his next hat trick, and Ilya has never been one to back down from a challenge.
He’s scored a handful of hat tricks since then, but the message – which has become universally beloved by the entire Raiders roster – still hasn’t changed.
Hi, this is Ilya. I will never listen to your voicemail.
If there’s one thing he never expected, it’s that Shane would take this literally.
The missed calls always seem to conveniently come at times that Ilya can’t answer his phone; when the time difference means it’s the middle of the night in Moscow, when he’s in the middle of a game, when his plane is in the air and his phone is on airplane mode. To the outside observer, they could almost be coincidences. But the outside observer doesn’t know Shane Hollander, not the way Ilya does. The outside observer doesn’t know all the ways that Shane’s life is meticulously planned and coordinated, that all of his actions are deliberate and completely, one hundred percent intentional.
He’s doing this on purpose. And it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why.
Ilya remembers baring his soul to Shane over the phone in Russian like it was yesterday. He remembers the release of finally saying the things that had been festering inside his mind and slowly killing him, remembers taking what felt like the first deep breath of his adult life, tears streaming down his face as he confessed his love in a language Shane didn’t understand. He remembers the unexpected intimacy of being given that space for the first time, the novelty of someone offering him something that was just for him, expecting nothing in return. Maybe it’ll help.
It isn’t hard to understand why Shane might want the same thing.
At first, he never intends to listen to the messages. Instead he lets them accumulate one at a time, never acknowledging them but also never deleting them, giving them a space to just exist. And then one day he’s checking his voicemail after a missed call from his coach and the next message autoplays when the first one ends, and by the time he realizes, it’s too late.
The messages play, one after another, and Ilya listens to them with his heart in his throat and tears in his eyes. I miss you. I just want them to see you the way I do. I love you. He collects these pieces of Shane’s heart – holding them close to him – and it still, still doesn’t feel real that he can be this place for someone, that Shane trusts him with the most fragile, vulnerable parts of himself.
From then on, he listens to the messages as they come in, deleting them one at a time only to free up space when his inbox is full. He knows he shouldn’t; something about it feels like a violation of Shane’s privacy in a way that Ilya isn’t fully sure he can explain – even to himself – but he’s become addicted to it like a drug that he knows will eventually destroy him, and that he is powerless to resist all the same.
Neither of them mention the messages, but Shane keeps leaving them. Sometimes Ilya wonders if it’s a game, if Shane is waiting for him to be the first to acknowledge it the same way that Shane has always been more hesitant to give a name to the things between them. But Shane doesn’t play games like this, not really. He has always been exactly what he presents on the surface, it’s part of what had drawn Ilya to him all those years ago.
Most of the messages are short and to the point, but occasionally Shane will pour his heart out, and these in particular are the messages that always threaten to move Ilya to tears. The longest messages are the ones where he speaks entirely in French, and Ilya never tries to translate these because even though there are no rules to this, he knows that would be a step too far. The confessions that hide behind the language barrier are for Shane and Shane alone.
His favourites are the messages Shane leaves after a game. It’s always the time when he’s the softest, when he can let the perfect hockey player mask slip just a little bit, and Ilya loves that he is one of the only people on earth who gets to see this side of Shane Hollander. On particularly bad days, Ilya will replay all of the messages he has saved, one by one, savouring every I miss you and I love you like it’s the last hit of an illicit substance.
When Ilya checks his phone briefly during the second intermission of a home game, it’s to find a missed call from Shane and a notification indicating that he has a new voicemail. Smiling softly to himself, he slips his phone back into the pocket of his jacket as he prepares to lead his team back out onto the ice.
It’s a hard-fought battle against the top-ranked Admirals, with the Raiders in strong contention for a wildcard spot in the playoffs and desperate for every single point they can get. Connors scores an equalizer for Boston late in the third to send the game into overtime, and then a shootout, where even the Raiders’ top shooters can’t seem to get past New York’s elite goaltending. The media want to speak to Ilya for far too long after the game and he gives them all vague one word answers to their questions to try to speed up the interviews, but it’s still past midnight by the time he finally pulls into his driveway.
He’s so exhausted that he discards his suit on the bedroom floor, pulling on a pair of sweatpants before he collapses into bed and finally, finally clicks on the voicemail notification, because there are few times he’s needed to hear Shane’s voice as badly as he does now.
“Hi.” Shane’s voice is crackly through the phone, but something about his tone tells Ilya immediately that something is wrong. Ilya’s worst fears are confirmed when Shane says “I’m at the hospital. I’m not…I mean, I’m fine,” he clarifies, but his breath is coming in short gasps and his words sound tight and forced the way they do when he’s panicking, and Ilya knows he is anything but fine. Ilya’s own chest feels tight with impending panic and he forces himself to breathe deeply as he listens to the rest of Shane’s message.
“Some idiot sideswiped my car on the highway on the way home from practice and I rolled into a ditch.” Shane’s words are coming faster now, and Ilya imagines his chest rising and falling rapidly, imagines him all alone in a building full of people who don’t know how to help him relax, and the image is like a knife twisting deep into his heart. “I don’t know why I even called you,” Shane continues, and the knife in Ilya’s heart sinks even deeper. “I guess I thought talking about it would help or something, but I’m…my car is totaled and everyone here keeps saying that it’s lucky I’m not…that I’m fine, I mean, but I…I’m just…scared, I guess. Which is stupid. And I miss you. And I…I wish you were here right now. And…sorry. I mean, I know you’re not going to listen to this, but…fuck, sorry. Okay. Bye.” The last word is a broken whisper, the final twist of the knife in Ilya’s heart.
He’s in his car before he can remember how he got there, flying past the Boston city limits by the time his brain catches up to his body. Briefly, he pulls over, taking a moment to make sure he has his wallet and passport before pulling back onto the highway, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he pushes the limits of safe driving speed in ways he never has before.
On a good day, the drive from Boston to Montreal is just under five hours long, not accounting for traffic. Ilya does it in four. It’s still dark by the time he pulls into the parking lot behind Shane’s apartment complex at just past five in the morning and realizes – with a sinking heart – that Shane is probably asleep, and he has no way of getting inside.
He tries the buzzer twice, to no response. The third time, he calls Shane’s phone directly, holding his breath until Shane picks up on the second ring.
“Ilya?” Shane’s voice is soft and a little hoarse, the way it sounds when he’s just woken up. “It’s not even six yet, what are you–?”
“It’s me.”
“It’s…what?” Shane asks, confusion colouring the fatigue in his voice.
“It’s me,” Ilya repeats. “Open the door, idiot.”
“You…oh.” Ilya hears the realization in Shane’s tone, and then the line goes dead. Not even a minute later the door to the building is flung open from the inside to reveal Shane standing there, shock written clear as day across his face even in the dark of the parking lot as he stares at Ilya in disbelief. “You…” Shane shakes his head slowly, eyes wide like he’s just seen a ghost. “How did you…?”
Ilya pushes him inside before he can finish, the door falling shut behind them as he crushes Shane against him until all the space between them disappears. He feels rather than hears the soft huff of surprise as Shane buries his face in Ilya’s shoulder, arms coming up around his waist to hold him just as tightly. Ilya leans back just far enough for their lips to meet and then he kisses Shane hungrily, desperately, like a dying man gasping for air.
“Upstairs,” Shane murmurs softly against his lips, practical as ever. “Before anyone sees.”
“No one is watching,” Ilya argues, but Shane just shakes his head, the motion causing his nose to bump against Ilya’s.
“Upstairs,” he repeats.
Ilya nods once in acknowledgment of this, slipping his hand into Shane’s because he can’t bring himself to let go just yet. Shane wordlessly allows himself to be led up the two flights of stairs, moving slowly like he’s in a daze. He’s barefoot, Ilya realizes, and his heart stutters absurdly at the thought of Shane rushing downstairs to meet him so quickly that he hadn’t even stopped to put on shoes.
Shane’s hand slips limply from Ilya’s once they’re inside his apartment and he just stands there, frozen in place, his lips moving soundlessly as he stares down at the ground between his feet. It’s been over a decade but Ilya remembers this feeling as vividly as if it were only yesterday, the dulling of all his senses, the way everything around him had seemed to disappear until he was standing there, alone in the darkness, unable to navigate his way out. Shane is in shock – has been, probably, since the accident.
“Shane,” Ilya says gently, taking a step towards him. “Are you okay?” It’s a stupid question, really, but it’s one that requires an answer.
“No.” Shane shakes his head slowly, and his eyes are still wide in disbelief. “But you didn’t…I mean, how did you…?” Ilya waits patiently. He’s learned not to push Shane in moments like this, to give him the space he needs to find his words. “All night I was wishing you were here,” Shane says finally, like he still can’t quite believe that his wish has been manifested to life in front of him. He looks wrecked and haunted and hopeful all at once and Ilya has lost track of the number of times his heart can break in less than twenty-four hours.
“I’m here,” Ilya tells him, taking another step closer, reaching up to brush his knuckles tenderly across Shane’s cheek.
Shane’s hand lifts up to catch Ilya’s, holding it in place. “How are you here?”
“I drove,” Ilya responds, confused that this isn’t obvious.
“From Boston?”
“Is where I live, yes.”
“Jesus, Ilya.” Shane leans back, his head hitting the wall with a soft thunk. “Did you sleep?”
“I slept,” Ilya replies evenly. “Night before last.”
Shane just looks at him for a long moment, his eyes glassy, and his voice is just barely above a whisper when he finally whispers, “How did you even know?”
“How did I know what?”
“That I needed you.”
Ilya closes his eyes as he takes a long, deep breath, realizing what this admission will cost him. “You told me.”
“I didn’t,” Shane responds, confused. “I…”
Ilya watches closely as the realization begins to dawn across Shane’s face. A dozen emotions flicker through his eyes in a single second; shock, confusion, hurt, betrayal. But underneath it all, an undercurrent of hope. “Shane,” he whispers, holding his hand out like an offering, the same way he’d done back in his own house in Boston on that fateful day that he’d gotten too close too quickly, and Shane had run away. Don’t run away, Ilya thinks. Not this time.
“You listened to it.”
It’s not a question, but Ilya nods in confirmation all the same.
“You listen to all of them.”
Slowly, Ilya nods once more.
Shane’s voice is as quiet as Ilya has ever heard it when he says, “How long?”
“Since the beginning,” he admits, and then he waits for the fallout; for the betrayal to write itself plain as day across Shane’s face, for Shane to ask him to leave, for trust to be fractured in a way he fears he may not ever be able to repair. “I’m sorry.”
But instead he feels Shane’s hand slip into his, feels a gentle tug, and he glances up to see Shane looking at him with shining eyes that don’t reflect a single one of his fears. “You came,” he says softly, reverently, and Ilya lets out a choked sob as he pulls Shane roughly back into his arms. Shane stumbles backwards slightly until Ilya is pinning him against the wall, and they’ve done this countless times before, but this time there’s nothing sensual about it. This time it’s for the stability, because today both of them need help holding the other up.
Shane is shaking in Ilya’s arms and Ilya slides to the ground, leaning up against the wall for support as he cradles Shane against his chest. Shane buries his face in the space between Ilya’s head and his shoulder, his tears hot against the bare skin of Ilya’s neck, and Shane is just as strong as him, just as powerful, and Ilya has never once forgotten this, but he loves moments like these, where one – or both – of them can let go a little bit, where they can be strong for each other.
“Sorry,” Shane murmers eventually, tears painting his cheeks as he looks up at Ilya with an apologetic smile.
“No,” Ilya insists, trying to put everything he feels into this one word as he brushes his lips against the skin just under Shane’s eyes, kissing his tears away. “Don’t be sorry.”
“I can’t believe you drove here,” Shane says quietly, his lips twitching slightly as he looks up at Ilya. “You should sleep.”
“I am fine.”
“We should both sleep,” Shane clarifies, and it’s punctuated by the way he’s still holding on to Ilya like a drowning man grasping his only lifeline.
Ilya nods in agreement at this, pulling Shane with him as he rises to his feet. They keep at least one point of contact between them at all times as they make their way to Shane’s bedroom – Shane’s arm around Ilya’s waist, Ilya’s hand on Shane’s back – and then they fall into bed together and the space between them disappears entirely. Ilya isn’t quite sure what Shane needs from him, but it quickly becomes apparent that they’re both too exhausted to do anything besides breathe each other in, letting sleep claim them as they lie safe in each others’ arms and the outside world is – for a brief, beautiful moment – forgotten.
Until they’re violently awakened at half past ten by the sound of Ilya’s ringtone. “Fuck,” he mutters, fumbling for his jacket which he’d discarded carelessly on the floor earlier, finally pulling the phone out of a pocket and raising it to his ear. “What?”
“What do you mean, ‘what’?!” Marleau’s voice on the other end of the line is tense, worried. “Where the fuck are you, Roz?”
“What do you mean?” Ilya asks, feeling like the ground has disappeared from underneath him as his mind catches up with his body the same way it had on his way out of Boston. Because in his haste to get to Montreal, to get to Shane, he’d completely forgotten about–
“This morning’s practice wasn’t optional! Coach is asking where you are, and unless you’re about to tell me what to tell him–”
“Tell him I had emergency,” Ilya interrupts, surprising himself with how steady his voice is. “Is more important.”
“I’m not going to lie to our coach, Roz.”
Ilya turns to see Shane watching him closely from the other side of the bed, a question in his eyes. Later, he mouths, and Shane nods once in acknowledgment of this. “Is not lie,” Ilya says into the phone.
“Okay, fine. Where are you?”
“I…” Ilya shifts uncomfortably, looking back at Shane as if he can provide guidance. Shane’s eyes are wide, his expression infused with a hint of panic as he begins to realize – or guess, maybe – what’s going on.
“Come on, Roz.” Marleau’s voice is almost pleading. “You’ve gotta give me something, man. I’ll cover for you, but I need to know that you’re being honest with me.”
“When have I ever not been honest with you, Marly?”
There’s a deep sigh on the other end of the line, and Ilya really truly does regret the position he’s putting his alternate captain in, but there’s also no viable alternative that his sleep deprived brain is capable of producing. “I know,” Marleau says finally. “Okay, fine. Just…promise me it’s important.”
“Very,” Ilya assures him. “Do not worry. I will be back by tonight.”
“Back,” Marleau echoes, and Ilya winces as he realizes – too late – what he’s inadvertently admitted. “How far away are you?”
Well there’s nothing for it, now. Ilya flashes an apologetic smile at Shane as he says, “Five hours, give or take.”
He’s not sure what he’s expecting from the other end of the phone, but it isn’t the shocked silence that these words elicit. Finally, finally, when Ilya is seconds away from admitting everything and caring fuck all about the consequences, Marleau speaks again. “Okay.” His voice is measured, even, in a way that scares Ilya even more than the alternative. “Okay. I don’t need to know. Let me know when you get back, okay?”
“Okay,” Ilya agrees. “Tell Coach I will call him later.”
“Yeah, okay. Take care of yourself, Roz.”
The line goes dead and Ilya throws the phone down on the bed beside him, dragging a hand across his face as he whispers, “Fuck.”
“Do you need to go?” Shane touches his shoulder tentatively, and Ilya rolls towards him until the full lengths of their bodies are pressed together once more, relaxing slightly at the feeling of Shane in his arms.
“Not yet,” he says, trailing his fingers up and down the ridge of Shane’s spine. “Soon, though.”
“I’m sorry,” Shane murmurs into his shoulder.
“Why?” Ilya has never understood this habit of Shane’s, this need to apologize for things over which he has no control. “Is not your fault.”
“It kind of is, though. If you hadn’t come here–”
“Shane,” Ilya interrupts, pulling back so that Shane can see how serious he is. “I will always come, if you need me.”
“Oh,” Shane chokes out in a small voice, his eyes filling with tears again, and Ilya is fully, completely overwhelmed by how much he loves him.
“Is just hockey,” Ilya says, because Shane looks like he’s the closest he’s ever been to a revelation since the first time they’d confessed their love to each other and Ilya wants to see the look in his eyes when he tumbles over the edge. “Is not important.”
“Hockey is your job, Ilya,” Shane replies with an annoying air of practicality.
“And you are my life. When will you realize this?”
And then the realization dawns across Shane’s face – like the sunrise that comes after the longest, darkest night of winter – and it’s the most beautiful sight in the world, and Ilya will never, ever tire of telling Shane how much he loves him.
“I love you so much,” Shane whispers, his voice full of emotion, and Ilya will never tire of hearing that, etiher.
“You will be okay, if I leave?”
“Yeah, I’ll be okay.” Shane leans forward, pressing his lips to Ilya’s forehead. “I already am.”
They lie in bed for a while longer, both of them dreading the inevitable shattering of this fragile peace they’ve found, like a life raft in the midst of a turbulent ocean. Eventually, Ilya gently disentangles himself from Shane, pressing tender kisses to his skin even as he does so. “I should go.”
“Will you be okay to drive all the way back?” Shane, ever the practical one, always concerned with things like Ilya’s ability to drive back to Boston running on four hours of sleep and a rapidly fading adrenaline rush.
“I will be fine, Shane.”
“If you crash and die, I’ll kill you.” I love you.
Ilya laughs softly, bending down to pick his jacket up off the floor, using this as an excuse to capture Shane’s lips with his own once more. “I will be safe. I promise.” I love you, too.
He’s an hour past the border when Shane calls. He could answer – he has nothing to do but kill time on this drive, after all – but instead Ilya lets the phone go to voicemail because something tells him this is what Shane needs. Sure enough, when he pulls into his driveway in Boston and checks his notifications, his phone alerts him that he has one new message.
“Hey.” Shane sounds calm, relaxed, a sharp contrast to his message from the night before. “I know you just left, but I just wanted to say thank you. And I love you. And text me when you get there. Okay, I love you. I already said that. Bye.”
Ilya smiles softly to himself as he types out his message, sending it with the complete lack of hesitation of someone who knows that everything is all out in the open.
Back safe.