Archive of Our Own

"I thought you won't come today."

Ilya raised his eyebrows and stared at Shane, while he was kicking off his shoes at the door. "Why?"

He drove for hours to Montreal after an embarrassing loss of a game, because he didn't want to stay in Ottawa alone. He thought he'd earn a more warm greeting but Shane looked slightly confused, like he didn't expect Ilya to show up at his place. He still gave him a deep kiss that Ilya drank like his life depended on it. Being away from Shane sucked too much.

"No reason, it's just that you often stay with the team after…" After you lose, Ilya finished in his head what Shane was certainly implying. Which was way too often, indeed, so often that Ilya coming home to Shane to lick his wounds was read as an exception to the rule.

"Couldn't imagine spending night without my sexy and gorgeous fiancé, can you blame me?" The words rolled off his tongue smoothly. Unfortunately, Shane wasn't distracted.

"Is there something wrong?" He looked at Ilya. "Are you OK? I don't notice any physical injuries, so the problem must be something else."

It took all his strength to not look away. It was astonishing how these simple words, usually filled with gentle care and low timbre of his favourite person's voice, now made Ilya shiver with cold.

He didn't want Shane to dig further. He hated that they were having this argument now, with Shane thinking he exchanged his career and star player potential for the opportunity to lazy around and party with his new teammates between losses. As if it looked like an attractive option for Ilya. It wasn't, not anymore.

If only Shane knew how many parties he missed in order to spend evenings with him at home, how many invitations Ilya declined and how long of a distance that created between him and the rest of friendly Centaurs. There was a whole Trans Siberian Railway built, full of snow and nothing but fleeting companions.

And yet Shane seemed to think Ilya held himself back from winning against Voyagers and other teams on purpose. Ilya wouldn't even know where to start untangling the explanation of how he ended up in this miserable situation himself.

"There is no problem, our team just needs time to click," exhaled Ilya, itching to give Shane some answer. Something that would seem rational and reasonable, instead of "I don't think I can breathe when you're not around, and I spend all my energy on trying to contain inside this horrible sucking hurricane of sadness, otherwise I'll lose my sanity and hurt everyone outside". But as soon as the actual words left his mouth, Ilya knew it was the worst thing to offer, a dumbshit of excuse for Centaurs losing most of their matches. Ilya was not the Captain yet, but he still felt the responsibility to make the team click.

"They should adjust everyone for you then," Shane huffed, crossing arms on his chest. "You're their star player, for fuck's sake!"

Yet you don't bring victory to them – Ilya heard it clear as day. No, he knew Shane didn't actually mean it. But something ugly, something like an old wound made itself known, as if he accidentally scratched it open again.

"I want to compete with you, and I can't do it if you're not giving your best." Shane wasn't usually the one looking intense, but right now his eyes were laser-focused on Ilya, his face frowning. He kept digging, latching onto the traces of the root of a problem like a hunting dog chasing the fox in the forest. "You just… You look like you don't care anymore. Don't you want us to play some good hockey? Centaurs won't make the playoffs at this rate, but I know you can still make them to. You're not lazy, I know you are not. But sometimes I feel like you let the team drag you down to their level, when it should be the opposite."

Oh, his wound loved the salt in it, too.

"Stop acting like you know everything, Shane!" Ilya groaned, running his hand over his face. He could feel his own breathing picking up the speed – shut up, shut the fuck up, don't start it, stupid lungs. "They're not the best, but they don't drag me down. I'm doing whatever I can."

Something changed in Shane's face, and that was definitely Ilya's fault.

"Then do better!" Shane – his beautiful, frustrated domovenok – huffed. "It's not enough. I know you can do more."

His words were not loud, they did not sound angry. They just rolled over Ilya like a wave, leaving silence between them.

In that silence, something cracked.

"I gave you everything I could," Ilya said quietly, in a carefully controlled voice.

He suddenly felt hollow.

Shane went silent. His lips were still tense, but the eyebrows rose up, dark-brown eyes rounding into gorgeous worried oceans. He was visibly processing the trainwreck of their conversation.

"Hey. I didn't mean us, Ilya. I'm sorry…" he started reaching out to Ilya's arm, but Ilya couldn't lift his arm and reach back. He was a lazy coward, after all. They were right.

All of them were right.

"I'll go for a ride." Ilya took a step back and turned to the door, hoping that did not look like he was running away. "I'll be back," he promised.

"For a ride? This late?" Ilya could hear confusion and worry in Shane's voice, but he didn't turn back. He was busy blinking away sudden mist in his eyes.

"I want some vodka." Ilya hoped his unexpectedly intense emotions didn't seep through his voice. Luckily, Shane never weaponized it against him. Unlike his father. "I'll bring you ginger ale."

"Huh," was all Shane said to his back. Ilya could practically hear the judgment underneath. The 'but we have half of the fridge stacked with ginger ale, you made sure of it'. That wasn't the point.

He grabbed his coat and the car keys.

"I'll be waiting for you," Shane added quietly when Ilya walked out of the door.

He pretended not to notice how pointed those words were.

Counting long rings made Ilya's breathing settle into a more or less acceptable rhythm. He missed the moment when Svetlana picked up.

"Look who's calling! I think I heard a crayfish whistling on the mountain." Her voice was energetic as usual, but there were undeniable wary notes, coming even though the Bluetooth connection and speaker in Ilya's car.

Ilya couldn't help but chuckle. "Come on, I don't call you that rarely."

"I haven't heard from you since you lost to Admirals. Which was not the first or the last Centaurs game this season, as you remember it. If you still bother to count, that is."

"Oi, Sveta," Ilya winced, but she interrupted him.

"It's fine, it wasn't your fault. The team will get better. But you don't really like to chat with me or respond to my messages since you moved to Ottawa. So you're either actively dying right now, or you want something from me."

Not actively, a funny thought flashed though Ilya's mind. The rest of the implications were too difficult to wrap his mind around, and he had no desire to go down that road. "I do want something from you," he said in a hurry to escape from his own thoughts.

"I'm not having sex with you, Ilya, I don't want to face the wrath of your husband."

Not a husband yet, Ilya wanted to correct her. Maybe not any time soon, with marriage being in public records, and Shane being allergic to anything public in their relationship.

And wasn't that a part of why Ilya felt so bitter sometimes? He really hated that feeling, he didn't like it poisoning his immense and endless love for Shane.

"No, not that." He let out a long sigh. His phone must've picked it up, because Svetlana changed the steel tone of her voice to something less sharp.

"Where are you now?" She asked.

Ilya looked around, staring blankly at the garage, briefly noticing the empty spaces where his other sport cars used to be before he sold most of them. "In my car."

"I hope you're not driving right now."

"I'm not. I know I shouldn't." Ilya really didn't want to say the next words, but they recklessly stumbled out of his mouth before he could catch them. "Not really in the mood for looking at the traffic lights."

It was Svetlana's turn to let out a sigh.

"Oh, Ilyusha…"

Ilya swallowed. Svetlana was too smart to see right through him even with hundreds of kilometers between them. Isn't that why he called her, after all? To be seen in the time when he felt so invisible. To be distracted, because staying alone with his thoughts happened to be too scary.

"Did you fight with Shane?" she carefully asked him. "If you called me and not him."

"Not really. It's just… English is too hard right now." Ilya probably spoke in riddles, but he was too exhausted to weave his thoughts even in Russian. "Also, he wouldn't get it."

Whatever it was – everything miserable that made up all of Ilya. The freezing forest he couldn't seem to find his way out of, destined to curl under the snow and die before any saviors could come.

"You need to tell him, so he'll understand you," Svetlana pointed out. She was right, as usual. Yet this was as daunting as it sounded.

"He won't. Not completely. His world is too…" Ilya made a vague gesture with his weak hand, dropping it back on his thigh. "Boring. It's scary for him but everything in it makes sense to him. And nothing in the world makes sense to me except for Shane. But he's such a… solntse. Shane's a sunshine. I don't deserve him. I don't deserve to dump all my shit on him."

Svetlana was eager to argue, bless her. "You do, you deserve Shane. You're just scared to be loved by him. I'm not surprised as to why, but don't run away from him. You can get through it together."

Ilya shook his head, even though his friend couldn't see it. "No, that's not it. I don't think… I'm just not good anymore. What if he stops loving me?"

A huff flew through the phone speaker in a loud noise. "And what if mushrooms started growing in your mouth?"

Ilya bit his lip and blinked a few times, too hard. If he wouldn't make Svetlana understand, then no one would. "He wants more hockey from me, Sveta! More victories, more competition, more passion. But I feel empty. He asked me if I don't care anymore, but I'm giving everything as I can, but it's so hard… I don't feel like I'm on the ice most of the time. Like I'm watching a replay of my own game as I'm playing it. Sometimes I wish someone would chuck a puck at my head so I can blame all of it on a concussion.'

Something vaguely familiar rose inside Ilya, like a bile in his throat. He felt nineteen again – young, clueless and scared, full of hope that if he just tried hard enough, then everyone he cared about would be satisfied with him. Would love him like he wanted them to. Ilya hadn't thought something could still make him remember that old feeling. He couldn't stop to think about it, he wouldn't. Shane was not like them.

"Shane's bored with me now, and not in a good boring way. He's frustrated. I saw his disappointed face last time he won the play-off against me. I try not to let him win so easy, I really do, I only feel alive when I play with him, do you know it? I can't see him disappointed, not him." With each dragged word and each second of Svetlana listening, it became easier to talk out loud. "He wants more of me. But I don't think there is me anymore, Sveta," Ilya admitted, quietly swallowing tears that threatened to escape.

"Ilya Rozanov." Strict voice coming through the speaker made Ilya jump in his seat. "Need me to remind you who you are? The best hockey player in the League, in the world."

"After Shane Hollander," automatically corrected her Ilya.

"No, shut up, he's punished for today and takes the second place." Svetlana wouldn't give in. "Ilya Rozanov is an incredible player with strong offense skills. Someone who moved to other country on his own, and fought through to the top with no support but with his own willpower and skills. A loyal son. A handsome guy, a beautiful man all girls fall for and all guys envy. Some probably fall for, too. A caring lover and a fierce husband. A soul that sacrifices too much and a heart that worries too strongly. My best friend who I hate seeing so sad."

Ilya smiled. He hadn't noticed when his fingertips started rubbing a familiar chain with the cross on his neck. "Never heard you being so sappy before."

"An asshole who thinks too little of himself and forgets about his friends too easily," immediately added Svetlana, a smile evident in her voice, too. "Are you afraid we'll forget about you now that you fucked off to the edge of the world, namely Ottawa? I'm always here to give you a slap on the back of your head, so-to-speak."

"Thank you, Sveta," Ilya murmured.

"You are enough, Ilya Rozanov," she kept insisting. "For me, for us, for Centaurs and Canada. You're enough for Shane. And if he disagrees, let me speak to him. I've got a couple of words for him."

"Keep your proficiency in Russian swearing away from him," he huffed. "I'm teaching him only useful phrases."

"As you wish. Then talk to Shane himself, Ilya. I'm sure he wants to understand you, or he wouldn't even bother talking. He won't know about the world you live in, unless you tell him. I don't want to lose you to misery. Not when you finally started looking so happy."

"Misery runs in my family," Ilya couldn't help but chuckle. "An apple from the apple tree, you love your Russian sayings today, you know it."

"You're stronger than any misery, and family isn't everything." Svetlana almost sounded angry now. "You came there to have a new life, built on love, don't miss the chance. Demand to be loved. Find a therapist if you don't know how to. You always needed one, by the way, I've told you. Tell Shane you're struggling. Woo, scary, I know. But big strong Ilya Rozanov can learn to use his tongue not only for kisses, can he? Tell him what you really need to become yourself again."

Ilya rolled his eyes. The chain lied warm on his tongue. He felt his legs and ass being sore from sitting for too long. Nothing was solved, but he still felt lighter after talking to Svetlana. She was annoying, of course, but fiercely protective, and he needed a perspective of someone who knew how deep the darkness could run where he came from.

"I'll try," he promised.

"And that is enough, Ilyusha… That is really enough."

Ilya closed the door after himself as quietly as he could, but Shane appeared in corridor like a puppy with a very good hearing. Ilya dropped the car keys in a bowl and stood on the spot, staring at him and feeling too small.

"They were out of vodka and ginger ale," he said, knowing Shane would catch his lie and hoped he would let it go. They both knew Ilya never even drove out of the building. "I'll make us dinner instead."

"It's okay, we can order takeout," Shane hurried to offer, but Ilya shook his head. He left a kiss on Shane's lips and aimed for the kitchen.

He felt guilty for his emotional outburst before – or emotional emptiness, if you looked at it that way. Ilya wanted to apologize. Svetlana said he needed to actually say things out loud, maybe he could start with that, but it was hard. Apologies meant nothing his entire life, they barely made sense to be voiced out anymore.

He needed to do something, to give Shane what he'd be happy to receive. So that he'd know that Ilya was still good for something. He'd make his intricately calculated dinner, and smoothie for the breakfast before Shane's game tomorrow. That way it might calm the never-ending hurricane under his lungs for a while.

He would be trying, and that would be enough.

Shane sneaked up on him when Ilya was too busy with measuring the right amount of brown rice for the cooker. "I'm sorry. Sorry for upsetting you earlier," Shane said quietly, kissing the back of his neck. His arms hugged Ilya's waist. "Was it something I said? I didn't mean that I thought you were a bad player…"

Easily said apologies. Carefully demanding questions. The need to find the solution to a problem and the belief that it actually existed. Ilya was both fascinated by Shane's mind and envied him.

He took a deep breath, closed the rice cooker lid and turned to Shane. Braced himself and forced the words out that latched onto his throat like a burdock.

"I… I think I need help," Ilya said, wincing after another icy wave washed over him, leaving him feeling ashamed and weak. Don't run away from him. You can get through it together.

Shane looked at him with immediate worry, unable to wait. "Help like… how? Are you really injured? Is it internal?" He looked over him.

Ilya couldn't help but smile, endeared by the storm of Shane's theories. "Yes. Here." He awkwardly pointed to his head. Then, after a pause, to his heart.

"Concussion- no, you're not concussed. I know you're not." Confusion filled Shane's voice.

"I'm not concussed," Ilya confirmed. He didn't know how to describe the turmoil he felt on a daily basis when Shane wasn't around. But he needed him to understand even if a little. "I just... don't feel good. Probably feel bad. Most likely, too sad to play good hockey." It always took all his efforts to unfold the truth of his emotions, gauging the reaction every step of the way. Ilya was annoyed by this habit of his, but he couldn't help it when each step felt like dipping himself in the ice cold water.

Shane's thumb gently caressed his cheek. Ilya didn't notice when his tears have finally escaped. Shane's eyes were red-rimmed too.

"Your hockey is still good," he said quietly. "You just weren't always present on ice – not when playing against me, but when playing other teams. You ignored your teammates. It surprised me. Why are you too sad?"

As if there was an easy answer. An illness that Ilya could name and follow the instructions to get cured. The closest thing he could think of was his mother's sadness. Did she feel the same as he now? He wish he could ask her. "I don't think I can breathe when you're not around." Ilya settled on the tiniest part he managed to define so far.

Pain contorted Shane's beautiful face. Ilya leaned forward to kiss his freckles and smooth all the wrinkles back. "I have to ignore my teammates because I'm scared of telling them about you," he added more, not knowing whether he elevated his worries or dug himself deeper by doing this. "And I really want to tell them how amazing you are, and how in love I am with you. But I can't talk. I have no one. They are good players, but they cannot click with a mysterious liar who never comes to their parties. I can distract them well but I can't make them click. Isn't it funny? I got everything I wanted – Stanley Cups, nice teammates, you so close – but I'm still…"

Miserable, unhappy, destructive, Ilya wanted to finish, but his head was already too heavy and dizzy, words escaping his mind. Instead, Shane spoke his language. Shane kissed him deep, bringing him out from the darkness to sunshine, what he did best. His hands left warm prints all over Ilya's skin, keeping him in his body, focusing him in every point of the touch.

Ilya tucked his forehead in Shane's shoulder, wetting his T-shirt with his tears. He squeezed his body with all his strength and let Shane cover him in return, hoping to warm himself up through Shane's heat and melt together into something united. He never wanted to be too far from Shane. He'll have to leave again, eventually, but it did not matter at the moment.

"Ya lyublyu tebya," Shane whispered into his ear. "Vsegda. I'm sorry it has to be like this. You shouldn't feel like this. I'll think of a better plan, maybe the one where you can tell someone from your team about us. Can't say I'm thrilled by the idea but they are nice, you said?"

"Mmhm," Ilya responded, not letting go of their hug. "I'll do better too. I'll play better. I'll find help. I'll give you more. I promise."

"Oh, Ilya," Shane's warm lips on his temple sealed the anxious vibrations of his heart. "You can play better, sure, but – ah, I mean, not sure – but if you don't feel good, you should take time to heal."

"I cannot afford to take rest," Ilya huffed into Shane's T-shirt, closing his eyes and sniffing.

"Bullshit. You never take enough and you love to play through broken ribs and grief. Maybe Centaurs forcing you to rest is not a bad thing, after all. You can focus on your well-being." Shane's hand stroked his curls, and Ilya felt as his younger self again. But not nineteen and cold inside, more like when he was nine and his mom gave the best and warmest hugs like this.

"We both know that's not how hockey season works," Ilya chuckled, straightening up to face Shane – who also had visible tear streaks on his cheeks and a smile on his lips.

"Then we do what we can now," Shane nodded. "That'll be enough."

"That will be enough," echoed Ilya, believing in it a bit more than before.