Work Text:
A clatter and a muffled Russian swear coming from the bathroom snap Shane out of his thoughts and back to where he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, halfway through pulling off his socks. He finishes yanking them off his feet and stands, crossing to throw them into the hamper.
Ilya is still muttering in Russian in the bathroom, and Shane feels his face split into a grin. He’s so goddamn lucky. His boyfriend — boyfriend — is up from Boston and in his apartment for a stolen few days on a game-free weekend, and Shane is so happy he could burst.
Their time together is always short and the weeks spent apart are awful, but there’s only a few more months until they return to the cottage for the summer. And after that, Ilya is signing with Ottawa and they’ll be able to see each other so much more.
Shane almost breaks out into a victory dance in the middle of his bedroom.
Almost.
Because there is something going on, and Shane isn’t exactly sure what it is. Or if it’s even anything. It could be nothing. It’s probably nothing. Shane is a chronic overthinker, after all.
It happened at dinner. Everything had been normal, the two of them splitting Thai food from a takeout place down the street because neither of them had wanted to stop cuddling on the couch long enough to cook anything.
They were both eating one handed, holding hands across the table (they weren’t eating on the couch, no matter how much Ilya insisted on it, because Shane wasn’t raised in a barn). It was so domestic that Shane had almost had to pinch himself.
And then, he’d mentioned Rookie of the Year.
It was an offhand reference. Part of some story about a crazy sponsorship opportunity in which the director had wanted Shane to dress up as a chess piece — a rook — and dance around with his award. Surrounded by girls dressed in skimpy queen chess piece outfits. Shane had said a flat out no and Mom hadn’t even fought him on it. Because it was ridiculous. Shane couldn’t even remember what they were trying to advertise.
Ilya had been laughing along, nearly in tears at the idea. Until Shane had explained that it was a rook piece because he had just won Rookie of the Year, and Ilya’s jaw had tightened as he looked away. It only lasted for a second, before Ilya went right back to eating and laughing along. But Shane had noticed.
He always noticed, when it came to Ilya.
Shane hears the toilet flush and the sink run in the bathroom before the door opens and Ilya steps out. He looks like a dream, here in Shane’s apartment, wearing an old pair of Boston sweatpants and nothing else. His curls are mussed, like he had run his hands through them. Shane wants to fix them.
All of a sudden, he realizes that he can. He takes the two steps into Ilya’s space and reaches up to smooth a hand through his boyfriend’s hair.
Ilya preens at him. “Spasibo, moya raschoska.”
Shane feels his face scrunch up. Ilya, at his request, has been speaking a little bit more Russian around him. Shane only knows the basics, but he’ll get there. He’s determined to. Ilya would probably be more helpful if he stopped calling Shane random words and started actually teaching him grammar, but Shane doesn’t care in the slightest.
“Thank you, my…um…?” Shane raises his eyebrows at Ilya.
“Hairbrush.”
“Of course,” Shane huffs. Ilya dips down to peck him on the lips, and Shane slips past him to go into the bathroom. As he turns to shut the door, he sees Ilya clamber his way into bed and grins. He’s waited so long for this, for Ilya to be here in his home, making it his home too.
It’s as Shane brushes his teeth that the thoughts from before push back into his mind.
Rookie of the Year.
Ilya had been such an asshole that night, on the balcony in Vegas after the ceremony had finished. And Shane had been drunk, and confused, and angry, and definitely more than a little horny. And quietly devastated, after, as he’d walked back into the party.
Shane realizes as he spits into the sink that it’s one of the few encounters of their relationship that he hasn’t discussed with Ilya in the past months of dating. They’ve gone through almost everything else — the other night in Vegas, the ghosting after Sochi, the way Shane had run out of Ilya’s arms and straight into Rose’s.
They’ve apologized, both of them, holding each other tight through the hurt of all those years, when they were too scared and too stupid and too repressed to do anything other than lash out.
But they haven’t talked about Rookie of the Year.
To be honest, it’s not a night that Shane thinks about often, overshadowed by other pain, both dealt and received. Though after dinner tonight, the memory is right back at the surface.
He’ll ask Ilya tomorrow, he decides, while washing his face. After breakfast, when they’ve both had coffee and maybe an orgasm and they can talk it through like they’ve done all the others, together.
It’s a good plan.
***
The good plan goes right out the window the minute Shane has gotten into bed.
“Come here,” Ilya says, pulling him down until he’s laying on his side, his back flush against Ilya’s chest.
Shane shifts closer, his breath coming out in a sigh, before—
“Why were you such an asshole to me that time in Vegas?” Behind him, Ilya goes very still. “I mean, not the time in Vegas that we’ve talked about. Rookie of the Year. That time.”
Shit. He was supposed to do this tomorrow.
Ilya’s arm pulls back from where it had lain across Shane’s chest, and Shane feels Ilya sit up next to him. He slowly pushes himself up, turning to face his boyfriend.
“Ilya?” Ilya is looking down at his hands. “Sorry. I mean…we can do this tomorrow, if you want. I know we were about to go to sleep.”
Ilya takes a deep breath. “No, Shane, is okay. But first, wait.”
And then he’s leaning in and pecking Shane on the lips, so gently, his hand coming up to cup the back of Shane’s head for a moment before he pulls back.
“For other Vegas,” he says, and Shane gives him a smile that he knows wobbles a bit. He loves Ilya, loves him so much, loves how seriously he’s taken kissing Shane since they’ve talked about that night. Before then, too, but especially since learning how much their lack of kisses that night had bothered Shane.
“I love you,” Shane replies, because it’s true and he can say it as much as he wants, now. And because it’s probably a good idea, given that Ilya looks like he’s about to go to the executioner.
“Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu,” Ilya responds, and Shane smiles because he knows that one. Ilya has made sure of it. I love you too.
Shane reaches out to take Ilya’s hand, and watches as Ilya closes his eyes at the contact.
“So…” Shane trails off.
“Rookie of the Year,” Ilya says. He doesn’t continue.
“I just. I don’t know. I don’t think of that night a lot, really.” Shane squeezes their hands.
“I am sorry if you do,” Ilya replies. “I am sorry we have not talked about it.”
“I really don’t think about it, Ilya. I promise. It just came up tonight because you looked weird when I mentioned it at dinner. I didn’t realize that it still bothered you that I won.”
“Does not bother me. You deserved it.” Shane knows Ilya well at this point — as he should, almost ten years in — and it sounds like Ilya is telling the truth. But that doesn’t explain any of this, so he continues.
“It did, though. You were mean about it, and you’ve never been mean about me winning anything else.” As Shane says it, he realizes it’s true. “Not games, or the Cup, or even the Olympics. Just Rookie of the Year.”
“Wow, Hollander, keeping track of how many times you beat me?” Ilya says, without his usual teasing tone.
“You know it,” Shane answers, instinctively but just as softly.
“Shane…that night. It was not about you, the reason I was upset,” Ilya begins. It brings Shane right back to that balcony, Vegas stretched out in front of him, hearing not everything is about you, Hollander thrown into his face. “I was happy you won. Happy it was you, because I was obsessed with you even back then.”
“But you wanted it,” Shane says, because it still isn’t adding up. There’s something else going on here, and Shane knows that he’s probably missing something obvious but he can’t put his finger on what.
There’s a long pause, and Shane watches as Ilya seems to weigh the words on his tongue before speaking.
“My father wanted it,” is what Ilya finally ends up saying.
And oh. That makes sense, actually.
Another part of that conversation pops into Shane’s mind. “So…when you said you were going home soon…”
“I was upset. Scared, maybe. I knew my father would not be happy.” Ilya’s voice is quiet.
“Because I beat you.” Shane feels very faintly nauseous.
“Yes. But not because of you. Just because I was not the winner.” Ilya leans closer into Shane, looking him in the eyes. “I was happy you won, Shane. I promise. I was just tired and drunk, and I did not want to go home. I am sorry I hurt you that night. I was asshole. It will not happen again.”
“I know, Ilya. I love you.” There’s a nasty swooping in Shane’s stomach even as Ilya whispers the words back. Shane had spent years wishing Ilya would just open up to him, and it turns out he had. So early on, back when they were twenty and barely knew each other. Ilya had given Shane the truth, I go home in three days, and Shane had misunderstood, as he often did. Said something about that being good, and not seeing how it made Ilya throw all of his walls back up. Fuck.
“I’m sorry, about what I said, about going home being nice,” Shane starts. Ilya is already shaking his head, a small smile on his lips. “I’m serious. I wish I had understood. I would have been so much less…prickly, I guess, if I had known your dad was going to be upset.”
“No, Shane. Absolutely not. I am,” he pauses, looking at the ceiling before meeting Shane’s eyes again. “I am so glad that you have parents who make you think going home is always good. That you do not have family like I have.” Ilya’s eyes are fierce, but his voice is so gentle.
“Ilya.” Shane doesn’t know what else to say.
“Is good thing, moya lyubov, that you have beautiful family who loves you. Always good thing,” Ilya continues, like Shane hadn’t interrupted.
Shane knows it’s true. He’s so lucky to have his parents, who get on his nerves sometimes but never leave their love in doubt. He’ll call his mom and tell her tomorrow.
“I know. Still. I wish I had known you better back then. I wouldn’t have yelled at you if I knew your dad was going to chew you out the minute you got home.” Shane smiles slightly as Ilya’s expression shifts from serious to something contemplative.
“Chew me out,” he repeats. “I like this expression.” He blushes slightly, the way he always does when he lets slip that he’s learned something new in English.
Shane can’t help but dive in to kiss him. He scoots forward on the bed until he’s almost in Ilya’s lap, deepening the kiss as he feels Ilya’s hands slide up his legs until they find a loose grip on his waist.
After a few minutes, during which Shane thoroughly loses himself in the press of Ilya’s lips against his and the feel of Ilya’s curls in his hands, Ilya breaks the kiss.
“I am sorry,” he says quietly.
Shane cups Ilya’s face in his hands. “Forgiven,” he whispers.
“I love you.”
“Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu,” Shane responds. Ilya’s face lights up like the sun, and then they’re both smiling into it as Shane reaches up and tugs Ilya back into a kiss. And another, and then another, until that night at the awards in Vegas is left far behind them.
***
Shane doesn’t expect Rookie of the Year to come up again. He doesn’t bring it up, and neither does Ilya.
Until about a month later, laying on Ilya’s couch in Boston. Shane had flown in for a game that afternoon, and after a quick but very mutually enjoyable shower, Ilya had cooked them dinner. Now, sleepy and sated and already dreading having to leave immediately after the game tomorrow, Shane is stretched out on the couch, his head in Ilya’s lap. There’s a movie playing, some action flick that Ilya enjoys and Shane thinks he watched once on a plane.
Shane is far more focused on the drag of Ilya’s fingers through his hair, his other hand tracing gentle lines up and down Shane’s arm.
Onscreen, the main character has just beaten the absolute shit out of some nameless, villainous henchman. Given what’s on screen, Shane should not feel this relaxed.
“Wow,” Ilya says above him. Shane twists a little, so he can see Ilya’s face. “He really chewed him out.”
Ilya looks down, smiling hesitantly. He’s making a face that Shane has come to adore — his expression when he’s trying out a new English word or phrase on Shane before he uses it with anyone else.
It’s so cute that Shane isn’t thinking when he responds. “Almost, but not quite? Chewing out is like…um…scolding someone. Yelling at them. Something like that.”
“Ah,” Ilya says quietly. His brows furrow, and Shane reaches up to stroke the line away. Ilya squeezes Shane’s shoulder in response, but his eyes are still shadowed. Strange. He must’ve heard the phrase from someone who used it incorrectly. It’s not the first time that that’s happened.
A few more seconds pass, during which Shane relaxes back into Ilya’s lap and almost sinks all the way into sleep.
And then it hits him. Chewed out. Fuck. Fuck.
Shane sits bolt upright, knocking Ilya’s hands aside. He whirls around to face his boyfriend.
“Ilya…” Shane doesn’t know how to start this conversation. Because what he thinks can’t be right. It just can’t be.
“Yes, Shane.” It might be meant as a question, but Ilya doesn’t say it as one. He just looks resigned. Exhausted. His gaze is trained on his now-empty lap, his hands fidgeting slightly.
“Ilya.”
“Yes, Shane.” This time there’s no doubt that it’s not a question.
“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my fucking god.” Shane might have forgotten how to breathe. He claps a hand over his mouth.
“Shane.” Right. Shane needs to get it together, because Ilya has started to look worried and Shane doesn’t want to worry him. Or pity him, or whatever fucked up thing Ilya is probably starting to think is happening.
Shane is going to be supportive.
“I’m going to fucking kill him,” is what actually comes out of his mouth, more of a growl than an actual spoken sentence.
Ilya huffs, humourlessly. “He is already dead.”
“I don’t care. I really don’t. I’m going to kill him.” Shane latches onto the anger. It’s easier than everything else.
“Is okay, Shane. Russia is…different. It is more acceptable, as punishment. Normal, or almost.” Shane feels it like a punch to the gut. Distantly, he registers that the movie is still playing, and lunges for the remote.
Pausing the movie fills the room with a heavy silence.
Shane should probably stop asking questions. Ilya doesn’t look like he wants to answer anything, but Shane can’t help one from slipping past his lips.
“Your mom?” Shane can’t imagine, based on everything that Ilya has told him, that Irina Rozanova hit her children. Although everything he thought he knew about Ilya is currently being shoved upside down and sideways, reshaped and resized into something sharp. Something that unfortunately, makes a lot of sense.
“She did not. Ever. And it was less when she was there.” Ilya’s tone brokers no room for contradiction. Shane feels himself nodding, relieved even as he fights down the wave of anger that threatens to bubble to the surface at the thought of Irina leaving Ilya alone in that house. It’s an ugly feeling, and Shane isn’t proud of it, but it’s there.
“And…did he…?” Shane hopes Ilya knows what he’s asking.
“Yes, her too. And Alyoshka.” Ilya’s eyes have filled with tears.
Shane hates to ask, but he doesn’t recognize the name Ilya had just spoken. “Who?”
“Alyoshka,” Ilya repeats, very quietly. He looks almost surprised. “Is other name — like nickname — for Alexei. My brother.”
“Oh,” is all that Shane comes up with. Ilya hardly ever mentions Alexei. Shane wants to push, to ask more, but Ilya is turning his head away the way he still does when he starts to cry. “Oh, baby, come here. Come here, please.”
Shane opens his arms as Ilya turns toward him. He leans back until he’s mostly reclined, pulling Ilya down onto his chest the moment he’s in reach. He keeps one hand on Ilya’s head, keeping him tucked into him. He lets his other hand run up and down Ilya’s back.
“I’ve got you, baby.” He presses the words into Ilya’s hair, holding him tighter. “I’ve got you.”
Ilya lets out the little choking sound that’s the closest Shane has ever heard him get to a sob. Shane closes his eyes, rocks them both slightly from side to side, and lets Ilya cry.
He wishes he had a time machine, or a genie in a bottle. He’d go back to that balcony, tell Ilya not to go to Russia, but to come home with him instead. To a home that was always safe, and warm, and loving. Where no one hit anyone else and accidents were really accidents.
Shane knows with certainty that he is going to spiral about this later. But for now, he focuses on just being present. He can't go back in time, can't wrap Ilya up and keep him safe from his family, from the world. But he’s so grateful that he gets to be here now, to hold Ilya in his arms. To protect him. His body, yes, but mostly his heart. Shane is so lucky that Ilya has trusted him with it. With all of him.
“You’re safe, baby. I’ve got you. You’re safe here with me, always.”