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Shane has a system. Games are out of his control, but their dates are set so far in advance that he can work with them. Press is an unfortunate certainty following games, but those can be prepped for ahead of time. It’s his sponsorship deals and personal interviews that he struggles more with, but those have been dealt with -- mostly.
He deals with the business side of his career exclusively on Mondays. Talking to executives, managers, PAs. Scheduling photoshoots and interviews and meetings. Groomers touching him incessantly. Clothes that itch. Makeup that smothers him, and all he can do is think about how he feels too much under his skin, how his thoughts are too loud and he can’t help the way his hands start to worry at the seams of his pants but it’s too much --
And then, finally, he gets to go home. Mondays always end, no matter how exhausting and overwhelming they are.
He takes his time when he finally steps inside his front door. Toeing out of his shoes, then depositing his bag on the rack that exists for that single purpose.
Shane knows he needs to take a shower. He can feel the film left on his face from the makeup remover used on set. There’s a tackiness to his skin that he knows is from a fine sheen of sweat that dried before he could wipe it off with a towel, and he forgot about the product they styled his hair with until he tried to run his fingers through it. He can still smell the lingering scent of it on his hands.
He forgoes his own shower gel and shampoo, reaching instead for the bottles that belong to Ilya. Cedarwood and bergamot fill his senses as he lathers and scrubs his skin in water that’s absolutely too hot and will definitely leave his skin red, but he stands underneath it anyways, letting it ease some of the tension that’s coiled tight in his back.
Afterwards, he pulls on a pair of socks and his boxers, but instead of reaching for his own pajamas (old, worn soft with age and exactly the kind of familiar comfort he’d ordinarily choose) he wanders into the kitchen where Ilya left his hoodie the last time he’d visited.
It smelled of him: expensive cologne, a hint of cigarette smoke, and Ilya, his essence, pure and unfiltered.
Shane roots around his cupboard for… something. He isn’t quite sure what he’s looking for, but he settles on pulling out a carton of tea bags. Water is set to boil before he realizes he’s doing it, and then he finds himself pulling out a container of food from the fridge.
His phone pings. It’s Ilya, he sees, asking if he can video call.
“Hello, Lyubov,” is the first thing he hears when the call connects.
Ilya’s hair is wet and his eyes are bright on his phone’s screen, and Shane can’t help the smile that spreads across his face.
And Ilya, his Ilya, can see Shane. He knows Shane. He takes in the sight of Shane in his hoodie, picking at his pre-prepped meal and sipping on the tea that doesn’t taste quite right on his tongue. Ilya’s eyes soften. “Do you want to talk, or do you want to listen?” he asks, and Shane feels his heart constrict at the question, because he knows what Ilya’s really asking.
Shane, who spent an entire day being poked at and prodded. Shane, who spent hour after hour talking to people who didn’t really want to listen to him. Shane, who looked and felt like he was one wrong word away from crawling out of his own skin, who just wanted comfort, who decided that if he couldn’t hold his boyfriend then maybe using his soap and wearing his clothes was a decent enough substitute.
Ilya, who knew Shane well enough now to know that he would talk when he was ready.
“Did I tell you what Marly did the last time I was in Boston?”
Shane rested his head in the palm of his hand, not quite registering Ilya’s words but relishing in the sound of his voice.