Chapter Text
When Ilya wakes up the next morning, he is in a lot fouler mood. The painkillers he got from the hospital have worn off, and he is reluctant to have more. Every time he downs something stronger than Tylenol, images of his mother’s pill bottles fill his mind. She always had a dresser full of them, and Ilya remembers, even before that fatal day, that she used to pop them in her mouth often. He is scared that her darkness will somehow envelop him, too, even without him taking similar pills.
The injury seems even more stupid now that the adrenaline of the situation has worn off. It was completely avoidable. Who gets seriously injured during a pregame practice? He is furious with himself, and with Kane, even though he knows the other player is sorry and didn’t hurt him on purpose. Still, two fucking months without games feels like a death sentence now, in the early light of the morning. It’s not career ending, he remembers everyone telling him like it was something he should cling to. Blyat. He knows Achilles injuries are not a joke, he does, but he can’t imagine just lying around for weeks on end.
He smells bacon and eggs all the way from the kitchen, and only then does it hit him. Shane.
Shane is here. Ilya is up more quickly than he thought possible. Now that he looks around, he sees that both sides of his bed have been slept upon, and he is furious with himself that he seems to have forgotten completely what it was like to share a bed with Shane. Hollander. Fucking meds.
Ilya sees a wheelchair near the door and grimaces. No way is he using that. There is also a crutch near the bed. He decides to walk without any help, but after a few painful steps and a lot of cursing he is forced to take the crutch. He hops to his bathroom and then to the kitchen. He is sweaty and gross from the sleep, but he remembers the doctor’s absolute rule of not showering alone until he has regained his balance well enough. And, okay, maybe he is looking forward to showering with Hollander. Sue him.
Hollander is leaning on the kitchen counter, hair still rumpled, wearing what seems to be Ilya’s t-shirt and sweats. He is watching YouTube clips on his phone and drinking a green smoothie. When he hears Ilya enter the room, his gaze locks into his, and for a while, they just stare at each other.
“Morning,” Ilya says, and realizes he is almost grinning. Gone is the foul mood of earlier. This is just too…He doesn’t want to use the word cute, but how else would describe the blush that creeps up on Hollander’s cheeks?
“Morning,” Shane answers. “I made you breakfast. How is your foot?”
“You are not eating?” Ilya asks and nods towards Hollander’s smoothie and the full pan of bacon and eggs.
“I have my own breakfast,” Hollander explains fast. “But I didn’t think you would appreciate it, so…” He trails off. Ilya’s eyes drop to his clothes, and Hollander seems even more flustered.
“I, um, don’t have any of my stuff with me, so I borrowed yours. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind,” Ilya reassures with a grin. He almost tells Hollander how good he looks in Ilya’s clothes, the T-shirt slightly too big, but he stops himself in time. He hops on a high bar stool next to the counter and sets the crutch down. He raises his eyebrows at Hollander, who seems lost, staring at Ilya’s bare chest. When Hollander finally realizes what he is doing, he tears his eyes away almost violently and rushes to give Ilya a plate full of breakfast.
“Coffee?” he asks, and Ilya says yes very fast.
“So…”, Hollander starts after Ilya has been eating with gusto for a few minutes. “How are you?”
“I’ll live,” Ilya says, his mouth full. He is not really keen on explaining what happened yesterday, but Hollander is always full of questions and he knows he can hardly escape them with an injured foot. So, he recounts everything he can remember from yesterday and assures Hollander he already took his pain meds this morning (a blatant lie). He makes the situation sound light, almost meaningless, and punctuates it with innuendo and jokes. Hollander doesn’t back off, though.
“It’s okay if you’re not fine, Ilya,” Hollander says, and Ilya’s sharp intake after his first name can be heard very clearly. Hollander doesn’t focus on that, though. He continues:
“I’ve arranged everything so that I can be here until tomorrow night at least, and maybe, if needed, more. But you told me yesterday your friend Svetlana…” Hollander’s voice sounds colder now, “…will come tomorrow night, and I don’t really know how to explain why I’m here. LeClaire was hard enough.” There is almost a question hidden in these words, a silent “what are we” that Ilya chooses to ignore.
Ilya doesn’t know what to say. He stays quiet for a long time, and Hollander frowns, clearly thinking over his own words and wondering what ticked Ilya off.
“I mean, if you don’t want me here, I can go right now…” he starts, uncertain.
“No!” Ilya answers too quickly. He should be embarrassed, but the happy, soft smile on Hollander’s face might be worth it. He doesn’t know how to navigate this, so he suggests a steamy shower, and loves the laugh that gets out of Hollander.
“I think we need to be careful with your foot. I need you healthy and playing soon, or it will be just plain boring, without anyone to challenge me,” Hollander says grinning, but then he takes Ilya’s hand, his fucking hand, and continues, looking at him, all thoughtful: “You really scared me yesterday. You should have texted me, you know. I wanted to help, I still do. And it seems that you need the help.”
Ilya, who hates nothing more than admitting to his weaknesses, nods before he can stop himself. He can almost hear his father call him faint-hearted for needing anything. But it has been so long since anyone has shown up for him that he doesn’t quite know what to do.
“Sorry,” he says instead of all the other things he wants to say. Hollander waves his hand like it’s nothing, like it’s his duty to make Ilya feel safe, and he realizes his sorry is about more than just this situation today. He swallows and says:
“I mean, sorry for not texting. But also for, you know, not stepping up when you needed me.”
There. That was almost too honest. He is still regretting how he acted that night in Philadelphia. He doesn’t feel lighter after his apology, though, he feels almost more ashamed now that he has admitted out loud what a coward he was. But Hollander doesn’t seem to agree.
“What?” he asks, confused, and Ilya explains he should have taken better care of him after the fire alarm went off.
“Fuck, no,” Hollander says. “I know what the situation was like. If anything, I should apologize to you. I was so out of it, I put you in a horrible situation and outed you to your coach.”
“It was my duty to take care of you, you know, after…” Ilya interrupts. “I always try to. And I couldn’t. But I was just thinking about all the people and how you would hate the attention, and…”
“You were right,” Hollander said quickly. “You know me. And look, you did come, and you did help. And Ilya, I read your texts.” He hesitates for a second before continuing: “I know you care.”
This shuts Ilya up efficiently.
“My texts?” he asks, gulping. He knows he left too many texts. He doesn’t want to remember what he wrote. But Shane doesn’t elaborate, he just blushes and says:
“I felt so much better after you came to the hotel room. Really. And if that was your duty of care, this is mine. I’m happy to help, Ilya.”
Ilya doesn’t know how many more times he can hear Hollander use his fist name before breaking. He is still shirtless, still sweaty, an empty breakfast plate in front of him, and he feels like this conversation has been going on for hours. For years. He feels his walls crack, and the sound scares him. “I know you care”, Hollander has said, and yet he is still here. Watching Ilya laid bare.
“I need the shower now,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to do. “If you insist on helping, come with me.”
And Hollander follows him. Helps him, touches him, kisses him. First softly and then with more heat. Ilya burns under his hands. Hollander is etched on his skin, and his skin remembers his touch and responds. It’s not a surprise, not really, this is what they always do. It’s what stabilizes him, makes everything seem normal. No more tense conversations, no more awkward confessions. And yet, has it ever been quite like this?
Granted, Ilya being unable to move around makes it logistically hard. Sure. It doesn't stop them, though, they just move a chair into the shower and Ilya sits down while Shane washes him and then takes him into his mouth. Somehow Shane looking up at Ilya with his impossibly brown eyes, all doe-like, feels different from all their other hook-ups. There is fear in those eyes, da, but also an improbable mix of burning fire and gentle adoring. When Ilya comes, still looking at Shane, he comes with a whispered “I missed you so fucking much,” and hopes against hope that he is speaking Russian. His brain isn’t able to catch up. He can’t separate the languages when Shane wreaks havoc with his body and mind.
“I missed you, too,” Shane moans, and fuck, Ilya should take the words back or turn them into a joke, but all he can do is breathe in the scent that is Hollander, here in his home, in his arms. He lets the words float around the bathroom. He suspects they find a home in Shane’s brain, like his own response is now marked in Ilya. Words change things, make everything visible and tangible. And make Ilya feel so content in Shane’s arms, so absurdly trusting right now. He knows better but he doesn’t want to let go. He needs a breather, and then he needs to figure out what to do with Shane’s hard-on in this position, and, then, maybe, he can search for more words in their touches and kisses.
Ilya, who has hated English for most of his life, is suddenly sure there is no language more beautiful. Especially after Shane keeps moaning his name and stupid, little phrases that reveal too much but are never enough for Ilya.
“Fuck, I need you, Ilya. I’m so relieved you’re okay. Shit, just like that, you know me so well.” And finally, let out like a prayer:
“Please, let me stay here forever.”
Shane can’t sleep. He should be used to beds that aren’t his own: he has slept in hundreds of hotels during his career, after all. But Ilya’s bed feels different. Or rather, it feels different to sleep with someone. He has never done that to this extent, for multiple nights in a row. Once or twice, he has stayed with women for a few hours until dawn, but it has never felt like this. He is wrapped around Ilya’s back, careful not to touch his injured foot. It’s too hot, Ilya’s sheets have the wrong fiber count, and the pillow Shane is sleeping on is not firm enough. He doesn’t mind too terribly, though.
He feels light. Like something he has carried within himself, a secret but ever-present burden, has been lifted off. How many years has he wondered what would happen if he or Ilya stayed instead of always rushing out? And here he is, staying. At the same time, it feels like the easiest and the hardest thing he has ever done.
They have spent their first whole day together, just hanging out. They watched a movie, ordered some take-out, and settled in for the evening game, Tampa vs New York. Shane knew the Montreal game was on as well, but he couldn’t bear the thought of watching his team do badly without him. He wanted to concentrate on Ilya. He was being selfish for the first time in his career, and he didn’t want to second guess himself all the time. Sitting next to Ilya, analyzing the plays, was fun. He has always known Ilya is a great hockey player, but he is still impressed by how he notices things on the ice that even Shane has overlooked. He made the mistake of saying that out loud, and Ilya looked so smug for a long time after. Luckily, Shane finds Ilya’s smug grin incredibly attractive.
Now Shane breathes in Ilya’s scent. He knows more today than he did a few days ago. He understands more, to be specific, about himself and about Ilya. He just needs to find the courage to tell Ilya that. To leave without saying anything out loud would be terrible. It’s going to be two months until they can meet again, and that’s way too many days for Shane’s brain to obsess over everything.
Minutes tick by, Ilya sleeps soundly. Shane tries to find the right words to accompany his pretty big statement of ditching everything and being here in the first place. But Shane Hollander, when he decides he wants to go after something, rarely fails. It’s the decision part that he struggles with, but listening to Ilya’s heart beating he knows he has made the choice. Now he just needs to perfect his approach.
The sleep claims him at some point, and he wakes up with Ilya stroking his hair gently, eyes all gentle but determined. If Shane had been awake half the night, Ilya looks like he has been doing a lot of thinking in the morning. Shane is still half inside his dreams, all warm and relaxed, when Ilya inhales loudly, closes his eyes and then says:
“Good morning. I like you.”
Shane keeps looking at Ilya, his own eyes wide, and slowly Ilya opens his. His face open, fearing rejection, eyes searching for Shane’s reaction. Shane tries to remember what he practiced last night, how he perfected these words, but all that comes out of his mouth is simply:
“I like you, too.”
“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya says, almost overwhelmed, and then corrects himself, like trying a word that seems too delicate and fragile: “Shane…”
Shane hums. He likes it, likes how Ilya’s S is different from the Canadian way to pronounce it. He burrows his face into Ilya’s neck, kisses his collarbone, and feels completely at home. Not all battles are meant to be fought alone, it seems. Maybe he can just follow Ilya’s lead, like he has done since that night in Toronto almost six years ago.
Already back then, he had trusted Ilya, he realizes. He trusts him even more now.
For the first time, he trusts them.