Sup Yo!!!!!!

Shane taps his fingers on his chest as he stares at the ceiling of his hotel room, listening to doors opening down the hall, muffled conversations through the walls, and the hum of the air conditioning kicking on and off. It’s like the bed is too big, Hayden once lamented, and I miss the heat of her body, you know? The smell of her perfume. She’s probably grateful for the break, he had laughed, she gets to sleep in the middle of the bed, which is her favorite spot. The implication there is unspoken—that they’re usually both in the center of the bed, together, tangled up in one another. Shane had smiled, nodded, and empathized. But he didn’t feel that aching twisting behind his ribs that kept Hayden up. That had him going to the gym at odd hours of the night, or doomscrolling, or putting the TV on low because he just couldn’t sleep. 

His arm stretches out across the sheets, to the empty spot beside him. The last time Shane looked at the time on his phone he swore the numbers were mocking him. 

The bed feels way too big. He misses the heat of Ilya’s body. He misses the scent of his skin mixed with laundry detergent and remnants of cologne. 

He tries closing his eyes, he puts a podcast on, he watches sports highlights, he even attempts to tire himself out at the gym—but he can’t seem to fall asleep. 

—

When Shane travels back home, he drops his bag near the door and toes off his shoes, seeking Ilya out like a beacon. He finds him in the kitchen cooking dinner and regardless that he’s hungry from a long flight of sub-par snacks, he’s exhausted in a bone-deep way that overruns anything else. 

Ilya barely has time to turn before Shane is molding himself into his back, wrapping his arms around his middle. He can feel the rumble of a laugh in Ilya’s chest as his hand smooths over his forearm; Shane pressing his nose and lips to the back of his husband’s shoulder. He breathes him in, closes his eyes and memorizes him all over again. 

“Good, yes. This should be reaction to me cooking whatever this food is,” Ilya picks up one of Shane’s macro diet recipes, a few sheets of paper he keeps tucked into their junk drawer, “I think it’s supposed to be chicken parm. But no cheese.” He can picture the crinkle of Ilya’s nose, “What is point without cheese?” 

Shane lets go, allowing Ilya to turn to face him. There’s a soft, familiar smile pulling the corner of his mouth when Shane opens his eyes. Ilya’s showered recently; he can smell his body wash and his curls are full and bouncy, still a bit damp. Fuck. He missed him so much. 

It must show on his face because Ilya picks up his hand and places it on Shane’s cheek, running his thumb over his freckles. Shane dips his nose into his palm and places a kiss there, “Do not take this wrong way, but you look like shit.” 

A laugh bursts from Shane’s chest, “Jesus Ilya, really?” 

“I should lie next time?” Ilya hums, shifting his hand so that his thumb paints over Shane’s lower lip. He regrettably lets go so he can check on the chicken in the oven, giving the sauce on the stove a good stir afterwards. 

“Games were good—the other team stood no chance.” 

Shane chews on the inside of his cheek, knowing that Ilya is fishing. He can tell something is a little off, but that it’s not about hockey, so he’s seeing if Shane will admit it on his own. He’s debating whether he should admit the truth, feeling like he’s toeing that line of being pathetic. Shane’s never been in a long-term relationship before like this. Of course there was Rose but, as much as he loves her as a good friend, he never had trouble sleeping without her. 

He licks his lips, eyes traveling down the long lines of Ilya’s body as he moves fluidly in the kitchen, “I’m just tired.” He finally says, but doesn’t elaborate. He has such a headache pinching between his eyes. 

Ilya turns his head and looks at him, giving him a onceover before letting out a soft hum. He takes a step forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek, hand brushing his thumb along his temple, “Shower—dinner will be ready soon.” 

—

The night unravels lazily. They eat dinner after Shane takes a shower and end up in front of the TV on the couch, dishes momentarily forgotten about. Ilya mentions that he’ll get everything loaded into the dishwasher after the movie is over, but somewhere between the opening credits and rising action, Shane falls asleep on Ilya’s chest. 

He probably should have seen that coming. He feels utterly boneless after they eat; full and sated, warm and home. Ilya’s in a pair of black sweatpants and Shane’s Montreal Metros long-sleeved tee, stretched out and tucked into the corner of the couch. He gravitates towards him like a black hole, Ilya’s legs automatically opening to accommodate Shane’s body. Shane presses his face into his sternum, resting his ear over his heartbeat, listening to the gentle thumps as he tries to follow along to the plot of whatever film they’ve put on. 

Ilya’s hands lazily trace circles into his back and thread through his hair and he’s gone, so gone. He only wakes up because something loud happens on the screen and Ilya is reaching for the remote on the coffee table to turn it down, 

“Snova lozhis' spat',” He whispers, pressing his lips to Shane’s forehead. 

He’s distantly aware that Ilya’s telling him to go back to sleep but he’s disoriented with what time it is. How long had he passed out for? He rubs at one of his eyes, “I didn’t mean to crash.” 

Ilya just smiles knowingly, tipping Shane’s chin up to press a kiss to his jawline, “I don’t sleep well without you either.”