araxi

And Ilya doesn’t know what to do. Obviously, Shane is hiding because he doesn’t want Ilya to hear him. So, maybe it’s best to give him some space. But also, he can’t just leave him to cry. What if he needs help?

So, Ilya quietly sits on the other side of the door, ear pressed to the wood.

He doesn’t know how long Shane has been in there. He got back from the meeting with Farah and the Ottawa management about half an hour ago, so it can’t be that long. He decides to give Shane five minutes, and then he’s going in.

The five minutes are absolutely painful. Hearing Shane cry and sniffle. Occasionally Ilya hears him take deep breaths to try and stop his tears, only for them to start again.

Ilya makes it about … ninety-five seconds before he’s opening the door. He probably should have knocked first, but unfortunately he’s not thinking and bursts right in.

He finds Shane on the floor in the middle of the room, sitting crisscrossed. His body is sort of slumped over his legs and one of his hands is covering his mouth, trying to hold in his sobs.

Shane turns his head towards the door as Ilya enters.

“Hey,” Ilya tries, using a soft voice. He immediately sits down next to Shane and pulls him into his side.

Shane buries his face into Ilya’s armpit, and although his tears were finally slowing down, they pick up all over again. Ilya wraps an arm around Shane and soothes his hand up and down his freckled arm.

“I’m sorry—“ Shane cries, turning his face further into Ilya’s shirt.

“No, no,” Ilya says. “Is okay. Cry. I just didn’t want to leave you alone.”

Shane shakes his head but doesn’t move from Ilya’s shoulder.

The tears continue for a bit, and the way Shane’s breath sometimes catches, almost hyperventilating, is what really freaks Ilya out.

After a few minutes of that, Ilya guides Shane to sit on the floor in the space between his outstretched legs, facing him. Shane’s legs wrap around Ilya’s torso and he grips onto him for dear life, tucking his face into Ilya’s neck. This position is better, with Ilya able to squeeze Shane with firm, even pressure.

Eventually, Ilya turns Shane’s face towards him to kiss him a bit, which often works as a good distraction when Shane is upset. Shane responds and kisses Ilya back for a minute before pulling away and tucking his head once more. That’s when Ilya is unable to stand it anymore.

“Okay,” Ilya says decisively. Not even the kissing helped! “Tell me what is wrong.”

Shane shakes his head.

“Tell me one thing,” Ilya repeats.

Shane shakes his head again, stubborn as always.

“Shane,” Ilya says, voice coming out sounding too stern, because he’s terrified.

This snaps Shane out of it, and finally he shares what he’s been crying about for half an hour.

“My number is retired,” Shane mumbles.

“What?” Ilya asks, not understanding.

“The meeting. With Ottawa. My number is retired, so I can’t keep it when I switch teams.”

Ilya takes that in for a moment. He visualizes the rafters of the arena he plays in every week, trying to remember if he’s ever seen 24 hanging there. He honestly doesn’t look upwards much, since there are no cup trophies hanging. But still, he should have known.

“Oh,” Ilya says, at a loss for words.

He knows why Shane is upset. His legacy, everything he’s built with Montreal, gone. He’ll never get to retire his number in the Bell Centre with his old team. Even if they were homophobic assholes, this is still hard on Shane who has made hockey his entire life. Well, his entire life until Ilya came along.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s stupid,” Shane says, voice dripping with guilt.

“No. It’s not, Hollander.” Ilya realizes, “is that why you were hiding in the closet?”

Shane nods his head, and Ilya feels it rather than sees it. “I didn’t want you to feel bad for me. You moved to the middle of nowhere in Canada to play on a shit team for me. The least I can do is take a pay cut and give up my stupid number.”

“It’s not stupid Hollander. It’s all your goals and your wins. And your stats. And your number. And your … наследие” Ilya struggles with the english word, but he knows Shane will know get it, even if he doesn’t know the word in Russian. “You are allowed to be upset.”

Shane starts tearing up again. “It just feels like I’m losing everything I worked so fucking hard for,” Shane says, miserable.

“I know, moya lyubov. But you are not. Your name is what matters, not your number.”

Shane’s face crumples again with pain. He thunks his forehead on Ilya’s shoulder. “Stop being so nice to me,” he sounds pitiful. “You’re making it worse.”

“What?! How?” Ilya says, exasperated. He frowns, his concern deepening.

“I’m selfish. You would give up even more for me. Hell, you already have. Your country, your city, your team.” His voice breaks when he adds, “I don’t deserve it.”

Ilya shushes him immediately, not having any of that.

“Yes, and I would do it all over again. I do not have regrets.”

“But—” Shane starts, and Ilya cuts him off.

“But, no. You have always cared more about hockey than I do. I am good. I am happy. But if you are not happy, I won’t be happy.” Ilya takes a deep breath, and as much as it pains him to say the words, he gets them out anyways. “You will be my husband. That is enough. If you need to stay in Montreal, then that is what you will do. We will make it work.”

Ilya finds Shane’s chin and lifts his face up until Shane’s eyes meet his own. “But I do not think you will be happy in Montreal any longer. You are not treated well. I think you will like it in Ottawa, as number twenty-four or number five-two.”

“I know,” Shane looks away, embarrassed.

“You have time. Think about it. Ottawa will wait for your decision.”

Shane shakes his head. “No, I want to do this. I’m just feeling sad.”

“You’ve been through a lot this year, Hollander. It is catching up with you.”

“What do I do?” his voice is small.

“We,” Ilya corrects. “Just keep going. Live how we want to live. Not worry about the NHL or the homophobes anymore.”

Shane nods and wraps his arms firmly around Ilya again, hugging him tight. Ilya suspects a few more tears escape, but he doesn’t mind. He’ll rub Shane’s back for as long as he needs.

———

Three weeks later, Shane comes home from his contract signing and finds Ilya in the living room. Shane’s wearing his new Centaurs jersey with a small, resigned smile on his face.

It’s still weird, and it still hurts to have a different number on his back. But maybe a new number is good for a new era.

Ilya has a serene smile on his face that takes Shane’s breath away.

“So, what did you choose Hollander?”

Shane smirks and turns around to show him.

Ilya takes in the number 18 on his back, and now it’s his turn for his eyes to well.

Ilya tackles him immediately, and is pulling down Shane’s shorts and getting on his knees as Shane laughs happily.

Shane thinks he’s going to like being a Centaur, even if he’ll no longer be number 24.

They are quiet as they look at the screen, and Shane tips his head back with a long breath, resting his head on Ilya’s shoulder and their chests shift together, the tap drips in the sink. Ilya’s hand pushes away Shane’s hoodie to put his hand flat over the soft skin of Shane’s stomach. Shane sits up after another breath, and starts highlighting the shifts they cross over, the time they could find at the hospital, crossing over as they arrive for and leave from shift.

Fondness washes over Ilya then, so immense that he rubs the curve of Shane’s waist, tucks his nose and lips to the back of Shane’s neck and watches over his shoulder as his boyfriend carefully finds every pocket of time they can have. Ilya pushes his nose into the short hairs st Shane’s neck, takes a long breath in, seaweed shampoo, soap and warmth.

His Shane.

He tucks his smile behind Shane’s ear as Shane mutters about him being distracting. Ilya slips his fingertips down into the waistband of Shane’s sweatpants, hand resting still. He doesn’t move, still until Shane fusses his hips slightly and Ilya smirks. “No distractions” he replies and Shane huffs, Ilya slips his fingertips a centimetre down. It becomes a game and soon the meeting is very much over and the laptop is on the floor and Ilya is forcing Shane’s hip still with one hand as he works his cock with the other.

Ilya makes a screenshot of the calendar his screensaver on the first of the month, (he’s really to blame that the sight of it makes him half hard, thinking of shane all squirmy and flushed and cute in his lap as he tries hard to stay still for Ilya as Ilya works him over in a slow and tight grip).

The night before their rosters seperate them, they spend it mostly in bed, a long sleep in together, lazy cosy morning sex- then gym and a long hot shower and getting off together again like that, kissing under the hot water all hands and mouths. Then it’s back to bed with promises from Ilya he will help Shane meal prep later “later sweetheart I promise but we won’t get to fall asleep together so many nights, I’ll forget the shape of you, the feel of you, you’ll be a distant memory while I hold Benjamin close and cry-“ and a slap of shanes hand to the side of his head which had turned into grappling which had turned into play fighting which had turned into more sex.

The start first week isn’t so bad, just like a misaligned run of shifts in any other month, which happens often. But then it stretches into six days without seeing each other, opposite routines of sleeping and waking and they both start to feel lonely. Feel the space between them, the coming home to an empty bed. The catching texts and calls in the hours they are both awake.

Finally on the sixth day, they overlap Ilya is coming to the end his day shift and shane is coming in for his night. Shane is so excited at the thought of being able to actually see Ilya, he finds himself parked in the carpark a full hour before shift starts. Usually the absolute earliest he’d get there is thirty minutes before. He texts Ilya a ljttle “👋🏼.”Who texts back “😚😚😚😚 already????” Which makes Shane flush, happy to know Ilya is as eager as he is at the prospect of seeing each other.

“P3 level 1” Shane replies, because he usually parks in the further carpark P6 because it’s cheaper, but P3 is just on the edge of the back exit of the main building, and Shane just figures it might be easier to see ilya for longer this way.

It takes Ilya four minutes to be opening Shane’s passenger side door, a few droplets of misty rain in his curls.

He smells like the hospital, but still a bit like his cologne and his cheeks are pink and just curls are messy and he’s smirking and saying “come here often?” But Shane is across the dash before Ilya’s favourite line is fully out.

His hand cups Ilya’s cheek and he’s pressing their lips together, firm but civil, closed lipped, a soft lock of mouths. Ilya hums against his mouth, a pleased sound and leans into the kiss just as Shane pulls back a breath, noses still pressed together.

“Hi, sorry” Shane mumbles, and his eyes are staring at Ilya’s mouth, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. “I just missed you” he confesses and Ilya hums, his hand cups the back of Shane’s neck and he kisses soft pretty pecks all over his pouty mouth.

“No sorry. Is cute” Ilya mutters, one hand finding Shane’s to fiddle with, pulling it into his lap, tracing the back of his hand with his thumb.

“I missed you too” Ilya adds, kisses to the left of Shane’s nose, his Cupids bow, his chin.

“Really?” Shane asks, voice low and Ilya laughs, nuzzles his face into Shane’s cheek.

“Yes, really can you believe it?” Ilya whispers and his hand catches Shane’s cheek, thumb gripping his cheek gently, making his lips pout just so.

“Missed you” Ilya exhales again, and leans forward to kiss Shane’s pout once, twice, a third time before they fall into a warm kiss, too much for the carpark at work Ilya realises when he feels a soft whimper from Shane into his mouth. Ilya pulls back and Shane huffs and Ilya nods, moves his hand to the back of Shane’s neck. His hand scuffed gently, squeezing the back of his neck, thumb rubbing at his hairline.

They breathe in silence for a while, like that, soft and slow, Ilya rubbing at the back of Shane’s warm neck and Shane’s hand tangled with his fidgeting against his thigh.

Shane turns his head in, knocks his nose against Ilya’s cheek and is pulling back with a slow breath in. His eyes are lidded low, warm and Ilya wants to drag him into the back seat, lay him back and kiss and bite at his hips until Shane is fussing and pulling at his hair and asking for his mouth-

Ilya swallows and rubs his thumb across Shane’s bottom lip, knocks their noses together and pulls back enough to catch Shane’s eyes. His lashes are dark, long and Ilya maps the pretty pattern of his freckles.

“Missed you a lot I think” Shane says with a small huffing laugh and Ilya nods, thumbs his thumb under Shane’s ears.

“Mm. Is hard to” Ilya shrugs. “Show you how much, here” he smirks and Shane rolls his eyes and flicks at Ilya’s shoulder, pulls back and flops against the seat.

“Perv” Shane grumbles and Ilya wiggles his eyebrows and says “well you know how I like you in your scrubs” and then Shane is calling him gross and an asshole and shoving his hand in his face and Ilya is nipping at his fingers.

They settle then, hands tangled and they talk soft and low, catch up and check in and get almost fifteen minutes before Ilya’s radio crackles to life. His supervisors voice cuts through, low, and Shane can’t hear it but Ilya can- clicks in to, answers quickly into it.

“You have to go?” Shane asks and his stomach curls, bites at his bottom lip and hates the cold anxiety that washes up through his ribs.

“Mm. Probably” he shrugs

“Come with me? I’ll walk you to your ward and then maybe you can come for one round with me before you start?” Ilya suggests and Shane is nodding nodding, eager for more time.

The month continues like that, stolen moments in cars or break rooms, in hallways.

They hold hands behind the old outpatients building, steal a small cuddle and then go for a short walk to get coffee when Ilya is coming on shift in the morning and Shane’s shift has just ended.

Ilya drops off coffees, snickers, a huge box of doughnuts for all of Shane’s ward. Once, Ilya’s hoodie tucked into Shane’s locker- with a sticky note “for your 4am freeze” with a silly drawn face and heart. Shane pulls it on before midnight, once his patients are settled and presses his face into the fabric to breathe in Ilya as he documents.

It’s phone calls on breaks, endless stream of texts, photos of them in empty beds, at work, at the gym alone. Dirty texts, needing texts, complaints about how much they want.

Of course Shane is leaving stacked up meal prep in the fridge. Notes for his Ilya “have a good shift baby” “no cigarettes on break :( even if I’m not there to smell it” “handsome boy I miss you” and “enjoy your food. Love you” sometimes badly drawn pictures of stick figures drawing hands, hearts.

Shane comes home one morning to a huge bundle of flowers, hot decaf coffee from his favourite cafe and a pastry on the bench after a terrifying mess of a shift the night before.

Shane makes the bed before he goes to shift, fresh pressed sheets, electric blanket tucked in the bottom of the bed, for Ilya’s eternally cold toes and feet since Shane isn’t there to warm them.

Of course the 3 actual days they have off together are desperate and hot and needy, but also full of so much fucking sleep. They fuck like desperate animals, grasping hands and hungry mouths and pass out, sleep heavy curled up like puppies and wake up and eat and makeout and sleep more and fuck more and watch tv and sleep again. Shane gets the desperate release, as does Ilya of being each others, being owned. The feeling of Ilya owning his pleasure, of being taken care of, of letting go- getting to let go and have Ilya hold him in his palms, know what he needs. Shane cries from the relief of floating out of his head finally, toes curling against Ilya’s calves, clinging Ilya to him desperately, arms tight around him. Ilya isn’t much better, teary as he holds Shane close to him, cooes to him and covers him in kisses, smooths his hands over Shane’s body and feels the trust and love and safety of their connection. Feels the dizzy heat of Shane’s devotion to him, Shane giving away his body to him, of letting Ilya guide him into what he needs.

Ilya had fucking missed the pleasure of Shane desperate to please him, Shane under his command, Shane’s eyes dark and soft and hanging on every word. Beautiful Shane, his, his his.