Be Kind And Love Yourself

Author chose not to use archive warnings.

Time Limit

Shane had known, almost from the first, that there was a time limit on their relationship. He had known, and he had set it aside, because looking at it straight on…

He looks now.

His phone buzzes. He knows that it’s his mom. He can’t talk to her, not with the memory of her initial dislike suddenly clear in his mind. He remembers her face when she met him, and he can’t bring himself to tell her it’s over.

Shane thinks of the night before, of sitting with Ilya and Spaghetti on The Couch. Thinks of Spaghetti sliding neatly over his wrist and coiling gently onto Ilya’s, and the moment of stillness, the three of them linked.

Looking at the vivarium, resplendent in the corner, Shane feels the world blur again. Custom-built splendour, designed to be permanent. He leans against the blue wall and thinks about how to dismantle the tank. He thinks about moving. He thinks about going back to being two after having been three. He thinks about how love isn’t enough.

But putting things off doesn’t make them any easier.

The catch on the glass doors is strong. Strong enough to withstand a curious snake. Escape-proof, Shane thinks bitterly. He unlatches the doors, and gently reaches in to lift Spaghetti.

“Come on, Spaghetti, it’s time to go.” Shane’s voice is the same as ever. Calm, matter-of-fact. He’ll find a good place for them both, and then figure out how to deal with the tank, what to say to Ilya (if Ilya ever comes back), when to tell his parents. Spaghetti, coiled in his hands, says nothing, passes no judgement.

Most players: “Oh no! My stick is gone, I lost the puck!”

Shane Hollander the Monster That He Is: “Look Mom, no hands!”

Troy: Say it. Out loud. Say it.

His brother does.

His brother calls him, forgetting that Ilya went no-contact with him. Ilya's silent on the phone, listening to Alexei's wife softly explain it to him and take the phone.

He texts Ilya, asking when where he is. Asking who he's playing next game.

Ilya's been retired for over 20 years.

He knows Shane wants to say something, but he never does. He's just quietly supportive.

One day, it's Alexei's wife that calls him. She apologizes for calling. She tells him Alexei doesn't remember her anymore. Or their daughter. He only asks about Ilya and their parents. She offers to delete Ilya's number from his phone.

Ilya declines.

After that, he starts answering the phone. And talking.

Alexei asks where he is. Ilya tells him he's coming home soon. That seems to make Alexei happy.

Alexei asks who Ilya is playing. Ilya says Montreal. Alexei tells him to win or papa will be angry.

Alexei tells him mama made him soup. Ilya tells him that was his daughter. Alexei laughs, he doesn't have a daughter.

He doesn't remember how cruel he was to Ilya. He doesn't remember how much he loved drugs and drinking.

He was so much like Ilya's Alexei, before he started taking after their father. Before he let his anger at their mother consume him. Before he caught Ilya and Sasha and allowed his fear for his little brother to turn into anger and disgust.

One day Ilya offers his wife, Natalia, to have them visit. Their daughter has visited more than once, even stayed with them for a summer after high school. His and Shane's kids tried to teach her hockey.

Natalia regretfully tells him Alexei is not well enough to travel.

Ilya can't travel to them, not while he's married to Shane.

But their phone calls are enough.

About once a week, he gets to speak to a version of his brother than he had dearly missed. He gets to talk about his mama like she's still live, not dead for over 50 years. He gets to talk about the rink he and Alexei used to play hockey at. To talk about the stray cat he and Alexei once hid in their bedroom for a week.

He finds himself looking forward to the phone calls.

Oh the confusion of being lovingly kissed on the shoulder by your situationship from hell

being featured in a Drake mv post-Kendrick beef

only donating $20,000 to a fundraiser for a Montreal-based kids' cancer hospice — the fundraiser unfortunately coincided with the release of the cottage tour video

laughing at a Wimbledon ball boy for getting hit in the face by a ball (it was objectively funny but he broke his nose)

not using pride tape

the summer after he leaves the metros, responding to a very homophobic tweet with a picture of him flipping off the camera with three championships rings stacked on his middle finger

not shaking a player's hand after a 4-game sweep in the playoffs. he'd played embarrassingly poorly and Shane was worried it might be something contagious and fuck him up for the conference finals

not knowing who Harriet Tubman was

All Ilya has to do is press the little button above his seat and in a matter of seconds a beautiful man will come stand in front of Ilya and ask what he can do for him. A beautiful man with beautiful freckles and shining brown eyes and biceps that had flexed tantalizingly when he'd helped an older woman with her overhead luggage during boarding. And not Ilya, no. He'll ask what he can do for Mr. Rozanov.

It's honestly almost too much. (Almost.)

The first couple of calls had seemed innocent enough, and the flight attendant ("SHANE," his name tag helpfully provides) had been the picture of customer service as he arrived at Ilya's seat with a pasted-on pleasant smile and confidently strode up and down the aisle to bring him a hot towel, a snack, an extra blanket, and always "if there's anything else I can do, sir, please let me know." Ilya had never appreciated the phrase "hate to see them go, love to watch them leave" more.

By the fifth call in the space of an hour, Shane seems to be getting suspicious. His smile has taken on a wry edge as he approaches Ilya's seat, but Ilya maintains perfect innocence as he asks Shane if he can close his window shade.

Shane stops just short of rolling his eyes. "Mr. Rozanov, I have a feeling you're more than capable of closing a window shade on your own."

Ilya shrugs, eyes wide in put-upon bewilderment. "It's stuck! I cannot budge it."

Shane sighs as he braces one hand on Ilya's armrest leans across him to pull the shade down (easily, of course). Ilya tries not to be too obvious as he breathes Shane in, reveling in having him so close, but Shane must sense it anyway because he freezes as he starts to pull away, looking back at Ilya warily as if he's not quite sure what his game is.

"Ah, my hero," Ilya praises softly. "I knew you could do it."

Ilya watches Shane swallow hard before he straightens up. "Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Rozanov?" he asks, a slight waver in his voice.

"Not right now, thank you, Shane. But I'll let you know next time I need you." Ilya points to the button above his head and winks, smiling at the way it makes Shane flush before he hurries away.

Ilya decides not to press the button for over an hour after that, just to see, and the way it makes Shane slowly grow more and more antsy is simply delicious. Ilya can tell he's itching for Ilya's next call, nervously shifting his eyes over to Ilya as he assists other passengers.

After about forty-five minutes, Ilya is playing a game on his phone when he senses Shane next to him and looks up, where he's nervously biting his lip. "Mr. Rozanov, I just wanted to let you know that we'll be starting beverage service shortly. I'll be busy with the cart for a while, so if there's anything you might need..."

He's so beautifully nervous. He's being so wonderfully good. Ilya rewards him with an honest smile, one that seems to put Shane at ease. "Thank you, Shane. I will be fine."

Shane breathes out, returning Ilya's smile. "Ok, cool. I'll, uh, check on you later, ok?"

"Ok. Thank you."

When Shane comes with the beverage cart, he asks for Shane's number. He's never seen anyone flush more prettily as he writes it down on an airline cocktail napkin and signs it "xx Shane."

~~