Shane's jaw works. The camera doesn't capture the flint of his eyes, the line that must be creased between his brows. It doesn't matter. Ilya knows the ways Shane will bend. He stares at the screen, hungry, and a thousand miles away Shane gets off the bed.

The view dips, goes dark, then too bright. A clatter; an angle of a bathroom counter. Shane comes back into view, a razor in hand. Hesitates. "Should I--"

"Mm."

The water runs. First the soap, and then the clean stroke of the razor. Shane's hands are steady as he works. He'd had a goal second period: a slick dangle through the D-pair, then a wrister into the top corner. The Raiders in his living room had exploded in appreciative shouts. Ilya had watched, and wanted, his mouth gone wet.

"I should do this for you," Ilya murmurs.

"Yeah?"

"You would like it, I think." He imagines being there, taking Shane's jaw in his hand. "You'd have to be very good." Ilya would be so careful with him. All that tender skin, smooth and pink. Shane's shallow breathing; his glassy eyes.

Shane lowers the razor. There's water dripping onto the counter. "Ilya."

"Touch yourself." He waits for Shane to put the razor down, a quiet click. "No, other hand."

It'll be harder for Shane, and that's what Ilya wants. It takes a second before his hand disappears under the counter. Ilya watches Shane's eyes, the teeth sinking into his lip. The hiss of his exhale, just audible over the call.

"I want to hear you," Ilya says, and finally gets a hand on his own dick. A long lazy stroke, groaning with it. Shane's breath hitches at the sound; his forearm jerks, convulsive. "Make some noise for me, okay?"

Shane does. God, he does.

***

T-1 to puck drop there's a ping on Ilya's phone: Raymonds pulled out of Team Canada. For a moment Ilya just blinks at the text, no context for it, before he remembers the fucking World Championship. Conflicts with the playoffs every year. Shane would have declined the invitation before.

You have not had enough hockey?, Ilya sends, but he knows the answer to that. He looks up where Worlds are this year, mentally marks the time difference between Boston and Bratislava. Then he tucks his phone away and gets ready to destroy Florida.

The Raiders are playing hungry this year. Ilya tries not to dwell on it, but the thought lives in him, bright and sharp-edged. One last time before he leaves. He's been here eight years, called this place home, bled and cried with these men. It's the only way he knows how to say thank you.

***

The first game is a shutout for Boston. Ilya stretches into bed with a satisfying ache all through his muscles. Shane picks up on the second ring. "Hey," he says. "You looked good out there."

"I always look good," Ilya says, preening. "When are you flying out?"

"A few days. I've been trying to pack, but I can't find my neck guard."

"You have one?" Shane doesn't normally wear one. Ilya's thoughts snag on the image of something dark around Shane's throat.

"From the juniors." Shane sounds a little sheepish. "It's comfortable, you know? I might've left it at my parents' place, I'll go over tomorrow."

The words come out without thought. "Wear mine."

Somewhere deep in his closet Ilya has one, too: a strip of fabric and plastic, worn, faded. At some point Ilya had put his name on it, the inside edge where it would lie against the hollow of his throat. Silver against the black: Илья Розанов.

Shane opens his mouth. Closes it. "I can't come to Boston," he says, which is not a no. His eyes are wide on the screen, and Ilya's teeth ache.

"I will send it to you." There's same-day delivery to Canada. The logistics aren't the problem.

"What if--" Shane swallows. "What if it's not comfortable?"

This is how Ilya knows he's won. He can be magnanimous in victory. "If you try and don't like it," he says. "Then fine, don't wear it. You can choose."

Shane's breathing hard; they both know what he'll choose. "Okay," he says. Touches his tongue to his teeth. "Okay."

***

Boston wins the next game at home, then lose one away. A grinding, dirty game, chippy from the start and stretching into 2OT. It's a lucky bounce that wins it for Florida, the kind that sticks in your teeth, and Ilya doesn't get back to the hotel until midnight.

He's exhausted when he crawls into bed. He means to go to sleep, but midnight in Florida is seven where Shane is, which means Canada is playing Norway in ten hours. Have fun, Ilya texts, absently taps open Twitter, and abruptly comes face to face with Shane.

There's a mic in his face. His hair is a sweaty fringe, probably just out from practice. Someone's asking him a question, who the fuck cares, and all Ilya sees is the dark layer of the neck guard under the collar of Shane's jersey.

Fuck. He goes hard in an instant, shocked wide awake. The way it shifts when Shane tilts his head. The bob of his throat. The interview ends, and Ilya hits replay, shoves a hand into his briefs. It's embarassingly fast: the orgasm hits like a train, hard and blinding, before the video finishes playing a second time.

He's still panting when Shane texts back. Next time, and then: Good night :) Love you.

An ocean away Shane is waking up. He'll put on his pads, his skates, his Team Canada jersey. He'll play the same beautiful hockey he's been playing since he was old enough to stand up, and it will be Ilya's name on his neck, pressing against skin. Keeping him safe.

This year, Ilya is going to win the Cup. He's going to win with the C on his chest, Raiders screaming in his ear, and that will be what he remembers when he asks for the trade. He'll walk away, even though it'll kill him, because the other side of this is Shane. Shane, and the slow yielding in him that has him thrusting his own head into a collar.

Ilya floats on the lake a couple metres away, eyes closed, drifting in silence. His energy dimmed with the sun. He had been laughing and diving for treasures, but now that the darkness is settling over them, he's pensive and quiet. This quiet side of Ilya is something Shane hadn't really seen before these weeks together. He notices that Ilya gets quieter at night. He stares into the flames of the bonfire or up at the stars, not saying a word. It's a quiet that Shane is all too happy to let envelop him. A comforting blanket of calm. In these moments, they can just exist together. Shane never experienced what others called a "comfortable silence." He thought he had, with his parents, with Rose... But now he understands the full meaning of the phrase.

For the first time in his life, he feels completely relaxed around another person. He doesn't have his guard up, isn't worried about saying or doing the wrong thing. He doesn't have to be someone else. His parents get their Shane, Rose gets hers, his team gets another Shane. He's fractured himself into infinite Shanes, each one tailored to the person he's with. But Ilya? Ilya gets all of them at once. Finally, Shane can allow himself to just be... Shane.

"Ah, what the fuck?" Ilya shrieks, splashing back towards the dock.

"What happened?" Shane laughs.

Ilya climbs up onto the wooden boards and plops next to him. Then, before Shane can protest, Ilya wraps him up in a big wet embrace and cuddles close. "There was a bug," Ilya says into his neck.

Shane smiles and closes his arms around Ilya, returning the hug and patting Ilya's back like he would a child's. "It's okay. I'm here now," he placates. "I'll keep the bugs away from you."

"I think I see another one," Ilya murmurs, practically crawling into Shane's lap now.

"What? Where?" Shane asks.

Ilya points, and— oh. There are fireflies. Just a few, sparkling out on the water below them, clustered near the reeds at the shore. They flicker like tea light candles.

Shane holds Ilya tighter and blinks away the sudden wetness in his eyes as he remembers what Ilya said a couple weeks ago. That one day he'll take Shane down to this dock, and it will be covered in glowing candles, and he'll get down on one knee... Shane already knows he'll say yes. It's a certainty, just like all those years ago when Shane already knew he would open the door of Room 1410— a when not an if.

New fireflies spark in the twilight, growing more and more luminous, like shooting stars that fell to Earth.

Ilya settles against Shane, their legs pressing together, his head on Shane's shoulder. He seems to have forgotten his fear, if he was ever afraid at all. This has been an ongoing thing with them—Ilya freaking out over a bug—and Shane has the sneaking suspicion that it's just an excuse to jump into his arms. He'll never say anything. He likes protecting Ilya from the bugs, whether Ilya's joking or not. He'll protect Ilya from anything.

They sit in silence watching the fireflies flit about on the water. As their hands intertwine, Shane's thoughts stray to his grandmother. He hadn't gotten much time with her before she passed, but there are a few moments still vivid in his memory. He remembers chasing fireflies in her backyard. He would catch one in his hands and bring it back to her so she could see it glow as he released it into the air. The glow illuminated her aging face, and for that brief moment, she smiled. Her smile grew sad when the glow faded, so Shane kept bringing her fireflies to see that flash of happiness again.

She was already sick then. His parents had protected him from that truth, not wanting to shatter the innocence of a six-year-old child. They let him love her as he always had, blissfully unaware. He thinks perhaps he should be mad that they hadn't told him, but he's not. He's grateful that the few memories he has aren't tinged by the sadness of knowing.

"Shane-kun," she says in her tranquil voice, Japanese accent light on her tongue. "Do you know why fireflies are so beautiful to me?"

He shakes his head.

"Their lifespan is only a few weeks, but they shine as bright as the sun. They don't waste time on unimportant things. In the warm nights of early summer, they glow to attract a mate. When they finally experience that brief brilliance of passionate love... they die. There is sadness when something ends, but you must not forget its beauty. Always keep the beautiful moments of life in your heart. Promise me."

He doesn't fully understand, not until later. "I promise, Obāchan."

Shane squeezes Ilya's hand and looks down at the outline of his face now. The fireflies' glow shimmers in Ilya's eyes, and Shane thinks this may be the most beautiful Ilya has ever looked. Their weeks together are ending, but they were radiant— maybe he appreciates their radiance more because they had to end. These ephemeral moments obtain permanence in Shane's heart. He will keep them close, always.

Ilya looks up. Neither acknowledges the melancholy that shrouds them in the half-light. There isn't anything to be said. Just comfortable silence stretching into the rest of their lives. As their lips meet in a delicate kiss, Shane knows they won't waste a second of their brief, intermittent times together. Instead, they will glow.

~

End Notes:

Oh my godddddd this prompt sent me down an insane rabbit hole of firefly mythology/symbolism in Japanese culture, the concept of mono no aware, and classic Japanese literature. I lost an entire evening to Wikipedia— 10/10 highly recommend 🙌