“this is ilya, i will never listen to your voicemail” and shane takes that to heart!!
he thinks ilya doesn't ever listen to his messages, so maybe he starts leaving one here and there. maybe they're nothing really, just a note to say he tried to call. sometimes leaving off with "oh, this is shane. by the way" he calls when he knows ilya won't be able to pick up; "hey, uh. i know you won't get this, but i was thinking about you. i miss you. i know you're just in ottawa but... sometimes it feels a lot further. i love you." and sometimes he'll be watching a game and god. he wants to talk to ilya about that play, so he'll leave message about it. shane never really tells ilya that this is something he does.
ilya knows, of course. watches his voicemail fill up little by little. always makes sure there's space for new ones. has ones that he listens to so often that knows them by heart. memorizes the way shane laughs because he thinks no one will hear it, the sound of his breath on the other line between words. he listens to every one of them.
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The bell at the front door of the shop jingles, and Naim instinctively turns to tell the late coming (and kind of inconsiderate if you think about it) customer that they close in about fifteen minutes, and secretly hopes that’s enough to get them back out the door so he can start his closing tasks and get the fuck out of here. It’s Friday and he somehow has the same weekend off as Ryan, and he’d rather not stay here any longer than he has to.
Time was a precious thing, after all.
Instead of a straggler looking to browse, he’s met with a familiar set of bright blue eyes and blonde curls. Hair a little longer than when they met, standing a little taller than when they left.
Naim smiles, but just as quick it disappears from his face and he steps back with a cool levelled fear creeping into his chest. It was instinct, calculated from a plethora of experiences under his belt. His hand is already reaching for the lighter he always keeps in his back pocket.
The feeling melts away just as fast as it came when a coworker passes between them, greeting Ryan on the way. It was enough to confirm he was in fact Ryan, the real flesh and blood one, with the ugly wisp of a moustache that Naim couldn’t convince him to shave and all.
“Hey,” Naim says with a small breath of relief and braces his arms on the counter, “What’re you doing here? We were gonna meet at home.”
Plans were something they both counted on these days. Surprises could be dangerous without communication…but Naim was happy to see him, he couldn’t deny that.
Ryan leans into the counter from the other side and his teeth flash as he levels his gaze with Naim’s, “It’s Friday night, thought we could go for a walk or something. Find a bite to eat, live a little.”
What Naim doesn’t feel the need to say is that this is when the entity likes to show up most, when it does. It likes to show Naim its same white teeth and say, “Let me walk you home, sweetheart.” It always drips sweetly off its tongue and Naim resists the pull every time, lets it lurk in the shadows until he’s back in their apartment and greets the real Ryan with the flicker of a lighter flame between them.
Naim watches Ryan’s eyes in the slanted early evening light cast through the windows, and he can see unease there that the entity would never carry. An unbridled worry that seeps through his otherwise cheerful expression, one that Naim knows how to read into in its entirety. Knows there’s more of a reason than Ryan showing up and wanting to be spontaneous, but he doesn’t push it for now. Not when they were surrounded by Naim’s coworkers.
As if on cue, Naim’s manager Kathy approaches them both with a wide smile on her face, “Hi, Ryan! What a gentleman coming all the way down here to walk home with your man. My husband could stand to learn a few pointers from you.”
Naim liked Kathy. She had a tendency to be overly blunt sometimes, which could be too much for some people, but she was always kind. True kindness was something Naim never took for granted since leaving their little town. It came in sparks and drabbles in passing, and sometimes it lingered and it was worth holding onto.
Ryan shifts on the balls of his feet, a still teenage-like charm in his smile when he tells her, “Tell me when, I’d be happy to give Jack a talking to for ya’.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Kathy cackles.
Naim fits his chin in his palm and looks at Ryan through his lashes as he watches them laugh back and forth about something or other, listening as Kathy tells them both that they should both come over for dinner sometime. Everyone loved Ryan. Naim couldn’t blame them.
There was a feeling akin to pride when he looked at him now, all sunkissed blonde and handsome and, God, so effortlessly likable, making people laugh and smile despite everything they had gone through. Naim knew he wasn’t as affable, there was a harder, angst drenched edge to him that had only seemed to worsen with time.
“Why don’t you kids get out of here,” Kathy breaks through Naim’s wandering thoughts.
Naim pushes off the counter, not about to question her generous offer, “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely, you have some fun for the rest of us. I’ll clock you out when we leave,” Kathy smiles and pats him on the shoulder, bidding a quick goodbye to Ryan as well before heading off to assign closing tasks to everyone else. Naim grabs his bag and doesn’t linger long enough to get any good natured ribbing from his coworkers.
The day is still bright, and the streets are busy, warmed from the early summer heat but drifting into something comfortable in the shade of the surrounding buildings. The Brisbane streets are busy enough that Naim doesn’t need to worry about anything, full of people heading to dinners, or running home after work, some families that were definitely tourists, they were all white noise for Ryan and Naim to exist in. A safety they provided to them that the strangers would never be aware of.
“You’re welcome,” Ryan says with his arms spread.
Naim laughs, dodging the shoulder of someone oblivious and talking on their phone, bumping into Ryan’s side in the process, “Yah, yah. Whatever, Mr. Romance over here. You know Kathy is going to be asking me all about it next week now.”
Ryan scoops Naim’s hand into his own and threads their fingers together, squeezes, “I reckon I had better give you a good time then.”
“Mmmhm,” Naim hums sweetly as they drift into each other’s orbit, pace slowing, “Yah, you fuckin’ better.”
Ryan kisses him, quick and quiet. No one around them bats an eye.
They get takeout that Ryan buys for them with some rainy day cash he had tucked away in his wallet, and they eat at a picnic table in a park; cheap and within their means. No less fun then anything else Naim could imagine. The evening is warm and their ankles are hooked together beneath the table, and it feels more like home than anywhere. It feels good.
It took them a while to find a place to settle. At first, it never seemed like they would get far enough. Melbourne was good for a time. They had stayed with Ryan’s older cousin who had long since cut ties with the rest of his family. Someone else was always in the house, and the entity quieted somewhat, leaving them alone more often. That lasted eight blissful months or so while they scrapped together money from odd jobs before Ryan’s parents started clueing in and they made the hasty decision to leave again.
They headed to the next big city that would be easy to blend into, and that was Sydney. They somehow found a cheap little apartment after a week sleeping on tucked away park benches, and found better jobs willing to hire inexperienced eighteen year olds where they could start saving a little bit. That bought them around a year before Naim encountered his mother. Arlene found his place of work and wouldn’t leave him be. She would wait until he was off shift and plead and beg him to come home with tears in her eyes and it was almost enough to make Naim feel as if he had made a mistake. That he should go back. It followed him home and leached over to Ryan, and things had felt hopeless.
The entity had reared its head then as if it could sense the heightened shame and guilt, and became stronger and more persistent. Almost as bad as it had been at the beginning if not worse, the fear and known proximity of his mother fanning its flames.
Neither of them wanted to leave, they had a good thing with the smallest tendrils of roots growing beneath them, but there were only so many blood stains and bruises they could explain to their coworkers. Only so much pain that they could endure before it would catch one of their anxiety riddled brains off guard and then it would leave them no better off than Hunter had been. Enduring that thing and being miserable was pointless. So, one more time, they left.
It had been about a year and a half in Brisbane now, and it felt more solid than the others. There was finally a distance between their families that felt like it would be enough for now. Nobody had found their new numbers, and they kept to themselves. Lived quietly. They had a circle of friends from work, and that was good enough. Their shoebox apartment was even starting to become their own, sparse with belongings as it may be.
It was nice. It wasn’t a life Naim had envisioned for himself, but then, who would’ve? When his mom told him as a teenager that someday he’d believe in things he wouldn’t be able to unsee, he didn’t think it would be her doing and didn’t think it would be something so intent on ruining the normal life he once had a taste of.
Naim digs out a pack of cigarettes from his bag, stomach full and a content pliancy stretching through the muscles of his body. The lazy summer breeze winding through the space between them. He offers the box to Ryan, and when Ryan reaches for them that’s when Naim sees it. The cuff of his work shirt slips and Naim can see the tell of dark mottled skin on his forearm.
A dark, gaping pit opens up inside him. Naim feels the ground giving out from under him, that icy unease from earlier beneath his skin making the warm night feel wholly unwelcome. The familiar tendrils wind their way around him, kept at bay by the guys playing frisbee in the open space beyond them and another group at another nearby picnic table.
“Ryan,” Naim starts quietly, dropping the cigarette box to the table and holding his palms open, a wordless invitation if Ryan wanted his touch.
Ryan sighs and lights his cigarette before letting his arm fall into Naim’s open waiting hands to inspect the damage.
Naim’s fingers are gentle over Ryan’s skin, lips tight as he fights the guilt welling inside him. It had been awhile since anything had happened, they were so careful, always so careful. “When was this?” Naim asks him.
“This afternoon in the alley outside work,” Ryan says, distant, “Y-It said you got off work early and I just…my guard slipped, I guess. It wasn't long before someone showed up though, didn’t have time to do much more than this.”
“Did you go home after?”
“Nah. Didn’t really want to be alone, after. You know how it is.”
Naim did know. Being alone in the aftermath was hell. All he ever wanted was assurance of Ryan’s existence, wanted to fold into his arms and become one and never leave again. He imagines Ryan waiting for hours to come see him until it was close enough to the end of Naim’s shift, can envision him pacing the streets like a coiled spring with no release, the entity feeding off the unease the whole time.
The entity had nurtured some level of codependency between them that for anyone else would be worrisome, but anyone else had nothing on their fucked up situation.
The two and a half foot expanse between them was suddenly too far, and Naim flicks away his cigarette before he hauls himself up onto the top of the picnic table, slides across the worn wood so he can sit with his legs on either side of Ryan.
Ryan fits his free hand into one of Naim’s, plucking his own cigarette from his mouth with the other.
Naim’s eyes track the smoke that curls from Ryan’s breath, “Ryan, I’m sorry.”
“Shut up, don’t apologize,” Ryan murmurs and snuffs the half burnt cigarette out in one of the empty food containers before leaning his cheek against Naim’s thigh, closing his eyes, “It’s not you. It’s never you, I know that. We know that.”
Naim watches him, asks himself how Ryan can find any comfort in him when the thing wearing his face has done things like this to him all these years. He knows the answer, of course, knows it’s the same reason that Naim never looks at Ryan any differently. Naim loves Ryan desperately, and the thing knows it, its sick claws will never let him be free of it.
There’s always guilt about it, though. An indirect cause as it may be, the love they shared caused them pain and suffering behind the veil of the one person they trust more than anyone.
“But it still fucking looks like me,” Naim says weakly, running his fingers through Ryan’s hair.
Ryan looks up at him, and there’s a distinct shine from the wet pooling in the wells of his eyes. Suddenly that barely-there facial hair wasn’t so bad, because whatever he looked like didn’t matter; he was alive and well in Naim’s arms, saying, “And I still wouldn’t want it to be anyone else, Naim.”
Naim cups a hand against Ryan’s cheek, smooths a thumb over a stray tear track, “You still think this is all worth it?”
“What? Don’t you?”
Naim feels tears prick at the corner of his eyes, “‘Course I do. I fucking love you.”
They kiss in the waning light of the day. It's so gentle in touch, the soft slip of their lips nuzzled into one another.
Its strong enough to stitch the gaping wound tearing Naim open from within.
-
Between flickering candle lights on their bedside table, Ryan holds the line of their bodies flush. The window is propped open, bringing in the cool night air and the sound of traffic on the street below. The hum of the city drones on.
The ajar bathroom door casts an uneven fluorescent yellow light over them. It's enough to catch the glint of the gold piercing in Naim’s ear that Ryan had talked him into one particularly stoned night back when they lived with his cousin in Melbourne. Ryan can also see the uneven edges of purple bruises on his own skin next to the familiar set of freckles that dotted Naim’s shoulders.
Warm skin, damaged and changed, but real flesh and blood. Real. Real. Real.
There’s nothing lurking in the shadows, Naim is right here.
The puffs of Naim’s sleeping breath came warm and even against his skin, his head tucked into Ryan’s shoulder, as he often did. Ryan would probably wake with a bit of drool on his shoulder, too, but he didn’t care.
Ryan felt as though from the moment he was born, there had always been a curve in his body for Naim to lay his head. Meant to keep him safe, meant to keep him grounded. Just like Naim did for Ryan, with his leg slotted between his thighs.
Ryan would disappear inside him if he could. Maybe if they were one, it would all stop.
If they were always locked into this for life and never able to have reprieve, it was a storm worth weathering together.
The tender skin on Ryan’s forearm aches.
“Love you,” Ryan breathes, and gets a half asleep murmur of acknowledgement from Naim in response, falling asleep a tangled mess of limbs and an unspoken need to be as close as they could; anchoring them to what was real.
hiiiii 7. thighs imprinted from plastic deck chairs for prompts? causbut…or anyone 🙂↕️
“This has been nice, you know. Thanks for coming all this way to visit,” Austin says, warm summer air laced with early evening cricket song.
Callum is looking at him, Austin can tell. He keeps his eyes focused on the dusky purple horizon in the distance.
“Mhmm,” Callum hums, a surprisingly sharp sound for something so non committal.
Austin tries not to think about the alcohol making Callum’s muscles pliant. Tries not to think about the way his thighs are spread apart in his athletic shorts, the sprawl of his limbs making him look too big for one of the hard plastic deck chairs Austin kept on his back porch.
Callum heaves himself to his feet, closing the distance between them to stand in front of Austin, and for a second Austin thinks he might lift his hand, tangle his fingers into Austin’s hair and tell him to get his shit together.
Instead he eyes Austin for a long time, only says, “My flight leaves early.”
“I can drive you.”
There’s a hand on Austin’s cheek then, soft and brief, and he feels his breath catch. A deer in the headlights.
A sigh fills the air, and Austin is left to watch the muscles in Callum's thighs as he walks away, pale skin imprinted with solid pink lines from the slats of the chair he’d been sitting in.
“Thanks, Austin,” Callum’s fading voice comes before he disappears inside, and Austin breathes.
naim wanting ryan to pierce his ear one night. they're both kinda tipsy and there's a bunch of emptys on their coffee table, they're buzzing and naim got a sewing kit a bit ago to fix the holes in his pants and he knows that ryan has an extra earring sitting on the bathroom shelf so really. meant to be.
ryan thinks its a bad idea, but the alcohol clouds his judgement enough to agree. it couldn't be that much harder than doing his own. they sit on the kitchen counter watching the water boil to 'sterelize' the needle (they looked it up and the internet tells them its actually a very bad idea but also are young and dumb so whoops)
ryan gives naim a couple ice cubes to hold against his ear lobe for numbing purposes, watches the way the melting ice drips down his wrists as his mouth dries.
"alright hold still" ryan holds his ice chilled ear lobe between his fingers, and then suddenly naim's eyes look like that same kid scared of snakes and heights back in bandee. and ryan doesn't even have it in him to tease him like he used to, just falters and says "we don't even have to do this, naim."
naim squares his shoulders and tells him firmly, "no, just fucking do it. please."
so he pushes the needle through his skin, not an easy task mind you, there's some drag from the dull needle and more blood than ryan remembers. it's not much, really, but it's naim's blood and ryan's doing his hands are suddenly cursed with a tremor, his finger tips dotted with pin pricks of scarlet.
"hey," naim's voice is gentle to bring him back, sensing something off by the way ryan's face had paled. naim holds his hands between his and kisses his fingers, "ryan. its just some blood. it didn't even hurt that much."
ryan was never squeamish about blood and bodily fluids before, but he'd seen naim bruised and bloody too many times. hurt by something with his face. he cleans the drops of blood from naim's skin with a warm cloth until there's no trace of it left.
"right," ryan says. but it doesn't feel like it's just blood, anymore.
what the morning brings
wc: 2, 998
future/kid fic - domestic fluff - emotional hurt/comfort - ao3 link
When Shane wakes up, there’s slats of sunshine streaming through the bottom gap of the blinds, and Ilya’s side of the bed is empty. There are muffled sounds of laughter and splashing of water drifting in through the window screens that make him sit up, and a quick glance at his phone tells him it was already past ten in the morning.
“Jesus Christ,” Shane mutters to himself. Generally speaking, his first day back at the cottage after the season was over, he always slept in a little. It was a rare occasion, something he afforded himself at the end of long months of playing hockey. Never this much.
His hand fumbles for the remote for the blinds and he clicks the button to make them open all the way. The mechanism that makes them move creaks and shudders with age as they let in the full morning light, and while Shane is grabbing a shirt he makes a new note on his phone that he should have someone come out to look at fixing them this summer.
The day is bright and green, and there’s little clouds dotting the sky here and there. Shane’s gaze instinctively travels down to the waters edge where he can see Ilya and the girls swimming off the dock. Shane bites the inside of his cheeks. They’re in the shallow water and they have life jackets on, relax, he tells himself.
The three of them had come out to the cottage a week or so before Shane. The playoffs had ended for him even before that, but there had been things to deal with in Ottawa. Paper work and tying things up with the team for the season, promotional things. Discussing the one heavy question on everyone's mind.
“Are you coming back next season?”
There had been no pressure for Shane to decide at the moment. He had the summer to think about it, really. He had signed a one year extension the season prior, and he thinks he could do that again. Probably. His body wasn’t what it used to be at 42 years old, but physically, he could take another season. He could make another run for the cup. If he wanted.
Ilya had always assured him that if he wanted to, and his body felt like he could, he should do it.
Letting his hand rest on the glass as he watches his family at the edge of the lake he knew so well. Shane notices how dirty the glass is on the outside, a fine layer of dust that clouds everything just so. He adds window washing to the summer to-do list while he makes his way to the kitchen.
Shane’s favourite mug is sitting clean and ready beside the coffee maker. The coffee is still hot, and Shane pours himself a cup. Watches the steam rise and he breathes in the smell. It was good to be home–not the giant house in Ottawa, but the place that was as much a part of him as the blood and bones beneath his flesh.
He quietly tidies up the kids plates from breakfast that are still on the table, puts them all in the dishwasher and wipes down the counters. The light is on in the oven, which tells Shane that Ilya had gone ahead and made something for him as well.
Anya is spread out on the deck in the morning sunshine when Shane goes outside, her tail thumping against the hardwood when she sees him come out the sliding glass door. She was getting up there in age for a little dog, almost ancient, but besides the arthritis that they were managing with meds from the vet, she was hardy as ever. Taking in the peaceful life. Shane thought she had the right idea, now more than ever.
He stops to give her a scratch between the ears, “Hey there, old girl.”
She huffs a content sigh and closes her eyes, and Shane leaves her to it as he walks down to the lake’s edge, coffee in one hand.
Ilya and the girls are out of the water by the time he gets down there, standing on the edge of the dock and pointing at things. Fish and bugs, probably. Stella and Elena were both really into the all the creepy crawlies, and Shane would probably end up back here with her later in the day and they would tell him all about the things they had seen this week.
“Ah, look, there is your Daddy, now,” Ilya says, then is bending down to whisper something in the girl's ears, and giant Ilya-like smiles appear on their faces.
Shane has just enough time to put his coffee on a nearby rock before he’s being attacked, the girls wrapping their wet arms around his legs and shaking their wet hair all over him.
“Woah! Good morning,” Shane grins and kneels down to wrap an arm around each of them, “What, do I look like a towel or something?”
That gets a chorus of giggles, and an eye roll from Ilya.
“Morning daddy,” they say in unison.
Shane kisses each of them on the cheek before asking, “Did you have a good swim?”
“We did. I’m getting really good,” Stella says proudly, as she wiggles out of her dad’s grasp.
“Uh-huh,” Elena nods in agreement as Shane unbuckles her life jacket and puts it off to the side. She was younger and still finding her way with the world, always wanting to be close to somebody right now. Her little fingers clasp tightly onto Shane’s shirt and Shane knows; it wouldn’t be like this forever.
Stella had been the same way just a couple years ago, and then Shane had gone on an extended road trip. When he came back, it was as if suddenly she was a new little person. It happened all the time. He missed Elena’s first steps, and Stella’s first word. They were growing up and changing, and there were gaps that Shane couldn’t ever fill, because he wasn’t there.
When Shane stands back up, Elena in his arms, Ilya is waiting with a kiss, and Shane hums into it happily.
“You didn’t wake me up,” Shane says.
“I think you needed the rest,” Ilya says and runs the tips of his fingers through Shane’s freshly cut hair, “You’re old man now. Look at all this grey.”
Shane had a lot of greys, but he thought Ilya’s hair colour just hid them better. At least, that’s what he told himself, “Okay, so what does that make you?”
Ilya smirks, “I am not a hockey player anymore, so I am still young. Sorry to break this news to you.”
It’s Shane’s turn to roll his eyes then but he doesn’t have a comeback for that. It was true, in ways. Shane was like Anya, ancient in the world he had spent so long in.
Stella sighs dramatically, “Can we go back inside, now?”
Ilya ruffles her hair and nods up to the house, “Go. I will race you.”
Stella’s eyes light up and she takes off up the pathway without another word.
They both watch her go for a second when Ilya turns to Shane, “Did you get breakfast I left for you?”
“Not yet. I saw it though, thank you,” Shane looks up the pathway, “Aren’t you supposed to be racing right now?”
“I give her head start, it is more fair this way,” Ilya says with a shrug.
Shane looks at Stella who hasn’t slowed down yet, and laughs, “Well, she’s already near the top, so, you’re gonna lose if you don’t catch up soon.”
Ilya mutters something in Russian and grins, kissing both Shane and Elena quickly on the cheek before taking off to try and reclaim victory from his seven year old daughter, “See you two at the top, huh?”
“Don’t be a sore loser!” Shane calls after him, shaking his head when his husband reaches Stella near the cottage and swoops her up in his arms causing yet another set of excited shrieks. Shane sets Elena back down, but she holds onto his hand the whole way back up.
“What do you want to do today, Elena?” Shane asks her as he helps her up the first step they come to.
“Umm,” she stops to ponder, because walking and thinking about a big broad question like that was probably a little much to ask in the morning, “Can we colour in my new colouring book that grandma got for me?”
“Sure, bug,” Shane says with a smile, “Whatever you want.”
Birdsong fills the air and the sun is warm through the gaps in the trees. The air is sweet, and Shane thinks that the cottage has never felt more like home than it does now. If it was heaven in his twenties, it was something even greater now.
Elena stops near the top step and she looks deep in thought, finding her next words before looking up at Shane with a frown, “Daddy, are you going to leave again?”
Shane feels his heart drop, “No, no, I’m all yours. Hockey’s done for the season.” Done forever. Maybe, he doesn’t say, but he thinks it is. He’s had enough time missing this.
-
It starts raining sometime in the afternoon while Ilya is on a run. Shane had taken the girls in the woods out back to collect some bugs in their portable mini terrarium that they got from the science museum, and they could hear the heavy drops of water in the tops of the trees before it reached them. It wasn’t a hard rain, light and gentle.
“Oh no!” Stella yelps dramatically, holding her hands over her chest as she turns on a heel to run back to the house “I don’t even have a rain jacket!”
“Hold it, you have to let these guys go before we go back inside, okay?” Shane nods to the little bug enclosure they had propped up on a fallen log.
He takes turns giving each of them a bug, one by one. A roly poly, a lady bug, and some harmless little beetles among the leaves and sticks they had stuck in there for the bugs to stay comfortable. The girls find a place for each little creature out of the rain.
“Nice job,” Shane tells them when all the bugs are safely back in the forest while gathering up their belongings, “You two want to go watch a movie?”
That is met with a resounding yes from both of them. So Shane takes them in and gets everyone changed into some dry clothes and settled in the den downstairs. He grabs all the blankets from the closets that he can find, and dumps them on the couch to a fit of giggles, covering the girls with the avalanche.
“This is too many blankets, dad,” Stella says through laughs as she digs her way out.
“Maybe,” Shane nods and then sits down next to where Elena is still hidden under the pile. He gasps, “Hey, where did your sister go?”
Stella hums and plays along, “I don’t know. Maybe she went to our room.”
There’s a muffled giggle from beneath the blankets, that grows louder as she sticks out her head, hair standing straight up from the static, “Hey! I’m right here!”
They all laugh, and Shane feels a warmth in his chest as he smooths her hair back into place. Dark like his own, but curly like Ilya’s. Biologically speaking, she was only one of theirs, but you would never know. Both girls were a perfect mix of each of them.
Shane chooses an old movie from the cupboard, one of the classic Disney ones that he had stocked the cottage with sometime after Stella was born. They curl up together and Shane realizes he hadn’t seen this particular movie since he was a child, and maybe the beginning was a little darker than he had meant for it to be.
Ilya gets back not long after, and he comes downstairs sweaty and wet from the rain. There’s a raised eyebrow and a pointed look at Shane after taking in the scene in front of him.
“Are you traumatizing our children with your sad movies, Hollander?” Ilya says with his hands on his hips, looking from the screen and back to the girls that both have big wide eyes watching the movie unfold.
“I’m not,” Shane defends himself as Elena sniffs and tucks herself further into his side, “It’s…it’s a classic.”
Stella looks at Ilya with tears welling in her eyes, “It’s kind of sad, but I still want to watch it.”
Ilya smiles at her, tucking a finger under her chin, “Oh zajushka, I will go have a shower and come watch with you. Okay?”
When Ilya comes back, his hair is still wet from the shower and Shane doesn’t even mind when he lays his head on his lap. Anya is curled up beneath the coffee table, and Stella decides to sit on Ilya’s legs. Elena stays curled up against Shane so still that Shane thinks she might have fallen asleep, and he was so comfortable that he might, too.
Hockey had given Shane so much, it gave him purpose and it gave him Ilya, and still would never compare to this. Not really.
-
Shane finds Ilya starting a fire in the back after he puts the girls to bed.
“Hey,” Shane says, arms folded against his chest, a sleepy smile as he watches his husband in the fire’s light.
“Did they go to sleep okay?” Ilya asks while he steps away from the fire to wrap his arms around Shane, pulling him close with his hands on his ass.
For a moment, Shane feels like they’re in their twenties again, transported back to when Ilya had just come to the cottage for the first time. He tries to remember what had been going through his mind back then.
Shane knew he loved him then, knew he wanted forever, and still, he never would have imagined being here. Having Ilya in his life for over twenty years, having their daughters, still playing hockey. It was more than he ever thought he’d get, and he was ready to let part of it go. Steeling himself to be ready, telling himself he was, but scared to take that final leap. To admit it. Shane never liked endings.
“They did, I think they were pretty tired. Busy day,” Shane says, stifling a yawn.
“Happy to have their daddy back. They want to do everything with you, you know,” Ilya says with a grin, gently swaying with his arms still locked around Shane.
There’s something unspoken there. While they have you. While they can. Another gut punch. Not that Ilya had meant it that way. If anything, it was Shane filling in blanks with nothing but assumptions, but, it didn’t make it less true.
Shane ducks his head out of habit, and he wants to say it before he can chicken out.
“I uh. I don’t think I’m going to sign again.”
Ilya pauses, “Oh?”
“ I mean, I’m done. I think. With hockey.”
Ilya’s face is serious as he smooths his thumb over the small of Shane’s back. He breathes deep. “Are you sure, Shane?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“How does that make you feel?”
Shane felt something deep twinge within him, and suddenly, his eyes were watering. Avoiding Ilya’s gaze by resting his forehead on his shoulder, he murmurs, “I’m scared. I…I know I have you, and the girls, and this beautiful life I get to live but I just don’t know who I’ll be without hockey.”
“Hey, hey,” Ilya soothes, hand braced gently on the back of Shane’s head, “It’s okay. We’re okay. You will be who you always have been.”
There’s a strangled noise from the back of Shane’s throat. And who is that? Who is Shane Hollander without hockey? What will I even do?
“So fucking what if you don’t play hockey anymore? You are still you, you are good son, good father, good husband, good person,” Ilya continues, “Don’t worry about what will come after. You don’t have to think far ahead about this one, Hollander. We have this life together, this is everything we wanted, right? You don’t need a plan, this time.”
Shane sniffs. Ilya was right. This was always the plan. The long game they were playing had happened. There were no secrets left to keep and no career to keep afloat. He wouldn’t have to plan alternate days to celebrate holidays and he wouldn’t have to worry about missing the girls' lives. There was bliss waiting for him after the skates were hung up, and always Ilya there to bring him back to Earth and remind him of it.
A deep breath fills Shane’s lungs as he lifts his head back up, hands on either side of Ilya’s face, “I love you so much,” and he kisses him, soft and sweet and laced with the familiarity of so many years together, and the ones to come.
“I think,” Ilya breathes when they part, “-you will always be boring Shane Hollander. And I will always love you.”
Shane laughs and closes his eyes, resting his forehead against Ilya’s. He holds him close, and lets the warmth of the fire envelop them.
“But…maybe we can make one plan…” Ilya says quietly after a few moments, and Shane opens his eyes to find him smiling.
Shane grins. He knows exactly what Ilya means. He wants one more kid, he always had. Always said that three was a good number. Shane always knew they would, too, it was only a matter of time. There was time, now. Time and security and nothing to worry about. Still, “Well. Maybe we could get another dog first?”
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kinda really need bucky witnessing gale doing #90 and having a whole situation about it
90. making weird faces as an itch that you can’t scratch at the moment trickles over your face
“Would you just-no. Stop. Not that way. Goddamnit, John.”
“Alright. I’m trying my best here, okay?”
“You’re the one who said we could do it without any help.”
A wooden step creaks under John’s weight as he steps back, waiting for Gale higher up on the stairs before he dares to move down another couple. The strain of the heavy sofa makes John’s arms ache from taking the bulk of it, but Gale was right. He did insist they’d be able to move the furniture from upstairs without any help. John didn't have any room to complain.
Gale stops suddenly, and his eyes shut, nose scrunching. Isn't that the cutest damn thing, John thinks.
John huffs a laugh, momentarily forgetting about the weight in his arms, “Jeez, what’s wrong with you?”
“It’s just an itch,” Gale hisses through his teeth, eyes still closed tight. John can see the way they twitch beneath his eyelids.
“Gale,” John warns with a teasing smile, a curl knocked loose falling across his forehead, “Don’t you drop this on me, doll face.”
Gale is frustrated, and John is pushing his buttons, he knows he is. Can see the annoyance in the way Gale’s brow knits together, and when his baby blues open he pierces John with a look that has John floundering. Feeling a lot like getting scolded in school as a kid.
“I won’t,” Gale says, evenly.
No one would know he was upset, save for John. John, who always notices the heave of his breath, the hint of an exasperated sigh that follows. The warning laced underneath his words.
John shuts his trap and they make it to the bottom of the stairs without incident. The sofa gets set onto the worn floors with a thud, and John stands up straight, carefully watching Gale.
Gale tilts his head to the ceiling, hands on his hips as his lips part, mouthing numbers as he counts down from ten. John knows Gale had been taught that as a child, still applied it as a man in his thirties. Sometimes, John thought he was too often the reason for it.
John lets him finish in silence before rounding the bulky piece of furniture, sitting himself on the arm of it, right in front of Gale.
“Hey,” John tries, hooking loose fingers into Gale’s belt loops.
Gale braces his hands on John's shoulders. The steely look in the shine of his eyes hadn't quite gone away.
John smiles, tongue between his teeth as he runs a light hand over the pressed front of Gale's shirt, “No wonder you’re itchy, probably all the starch.”
“John.”
“I know...I know. Sorry, sweetheart,” John says, abandoning the teasing for good this time as he untucks the fabric of the shirt from the secure fastening of Gale's belt. Slipping his fingers beneath the cotton and scratching up Gale’s side with the blunt edges of his nails. John wasn’t sure where the itch was, or had been, but he might just get lucky.
When Gale arches into the touch like a cat getting a good pet, John smiles. The way Gale's face softens makes John feel all warm and lovey. Couldn't fight it if he tried, and wanted to make sure he could always put that look back where it belonged.
Gale is looking at John with something gentler when he brushes the hair out of John’s face with the back of his hand. The bony touch of his knuckles rest light against John's temple. "I love you," he murmurs.
John's hands find holds on the bare skin of Gale's waist. He looks up at Gale with something pleading in his eyes. I'm sorry, I'm sorry for being a pest sometimes, I'd like to make it up to you until the day we die.
Gale leans forward, pressing a wordless kiss to the centre of John's forehead. Both a thank you, and his own apology.
“I’ll find someone to help us with the rest,” John promises quietly.
“Jesus Christ,” Gale breathes into the steely air, metal creaking somewhere underneath them as John sits down beside him.
Tilting his head to watch John, Gale tracks the jagged flush of red that disappears beneath the collar of his uniform. John’s chest expands rhythmically with deep breaths, and his lips are slick to where they match the shine of his eyes as he watches Gale right back.
Gale sniffs and turns his attention back to making himself presentable, tucks himself back into his pants, does up his buttons and straightens out his shirt with deft hands. A practice that was well worn.
“Blow ya and you’re outta here, huh?” John says, and when Gale looks over at him again, his eyes are closed, head tilted back against the curve of the plane's belly.
“No, Bucky,” Gale starts, afraid he had somehow hurt John’s feelings, “If someone-“
“I’m just messing with you,” John assures with a quick smile before he leans into Gale, nosing against his ear, "Gotta be the model citizen for the boys, right?"
"That's right."
John hums, raising an eyebrow that definitely meant trouble. He starts mouthing at Gale's shoulder, innocent enough if Gale wasn't privy to his motives.
Gale can feel the fabric quickly becoming damp with spit, and it makes Gale’s tired body twitch. He wasn’t sure it was sensible to entertain another round, as desperately as he may want it.
“Hey. Woah there. I have to fly early,” Gale tilts John’s head up with a gentle hand tucked beneath his chin.
“Oh, fine,” John yields with a smirk, laying a hand on Gale’s stomach, his hair falling loose and frizzy from its pomade, “Was everything satisfactory, at least?”
“Always is,” Gale says, eyes feeling heavy as he watches the way John’s mouth moves, the quirk of his lip as he smiles at the praise, the twitch of his nose and the way the light catches in the strands of his moustache.
Gale traces his fingers along the line of John’s jaw thoughtfully, thumbs away remnants of sticky cum from the corner of his mouth. If Gale was worried about himself being presentable, John didn't care a lick.
John lets his jaw part at the touch, and the warmth of his breath makes Gale shiver. He hooks his thumb into John's bottom lip and draws it down to expose his teeth, the way a vet might check a dog's canines. He runs the tips of his fingers over the ridges of the bottom row, askew and crowded into one another. Crooked and charming.
John bites down on Gale’s finger’s between his teeth, just enough pressure to hold them there gently with a grin.
A hum sounds from the depth of Gale’s throat, and he lets his gaze travel back to John’s blue eyes, pupils blown, and then his lips are closing around his fingers—still pink and raw from sucking Gale off only moments prior.
The sweet heat of John’s mouth makes Gale gasp, the strong muscle of John's tongue pinning his fingers to the roof of his mouth.
Gale lets out a shaky breath, and John opens his mouth, letting Gale’s hand fall unceremoniously. The slick of his saliva makes Gale's hand feel cold, and the rest of him burns.
John's eyes track a bird in the sky, watching as it dips and dives along the tree line. The wind gently curls around him, and he imagines what it’d be like to be a bird. Not just to have the skies, but to feel it to. That little feathered creature had a freedom that it couldn’t even understand. John’s fingers curl tighter around the hot mug of coffee he holds in his hands, his bare feet pressing further into the grass between his toes.
“Thought I might find you out here.”
Tilting his head backward, John grins crooked up at Gale, his loose blonde hair mussed and falling over his forehead. He’s wearing one of John’s wool sweaters, only noticeable for the way it stretched in the shoulders.
“Mornin’,” John murmurs as Gale crosses his legs and sits down beside him, “You get some coffee?”
Gale’s eyes flick to John’s mug and back to John’s eyes, a guilty look forming as his nose scrunches, “Was hoping I might convince you to share.”
John just smiles and hands it over.
“Thank you,” Gale says, so sincerely it makes John’s heart do something funny in his chest.
John leans his head into Gale’s shoulder, runs the back of his fingers over the familiar knit of the sweater. Gale had claimed it as his own some time ago. John had protested at first, but once Gale set his mind on something…well, God be with the opposition. It didn’t take much for John to roll over and expose his soft under belly for Gale.
It felt good to let himself be vulnerable that way. For him.
John supposed that a bird would never have that pleasure.
Gale tucks his nose into John’s hair and breathes, “What’s in that head of yours, John?”
“Like when you wear my clothes. I like it here with you.”
