local bitchy shane enthusiast

Shane’s said four words since he woke up fifteen minutes ago. He’s sat at the counter, stool pulled up to it, hunched tiredly over a bowl of cereal. He’s in his scrub pants and no shirt, as usual for pre shift dinner to avoid any spills or smells on his top.

Ilya is leant in the doorway of Shane’s kitchen. He’d finished his short shift at three in the afternoon, been at Shane’s place by half past.

He’d let himself in quietly, (using the key Shane had given him two months ago now to come go and he pleased) very careful as he moved around the home, to stay quiet and not wake Shane from his pre night shift sleep as he changed into the sweats he bought with him.

Shane would be up at four thirty to stretch, shower, do his skincare change and then out in the kitchen by five. Ilya had folded and stacks Shane’s clothes from the dyer, and filled Shane’s waterbottle while he waited for his boy to wake up.

They’d have and hour and half before Shane would have to leave before shift, it wasn’t much, but Ilya hadn’t seen Shane outside of in passing at work in a few days and he’d missed him. The chance to kiss and cuddle and sit with his boy was worth it. Ilya was curled up on the couch when the door to Shane’s bedroom clicked open, and his Shane had shuffled out, in his scrub pants and socks, rubbing at his right eye with his fist.

Ilya had gotten so absorbed in real housewives that he’d not even realised the time, and his eyes darted to his phone. His stomach flipped a little at the 5:21 on the screen. Ilya’s eyes darted back to Shane, who had come to a stop at the end of the couch. He’d leant down and pressed his lips on Ilya’s head, mumbled “hi baby” and sniffled before shuffling onward to the kitchen before Ilya could reply.

Ilya watched the slump of his retreating boyfriends back. This was bad, late out of bed and no kiss on the lips. Ilya had managed to sit still for all of five minutes before he was climbing off the couch and following after Shane. He wanted to give him space, to wake up, to settle, to seek out Ilya when he was ready for him. But Ilya had missed him, and a Shane out of pattern was unpredictable.

It bought them to now, Ilya leant in the door with Shane bringing spoonfuls of cereal to his mouth, the soft clink of his spoon and the distant noise of the tv the only sound in the room.

“Sleep okay?” Ilya asked softly, and then went about making Shane’s pre shift coffee- half to do something with his hands and half because Shane was already late to get up, late to have his coffee in hand warm and fresh ti help wake him up.

“Mmhm” Shane hummed, nodded, muffled a yawn into his hand.

“Work ok?” Shane asked then, voice low and scratchy with sleep. Ilya turned to look at him as the coffee machine spluttered and spilled smooth coffee into Shane’s mug. Shane had a pillow crease down his cheek, his eyes were hazy with the edges of sleep, chest flushed with sleep warmth. Ilya wanted to bundled him up whole, maybe bite him a little. Maybe kiss and suck at the warm skin of his neck while he got him all cosy in his lap and touched him until that bunch of his shoulders dropped and the loosened into something softer, warmer, loose limbed.

Shane looked at him with expectant brows and Ilya bit down a smile as he turned the espresso shot into an iced long black. Of course Shane would check on him with the few words he managed to get out, those somehow worked past the tangle in his brain.

“Was good, not too busy” Ilya shrugged and crossed the kitchen to place the coffee in front of Shane, looked down at the grumbly shape of his boyfriend, he could feel his stewing radiating off him. Ilya placed a gentle hand on the back of Shane’s neck, rubbed the pads of his fingers up against Shane’s hairline. He dipped his head to kiss the top of Shane’s head.

“Thank you” Shane mumbles and its wobbly, and ha lingers, pets at Shane’s neck but Shane doesn’t lean back into him, doesn’t chat to him about last nights shift in slow hazy words, doesn’t catch Ilya’s hand to hold while he eats. Ilya hums, and pulls back.

Sometimes his Shane is quiet and sometimes his Shane needs space; especially on his last shift on a block of nights. Ilya is familiar with the way they untangle you, leave you spacey and backwards. Like you’re jet lagged or a toddler or a tiny bit drunk and hungover at the same time.

Ilya strolls out of the kitchen and goes to mute the tv, incase the sound is too much, and then goes to his bag for the three item he’d thrown in there for Shane this morning. He wordlessly makes his way back to the kitchen where Shane is rinsing his bowl, his backpack sitting unzipped on the bench, now containing his lunch bag.

Ilya places the small box of peppermint tea inside the bag (Shane said it helped with the bloating and nausea he sometimes got on nights and shane had texted Ilya with many sad faces that he was out of it last night) and well Ilya had stock for Shane at his place so it just made sense to bring some.

He lays the jumper he has in his arms over the top of the bag. It was Ilya’s, a sweatshirt he’d had for years, worn in thin and comfortable, soft in that way that only came with time. Shane’s favoured jumper to take of Ilya’s when they were at his place. Shane could decide if he wanted it for work- but at least the offer was there.

Ilya takes himself back to the couch, sits down and clicks the volume up to a soft murmur. Tells himself that he’s doing well not to hover, even though he kind of needs a smile and a kiss from Shane before he leaves to feel confident that is boy is alright. But then again, maybe he’s simply too tired for that- or overstimulated by Ilya’s presence. And yes Ilya’s missed his boy, but even if his time with Shane, being in Shane’s orbit consisted of only this, that was okay- they knew, time together between shifts like this, in overlap, they were just whatever they could find energy to be together.

Two weeks ago Ilya had come home with such a migraine post work that date night with Shane had been a cool shower and then laying in the dark of Ilya’s room in silence with the fan on, not touching because Ilya’s skin felt throbby.

A week before that, both post a 12hr day they had drunk wine directly from one shared bottle, and ate Thai food on the floor in front of the tv as they ranted about their equally fucking cursed days. It would change, what they needed but, what they needed would always be from each other, to exist together.

Ilya is halfway through a text to Sveta, when he suddenly blinks and oh, that’s a lap full of Shane. He’s warm and heavy and no longer shirtless, in his scrub top and Ilya’s jumper and he’s shoving his face into Ilya’s neck, tucking his arms in between their chests and his thigh pressing to either side of Ilya.

Ilya lets out a soft breathless laugh, knocked out of him the the weight of Shane, but then, then he feels the ripple of Shane’s shoulders, hears his big drawing breath in the way it’s coming faster than usual. Oh. Oh Shane.

It’s Sunday. His clock on the bedside table reads 9:00 A.M. He doesn’t have to be anywhere, but Shane says it’s good to get out of bed everyday. But Shane is in Montreal and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him—and anyways, Shane does not know what it feels like to be made of concrete and rocks.

Even though it is 9 o’clock in the morning, it’s dark in his room, no sun shining through his window.

Ilya rolls his head to the side to look out the window, and finds the suburban Ottawa sky is overcast and there’s rain spitting from the dark clouds. His body feels heavier looking at the dreary sight.

His phone vibrates on the bedside table. He doesn’t move, he’s made of concrete and rocks and he used all his strength to look out the window which just made everything worse.

It stops vibrating and Ilya finds himself letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His head feels like it’s filled with cotton, and his eye lids are drooping every so often as he stares at the gloomy day.

Ilya thinks that his mama would stay in bed on days like this too.

Sometimes Ilya would sneak into her room, careful not to make too much noise and alert papa or Alexei, and he would wiggle behind her as she lay staring out the window watching the sad Moscow sky. He would press his tiny little nose to her back and breathe in her smell, and wrap one slender arm over her torso. Sometimes she would grab his hand to hold, but sometimes she didn’t. Ilya now knows it was because she was made of concrete and rocks too.

Ilya does not feel sad. He feels numb. Indifferent. So what if he sleeps all day? It’s Sunday. He has no practice, no game, no plans, no nothing. His boyfriend is in Montreal. His best friend is in Russia. His mother is dead. Everyone is busy, or away, and they do not need Ilya bothering them.

His phone buzzes again. He ignores it.

Can you guess what chapter of The Long Game I'm on lol

Had to stop in the middle of reading and draw this. This was such a cute moment I actually teared up. And now I'm scared to continue cuz I'm worried about Ilya's mental health

I'm looking for a fic I read a while ago but can't find now, where instead of shane it's ilya that gets injured, but he gets injured really badly (his throat gets cut by a skate) I feel like it was multi chapter and I remember shane maybe went in the ambulance with ilya. I also remember that he stopped the bleeding on the ice by thinking of an older similar injury. Thank you!!!

Do you remember if this is when they play together or still in a secret relationship? Here is what I could find otherwise.

if you ever try to leave me again 

During a Boston-Montreal game, Ilya's neck is cut by a skate, and Shane is forced to witness the love of his life bleeding out on the ice in front of him. All of the plans they have made seem to be slipping away before his eyes, right when they were so close to finalizing Ilya's transfer to Ottawa. As they race against the clock to save Ilya's life, Shane reckons with the secrets they have been forced to keep and fears that they might never get to live their truth out in the open.

taking it on the chin 

Ilya Rozanov takes a skate blade to the face in a game against Montreal. The skate blade belongs to Shane Hollander.

78 Seconds 

At the Montreal - Boston game in April 2017, it is Ilya who is injured instead of Shane.

my heart is half beating in your chest 

Ilya shift to side in hopes of tipping the puck in, and an Edmonton defenseman lunges forward with his stick lifted in hopes of blocking the shot. The puck rings off the crossbar, and Ilya drops.

Shane: How many reps are you doing baby?

no motorcycle (i will be so mad if you crash and die)

no pilots license (i will be very mad if you fly into a mountain and die)

no smoking (i will never forgive you if you get lung cancer and die)

no fast cars (i will be so mad if you die in a high-speed crash)

go to the dermatologist (i will be very mad if you get skin cancer and die)

take your antidepressants (i love you so so so much)

i was working at a little cafe where I could deny service over bad behavior, harassment etc. & mask mandates had just ended a week before & already people were being weird about me still wearing mine—an N95, the kind shaped kinda like a duckbill.

so this man walked in, looked at me sooo scathingly, laughed at me, and said “damn. never known a woman to choose…practicality over looks.”

And I just said, “oh. you can go, you’re not getting a drink.” And he said, “what???”

I said, “sir, you just walked in at 6 am & called women impractical and me ugly in one sentence.”

Fucking Gary.

“Gary is a cunt.” Ilya says to Shane over breakfast.

Shane coughs on his coffee a little. “Ilya!”

Ilya shrugs, “Is true.”

Placing his cup down on the kitchen island, Shane leans against the marble and sighs out an exasperated sound.

“Please, elaborate.”

Ilya chews on his thumb nail a little before he speaks. “Stupid idiot said, this morning, when I went to check mailbox, he said, Oh Ilya, your grass is lookin’ a little dead over there, eh?” Ilya says that last part in his most convincing stereotypical Canadian accent. “Can you believe!”

Shane frowns. “What?”

“Shane!” Ilya exclaims, being exasperated one this time, “He knows the lawn is not dead! I take very good care of lawn! I use special fertiliser, Shane. You know this.”

“I do.” Shane agrees.

“He thinks his grass is better.”

Shane pulls his lips into a flat line trying not to smile. Ah yes, his previous playboy husband is very serious about gardening since he turned 43.

“Mrs Colleen, down road, she said we are rivals of grass, that would imply he is on my level of lawn care, Shane, which he is not.”

Shane reaches for his coffee, “Be careful, remember what happened last time you had a rival.” He jokes.

Ilya doesn’t even laugh at the great joke, he looks offended.

chapter two of white ferrari is out!!! finally!!!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/82128086/chapters/217972001

snippet:

Ilya's favourite part of hunting is stalking.

Following his prey, learning its patterns. Where it lives, eats, sleeps. When he was young, his father would take him to the forests outside Moscow to learn to shoot.

He would teach him to move silently. How to make his footfalls not make a noise, how to avoid crunching the leaves. How to load a gun quietly, how to cover your scent. How to go completely undetected.

He learnt to shoot easily; it was in his blood, his father said, and would ignore the slight tremor in Ilya’s hands when he pointed the gun. He always made sure to aim for the heart or the sensitive arteries of the neck. Once, he shot a rabbit in the stomach and watched as it twitched in pain before succumbing. Ilya had promptly retched onto his shoes, and his father abandoned the hunt there, scolding Ilya on the drive home for the vomit, for giving away their scent.