Shane doesn’t consider himself someone who cries easily. He gets worked up about things, sure, he’ll get frustrated or angry or sometimes his eyes will mist over with a lump gathering in his throat. But he doesn’t really cry. It’s a practiced habit, he doesn’t want things to get to him, he tries not to allow things to overwhelm him to the point of breaking. Isn't it much easier and more productive to jump into figuring out a plan? Or taking a deep breath and moving on? Or venting to someone who will listen and not judge him for becoming upset? These feel like much more attainable tasks, something that makes so much more sense to him.
Even though he knows not every time can be like that.
Hence the downside, it also means whatever’s wrong has the opportunity to build to the point where he can’t do anything else other than let tears fall down his cheeks.
—
Honestly, Shane’s felt like he’s been in a sour mood since he woke up. There’s something going on with the Metros that just…hasn’t been right ever since he came out. The comradery and teamsmanship that he once had in the palm of his hands, something that was so easy to click into and work towards not one but two Cups seems like a distant memory. There are whispers and looks and wordless foreboding that somehow feels like betrayal—like Shane has done something awful by just being himself.
He knows not everyone feels like that, that he’s got some great people as team members and friendships. But it’s not the same. He doesn’t regret this step forward in his life but he also, at the same time, wishes not everything was so hard.
On top of everything else, he misses Ilya. Their schedules have flipflopped in a way that it’s been three weeks since he’s last seen him—Facetime calls and text messages just aren’t enough. So the moment Shane gets back to Ottawa, coming off of a losing game, he makes a b-line to Ilya’s place.
His boyfriend barely opens the door before Shane is dropping his bags in the entryway and wrapping his arms around him. The force of the hug nearly knocks Ilya back a step, a small amused sound rumbling in Ilya’s chest.
“I heard that absence makes the dick grow harder.”
God. Shane rolls his eyes but he’s smiling against this idiot’s shoulder, “That’s really not the saying.” He replies, voice muffled. He wonders how long Ilya has been sitting on that comment, waiting for the perfect time to say it.
Ilya squeezes him around his middle, a kiss pressed to his neck, “I think it might be.”
And while as entertaining as that is, when Shane pulls back, Ilya’s demeanor shifts as he gets a good look at his face. His hand moves to cup his cheek, brushing his thumb over his freckles and Shane has to bite the side of his tongue so he doesn’t do something stupid like cry in the entryway,
“You are okay?”
He lets out a slow breath that shakes a little at the end. He wants to tell him that it’s been a shitty day—a shitty three weeks really. That he missed him, that he’s afraid he doesn’t want to play for the Metros anymore, that his entire life and everything he’s worked for is gently shifting in a direction that…that he wants to be in but…that it’s terrifying. That sometimes Ilya feels like the only grounding source that there is.
“I’m just tired,” He admits, sniffling, before running his fingers over his eyebrow.
Ilya watches carefully, nodding, but Shane can tell that he doesn’t completely believe him. He lets it go though, which Shane is grateful for, leaning down to pick up his bag to take towards the laundry room.
“Go shower. I’ll make dinner.”
And it’s that quiet, gentle intimacy that makes Shane so grateful to be home.
—
Shane knows that Ilya can tell something is off. While Shane wouldn’t consider himself someone who’s chatty, he definitely talks more than this. He showers, pulls on a pair of sweatpants and one of Ilya’s hoodies and lingers around him as he does mundane tasks to get dinner ready. There’s an effortless balance of Shane remaining close but Ilya not prying. He’ll gently thread his fingers through Shane’s hair or brush his hand over his shoulder, or press a kiss to his cheek as he moves around the kitchen. But he doesn’t ask Shane what’s wrong.
Shane wonders if Ilya just…knows. He’s sure that he watched his game, that he’s absorbed his team’s loss, that he’s frustrated that the team just isn’t gelling anymore and it feels like it’s his fault. That he’s holding something on his shoulders that he has no business bearing.
When Ilya encourages Shane to go into the living room and sit, he does and eventually his husband joins him with two bowls of pasta.
“Your mom gave me sauce recipe.” Ilya smiles warmly, like he’s proud he’s put something together that feels like family. Like home.
And it just lodges that hurt in the back of Shane’s throat again. His fingers are shaking as he runs them over the lower half of his face, “Did you watch the game with them?”
Ilya hums, “Yes. Yuna and I took turns screaming at refs—David took videos he can show you.” He smirks in soft amusement, sitting down next to Shane on the couch, “Before I forget…can I ask best player in league for an autograph?”
It’s said so simply— in such an absolute, that regardless that Ilya is teasing him, he means it—that Shane’s chest cracks wide open. His hand moves to cover his entire face, the bridge of his nose stinging as his eyes sheen over. Shane attempts to take a deep breath but his chest ends up shuddering instead, tears on the brinks of his eyelashes spilling over.
“Shane,” Ilya whispers, soft concern and affection and far too much for Shane to handle.
His hand moves to rest on the back of his neck and Shane finds himself shaking his head, like he can somehow hide this reaction even though it’s too late for that.
“I’m s-sorry,” Shane breathes out, the urge to move, to hide but Ilya won’t let him.
That same hand on the back of his neck moves to his shoulder as his boyfriend shuffles closer, his lips pressed to Shane’s cheek, “Shh, no. Is okay.” His lips move to his temple, nose pressing into his hair, “Come here.” His other hand gently grips Shane’s chin, forcing him to look towards him. His lower lip wobbles when his brown eyes meet blue, “Come here, Shane.”
Shane allows Ilya to turn his body, to pull him into his chest. Ilya shifts until his back is tucked into the corner of the couch, tugging Shane until he’s mapped over him. Shane hides his face in Ilya’s shoulder, his fingers digging into his t-shirt, holding onto him as pathetic sobs tumble out of his chest. Everything he’s been holding back lately, all the frustration he’s been stewing in just pours out of him. Ilya wraps his arms around him, keeping him close, squeezing him every so often as his fingers massage the back of his neck and thread through his hair. He’s quiet, offering the occasional shh and comforting Russian.
It takes a few minutes for him to calm down, until he’s a soft mess of sniffles and hiccups. He wipes his cheek, Ilya’s hand soothing through his hair and down his spine, resting low on his back. Shane licks his lips, glancing at the bowls of pasta on the table; fuck.
“I didn’t mean to ruin dinner.”
Ilya shakes his head, “I know how to work microwave,” He presses a kiss to his forehead, letting his lips linger there, “Besides, seems like that was building up for a while.”
There’s no judgement in Ilya’s voice even though Shane feels a flush kiss the back of his neck in silent embarrassment. Even though his boyfriend isn’t trying to make a statement connected to guilt, he has been letting a lot build up lately. Unloading like this just tells Shane he should have tried to talk about things as they happened—the Metros, the frustration with the team not clicking, the missing Ilya; all of it.
“Just a lot going on,” He sniffs, resting against Ilya’s chest. His boyfriend opens his legs a little until Shane’s body slips between his knees. Shane turns his head so that his chin is resting on his sternum, their noses brushing, “I should have told you.”
Ilya paints his thumb across Shane’s cheekbone, dragging it down to run along his lower lip, “You’re telling me now, that’s what matters.”
Shane lets out a slow breath, nodding—he supposes that’s true.
And he does. Shane tells him everything. It’s slow and lazy and broken up with Ilya heating up their dinner. It’s not always the most coherent way to go about sharing all the things Shane wants to say, but Ilya follows nonetheless. He offers support in gentle words or intimate touches. And it’s enough. It’s more than enough.
When dinner is done, Ilya tugs Shane back onto his chest, tucking him along his shoulder. He presses a slow series of kisses to his forehead, “I missed you too.” He eventually says.
Shane closes his eyes, a small smile pulling the corners of his mouth, “Yeah?” He asks, Ilya’s hand sliding down his back again. His fingers play with the waistband of his sweatpants, “Me or my dick?”
Ilya smiles against Shane’s mouth, nipping at his lower lip, “Guess we will see.” And playfully grabs his ass.
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