Chapter Text
SHANE
Shane had been at the cottage less than twenty-four hours, but the place already felt awake again. Windows open, beds aired out, the dock swept clear of pine needles and last year’s debris. He moved through the rooms letting muscle memory guide him, keys dropped into the same chipped bowl by the door, coffee set up the way Ilya liked it without thinking. It felt good to be here early, to let the place settle before Ilya arrived. Last year they had come here together for the first time, and since then they have shared a year of memories, love, and growth. Ilya just finished what was likely to be his last season with the Boston Raiders, a decades long journey which led him to free agency and a shot at being closer to Shane this fall. Something felt different this summer, like it was the summer that they had been waiting for since their first meeting years ago.
The sound of tires on gravel pulled him to the window.
The rental car wasn’t one he recognized. It probably pained Ilya to rent a car this boring, but he would have made a conscious effort to not choose anything flashy in the name of anonymity. It was silver, compact, already dusted from the drive, and when it slowed at the edge of the clearing, Shane felt relieved. He didn’t wait for the engine to cut before stepping outside, sun warm on his shoulders, heart already running ahead of him. The year before, he had picked Ilya up and from the moment he got in the SUV there was still an element of fear, and a need to hide. A year ago, Ilya having access to a potential getaway car would have scared Shane. This year, it made him happy to know that Ilya was more comfortable with the area and that he craved some independence in a space that once felt like it was for Shane alone.
Ilya got out carefully.
Not stiff or dramatic. Just controlled, deliberate in the way athletes learned to be when their bodies were catalogues of pain they didn’t want to be seen. Sunglasses hid his eyes, but his smile was immediate, and entirely for Shane. He shut the door with his hip, adjusted the hoodie slung over one shoulder, and for a moment just stood there, taking in the cottage, the trees, the lake flashing blue beyond it.
Then Shane was there, hands on him, pulling him in.
The hug was solid and full-bodied, pressed ribcage to ribcage, hands splayed wide like Shane was checking that Ilya was really here. Ilya let out a quiet sound against Shane’s neck and melted into him without hesitation.
“You made it,” Shane said, voice low, nose buried in Ilya’s hair.
“Barely,” Ilya replied. “Airport traffic was terrible.”
Shane laughed softly and pulled back just enough to look at him, thumbs brushing the shadows under Ilya’s eyes, the faint hollowing that hadn’t been there the last time they were together. Nothing alarming. Nothing wrong. Just the signs of a season that had gone all the way to the end.
“You okay?” Shane asked, casual, careful.
Ilya tipped his head, smile crooked. “I played hockey until mid-June, again... and lost.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
They kissed then and Shane felt it all the way through him, the way months of holding himself tight finally loosened. When they broke apart, Shane’s hands stayed at Ilya’s waist, thumbs pressing lightly as if memorizing the shape again.
“You drove straight from the airport?” Shane asked as they turned toward the cottage.
“Picked up the car, grabbed the worst coffee I’ve ever had, drove,” Ilya said. “Didn’t want to stop. Figured I’d already lost enough time this year.”
Something in Shane’s chest softened painfully at that. He grabbed Ilyas bags, and this time he was tired enough not to argue.
Inside, the cottage was cool and familiar, wood and lake air and the faint trace of smoke embedded in the walls from summers past. Ilya paused just inside the door, scanning the space like he was reacquainting himself with an old version of himself too.
“You opened it up already,” he said.
“Yesterday,” Shane replied. “I wanted to have it ready for you.”
Ilya nodded, shifting his weight, rolling one shoulder subtly as if it had caught on something invisible. Shane noticed. He always noticed. He didn’t comment.
Bags were abandoned where they landed. Shane took Ilya’s hoodie without being asked and hung it up, the domestic familiarity slipping back into place with ease. He watched the way Ilya moved. The slight caution when he bent, the careful way he eased himself onto the couch. Shane told himself it made sense. Seven games in the last round. The Final. The kind of wear that sank deep into joints and bone. The road was longer and harder this year, and it showed on his body.
“You hungry?” Shane asked.
Ilya hesitated just long enough to register. “Maybe later.”
Shane nodded, filed it away, told himself not to read into it. Travel killed appetite. So did exhaustion. So did pain that lived a little too close to the surface.
“Come lie down.” Shane said instead.
“Bossy,” Ilya murmured, smiling.
They didn’t rush to the bedroom. There was no need. Shane helped Ilya out of his shoes, which he didn't bother fighting, fingers brushing ankles still faintly sticky and marked from weeks of being taped, and when he pressed a kiss to Ilya’s knee — right where swelling had bloomed after game six — Ilya’s breath hitched despite himself.
“Still sore,” Shane said quietly, not a question.
Ilya exhaled. “Everywhere.”
The injuries weren’t dramatic. Just deep bruising that lived under the skin, ribs that ached when he breathed too deep, a hip that complained when he twisted, a spine that felt compressed, like it needed to be stretched back into alignment. The kind of pain you learned to live around.
Shane’s hands were warm and steady as they traced familiar lines, easing tension where they could, never pushing. For the first time in months, Ilya let himself go slack beneath that touch, muscles giving way, breath evening out as the noise finally dropped away.
“I know you’re tired,” Shane murmured, forehead resting against his. “You don’t have to pretend here.”
“I know,” Ilya said.
The days settled into something gentle after that. Mornings on the dock with coffee and quiet teasing. Shane stretching carefully through rehab exercises for his own healing injuries, while Ilya sat with his feet in the water, rubbing absently at his knee, rolling his shoulders like he was checking inventory. Afternoons swimming, the cold water biting just enough to be soothing, the lake carrying Ilya’s weight in a way nothing else did. Evenings cooking together, Shane under-seasoning as always, Ilya stealing bites and pretending not to notice when his appetite faded faster than usual.
“You’re going to waste away,” Shane joked one night, reaching across the counter to steal food from Ilya’s plate.
“Hey,” Ilya protested weakly. “I was saving that.”
“You weren’t eating it.”
“I was attached to it.”
Shane smiled, but his eyes lingered longer than the joke required.
When Ilya fell asleep early again later that night, head heavy on Shane’s chest, Shane lay awake listening to the cottage settle around them, the soft creak of wood, the steady rise and fall of Ilya’s breathing. He told himself it was normal. A season like that left marks. Game seven demanded payment.
They had a month.
Plenty of time to rest.
Plenty of time to heal.