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Shane has always been good at keeping the things that bother him hidden beneath his skin. Ilya’s one of the first people in his life who can actually sense when things are wrong, even when he’s trying to hide it. Especially then.
Shane’s drinking tonight. He’s not entirely sure why. They won the game. It barely feels like it.
He’d asked Ilya to come over when he could, even though his flight tomorrow is an early one. Shane had wanted him to say no, but of course, that’s not what happened. No, Ilya said he would be there in a heartbeat. There was no hesitation.
Shane knocks back what’s left of his beer, before he moves to the small liquor cabinet he rarely touches. Drinking during the season isn’t something he indulges in. Ever. But his skin has been buzzing all day, and he feels like he needs it tonight.
Shane has had more than a few shots worth of gin by the time Ilya knocks on his door.
He stumbles off of his chair and answers the door, fumbling with the lock before he finally gets it open.
Ilya is freshly showered, his curls still drying, half-wet against his forehead.
“You,” Shane says, “are wet!”
His voice comes out far more bubbly than he’d intended, but he can’t stop it, and he giggles at his own lack of self control.
Ilya carefully forces his way in, because Shane doesn’t think to stop blocking the door. Oh well. Ilya knows what he’s doing, and Shane trusts him.
“You’re drunk,” Ilya says. He’s clearly surprised, eyes darting over Shane’s face in thinly veiled panic.
“Relax,” Shane encourages, “I am good!”
Or maybe not. His voice cracks on the words, and his chest feels all heavy, in the worst way. Like in grade seven, when he was caught staring at his friend Liam, forgetting himself in adoration, revealing himself. It was one of the few times Shane had failed to keep his cards close to his chest, and he paid for it, ate lunch alone for a whole year after.
Ilya bites his lip, face a careful mask of calm before he speaks.
“Come here,” he prompts, and Shane goes. Lets himself fall into Ilya’s arms right there in the living room. It’s stupid. Shane is happy! He’s drunk, and his boyfriend is here, and he just won a great game. Shane should be happy.
Ilya’s hold is all encompassing. He’s warm, and the fabric of his army jacket is a familiar comfort against Shane’s skin. He presses his nose to the soft jut of Ilya’s neck, where he smells exactly like himself and the hotel soap, some fresh mix of cucumber and mint. He presses sloppy kisses to the skin there, worshiping.
Shane is pretty sure Ilya’s body is the closest thing he will ever have to an altar.
Ilya rocks him slightly where they stand, saying soft words in Russian that Shane can’t understand. Then, suddenly, the tears come as they were always meant to, slowly escaping and wetting Ilya’s skin and the collar of his jacket. Shane feels so pathetic. He shouldn’t have gotten drunk. Shouldn’t have asked Ilya to come here selfishly, under the guise of more time together, just to ruin it with this. Shane is usually much better at keeping his problems his– not allowing whatever has decided to malfunction within to hurt those around him. He makes sure of it really, even when it ends with him more damaged than if he’d decided to share the load. It’s not a huge deal. It’s just the way he’s always been.
Shane endures, and the people in his life see that he is doing fine. Shane endures, and the people in his life continue to see him as somebody they can rely on, not somebody that they have to take care of. And yet, here he is failing at the one thing he thought he was still good at. Ilya has come to clean up the mess that is Shane Hollander. It isn’t fair. Shane asks so much of him already.
When he starts sobbing properly, eyes blurry, chest heaving, Ilya moves them with ease to the couch. His shoes are off, but Shane doesn’t remember that happening. He holds Shane in his arms, Shane curled into his chest while Ilya pets gently at his hair.
“I’m sorry,” he tries to say, but it comes out as a broken wail, and the sound only serves to make Shane cry harder, becoming breathless as the tears refuse to stop.
“You are okay, sweetheart,” Ilya says. “We are okay. I need you to breathe Shane. You panic, is no good. I need you to relax for me.”
Shane hears the words but can’t process them, not until the hand Ilya has in his hair tugs. It’s not awfully painful, just enough to get Shane’s attention through the blur of his emotions.
“Breathe with me Shane, yes? Be a good boy.” he forces Shane’s hand to his chest, making eye contact as he takes a slow breath in, a slow breath out. “In,” he says, pausing as he takes another breath, “and out. There you go. You are doing so well.” He tries to smile, but it’s sad, Shane can tell. He brings a finger up to the corner of Ilya's mouth and tries to push it up into a bigger smile, and Ilya stutters out a laugh. Shane counts it as a win. He is still good. Still useful, for something.
Ilya makes him do the breathing for longer, before he allows them to separate so he can get Shane a glass of water.
“Thank you,” he says to the floor, when Ilya brings it to him.
Ilya hums before responding, “You do not have to thank me. I will always take care of you, Shane. Is what boyfriends are for.”
Shane smiles dopily at his words, echoing, “Boyfriend, all mine..” he trails off, and then, “Why is it so hard?”
Ilya’s brow furrows in confusion, “What is it?”
“Being…honest. I don’t know. I don’t know why this is so hard for me. To tell people.”
“About me,” Ilya states, understanding it now.
Shane hates how upset he sounds. How resigned. I did that, he thinks.
“Yes,” Shane admits. “About us. About me. About everything. I hide so much of myself, from everyone. I feel like I’m drowning half of the time,” he laughs, but it’s an awful sound.
Ilya draws closer again, takes the glass out of Shane’s hands and sets it on the coffee table near the couch.
He takes Shane’s jaw in his hand, solid, but gentle. Just holding him, really.
“Me too,” Ilya says, and Shane’s eyes fall shut.
The last thing he remembers is Ilya swiping away his tears.