Work Text:
He stood over his suitcase just staring at it. He didn't want to go. His skin felt heavy, like it was weighing him down, anchoring him in place. His ears were buzzing, like a broken fridge. He's so tired. He just wants to climb into bed, with a cold ginger ale, and watch his comfort show. He can't stand the thought of having to go socialize, but he has to.
Whenever Shane packs his suitcase, he packs his clothes as sets. He packs outfits for each day, folded neatly, placed in a clear reusable bag that's labeled for what day the outfits for. Then of course he has extra clothes. He has his fancy outfit, that's just his suit. Then he has 3 pairs of backup outfits (depending on how long he's staying, he might pack more, but it's always minimum 3)
After just staring at his clothes for a while, he reaches into his suitcase and grabs the folded set of clothes. He grabs the bag labeled “Fancy” at this moment he wishes he would have packed his other suit, that would have been labeled “texture safe - Fancy”. He had spent so long looking for the perfect suit until he found that one. It's a plain black suit, so it works for most events, and it's lined with silk on the inside so Shane can bear wearing it. But he didn't pack it. It had been dirty while he was packing and he had run out of his laundry detergent so he couldn't wash it.
Eventually he gets dressed, the collar of his suit brushing up against his neck, the texture making him want to rip it off and curl into a ball. Everything feels like sandpaper against his skin. If he had his texture safe suit he would be fine, but instead he's fighting the urge to not cry. It's stupid he thinks. He's a grown man, trying to not break down crying because the texture of his suit is wrong. If it were Ilya he wouldnt bat an eye or pay attention to the texture of this fucking suit. Stop being a fucking bitch and pull yourself together. Your Shane fucking Hollender. He tells himself quietly.
_____
It's bright, is the first thing Shane notices. The lights are so fucking bright, and he wishes he was wearing sunglasses.
It's loud. Is the next thing he notices. Voices overlapping. People laughing, but it's probably rich old men, because the laughs are the fake old people laugh that rich people have. Glasses are clinking, and everything starts to blur together.
He's quickly brought out of his spiral to a hand on his shoulder, and a man, probably in his 50’s, is talking to him about something regarding the game they played earlier against Boston.
It's been an hour. An hour of Shane making small talk with random promotors, and having to do some interview.
Now Shane is sitting next to Ilya, on some stage, with microphones in front of them, and a bunch of cameras in their faces.
Some guy is asking them questions, and Shane feels like he's suffocating.
His leg is bouncing under the table and he pulls on the collar of his suit.
Ilya notices there is something up with Shane, but doesn't say anything.
The reporter is asking question after question, and it feels like he has asked them a thousand questions until they're finally off the stage.
As soon as they're off the stage Shane runs off. Ilya calls after him but Shane doesn't answer and disappears, walking out the door and getting in his car, driving to the hotel. He can't do this anymore.
______
Shane stumbles into the hotel room, kicking off his shoes. He can't be bothered lining them by the door.
He goes into the bedroom and sits up against the wall, knees drawn to his chest, rocking back and forth.
He's biting his knuckles. He knows he shouldn't be. He has scars on his knuckles, but he keeps biting them, pulling his hand away so the skin snaps back and repeating it over and over.
He doesn't notice the knocking on the door, or the door opening and someone walking in.
He hears someone call his name “Shane!” “Shane, are you here!?” the thick russian accent lingering and shane realizing its ilya.
_____
Ilya's heart is pounding in his chest, and only gets louder when no one answers.
He's standing in the middle of the hotel room, when he hears a small broken sound.
He turns the corner and sees Shane. His knees are drawn up to his chest, his eyes are red, tear streaked cheeks, hand in his hair gripped tightly, biting his second knuckles, rocking back and forth. Ilya's heart drops and he bends down onto his knees.
In a soft voice he says “ Shane, it just me, okay?” He gently reaches to the hand in Shane's hair and breaks shanes grip, taking Shanes hand in his "I don't want you to hurt yourself, okay baby?” He's never called Shane baby. He didn't even mean to just slipped out.
He sits down next to Shane and opens up his arms, and Shane just collapses. Burring his head in Ilya's chest, sobbing, his shoulders shaking and breathing quick and ragged.
After around 30 minutes, Shane has stopped crying, the only sound Shane occasionally hiccuping.
Shane is glad Ilya is there. He's warm and comfortable, and shane can hear his heartbeat, the rhythm calming.
Shane suddenly becomes very aware of the suit he's in and the texture. His breath hitches, and Ilya can feel it, it starts coming fast and shallow, and in a soft voice Ilya says “hey, what’s wrong?” Shane stumbling over his words replying “i cant- its wrong- i-i dont” ilya cutting in saying “ is suit? Is it uncomfortable?” Shane nodding and Ilya saying “okay, lets take it off then. Okay?” before helping Shane out of the suit and into some comfortable pajamas.
They're now on the bed, and Ilya notices Shane's knuckles. They're red and angry, the skin broken on most of them, and blisters are already forming. And Ilya stands up and goes into the bathroom digging around and finding bandaids. He's honestly surprised he found bandages considering it's a hotel bathroom.
_____
The door opens again, Shane and Ilya cuddling on the bed, Shane's knuckles now bandaged.
It's Hayden. Shane and Hayden were sharing a hotel room. “Shane you here? You disappeared at the-” hayden stops mid sentence seeing Shane and ilya fucking rozonov cuddleing on shanes bed. Shane fell asleep on Ilya's chest. “Keep your voice down pike, you'll wake him up” Ilya says.
Ilya has his hand in Shane's hair, gently massaging his scalp.
Hayden blinks once. Twice.
His brain very clearly short-circuits. Ilya doesn’t look up from where he’s running his fingers gently through Shane’s hair, slow and rhythmic, like he’s trying to keep a skittish animal calm. “Close door,” he says quietly. “And do not yell.”
Hayden closes the door.
He drops his bag by the desk, looking between them. “He just— bolted. From the stage. Media guys were losing their shit.”
“I know,” Ilya replies evenly.
Hayden steps closer, lowering his voice. “Is he okay?” Shane shifts slightly in his sleep, brow furrowing for a second before smoothing again when Ilya’s hand keeps moving. The steady motion never stops. “He is now,” Ilya says. “Was not before.”
Hayden studies them for a long moment. The bandages on Shane’s knuckles. The tear tracks dried on his cheeks. The way he’s curled in on himself even in sleep, fist tucked into Ilya’s shirt like he’s afraid he’ll disappear.
“Oh,” Hayden says softly.
It clicks.
Not in a gossip way. Not in a scandal way. In a this explains everything way. The rigid routines. The labeled outfit bags. The way Shane sometimes gets that faraway look in loud arenas. The texture complaints he tries to pass off as jokes.
“Was it the lights?” Hayden asks quietly.
“And noise,” Ilya answers. “And suit.” Hayden exhales through his nose. “Yeah. That suit looked miserable.”
“It is wrong fabric,” Ilya mutters, a hint of irritation creeping into his tone, though it’s not directed at Shane. “He has another one. Soft lining. He could not pack it.”
Hayden nods slowly. “He told me about that one. Calls it his ‘texture safe Fancy.’ Thought he was kidding.” “He was not kidding.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Hayden runs a hand over his face. “Media’s going to spin him leaving early.”
“I do not care,” Ilya says flatly. “You might not,” Hayden says gently, “but he will.”
That lands. Ilya’s jaw tightens slightly.
Shane stirs again, breath hitching faintly like he’s climbing toward consciousness. His fingers twitch against Ilya’s chest. “Shh,” Ilya murmurs immediately, voice dropping softer than Hayden has ever heard it. “It is okay. You are safe.” Shane’s lashes flutter. He blinks slowly, disoriented for a second before his eyes focus.
He tenses. Just slightly. Hayden steps back instinctively, hands raised a little. “Hey. It’s just me.”
Shane’s gaze darts around the room, assessing. The dim lighting. The quiet. The familiar hotel furniture. Ilya’s steady heartbeat under his ear. His shoulders drop a fraction.
“I’m sorry,” Shane croaks. “Do not,” Ilya says immediately.
Hayden frowns. “Why are you apologizing?” “I left,” Shane whispers. “I just— I couldn’t—” “You left before you passed out on live television,” Hayden interrupts gently. “That’s called knowing your limits.”
Shane looks unconvinced. His fingers drift toward his mouth unconsciously, but Ilya catches his hand mid-motion and laces their fingers together instead. “No,” Ilya says softly. Shane swallows. Nods once.
Hayden watches the silent exchange and feels something settle in his chest. Protective. Fierce. “You don’t have to do every after-party thing,” Hayden says. “Half those guys don’t even care about hockey. They just like hearing themselves talk.” A faint, tired huff of laughter escapes Shane. “That old dude with the cigar?” Hayden continues. “He thought icing was when they resurfaced the rink.” Shane’s lips twitch.
“There,” Ilya murmurs quietly, almost to himself.
Shane shifts, becoming more aware of his clothes. Or rather—the lack of suit. His pajama shirt is soft. Worn-in cotton. Safe.
Relief floods his face. “Thank you,” he whispers, not looking up. “For what?” Ilya asks. Shane hesitates. Then: “For… noticing.” Ilya’s expression softens in a way that makes Hayden suddenly feel like he’s intruding on something deeply private. “I always notice,” Ilya says.
The room goes quiet again. Hayden clears his throat softly. “I’ll tell media you weren’t feeling well. Which is true.” Shane stiffens. “I don’t want them thinking I’m—” “Human?” Hayden cuts in. “God forbid.” Shane gives him a look, but there’s no real bite to it. “You played a full game and did an hour of press,” Hayden continues. “You’re allowed to tap out.”
Shane’s thumb rubs anxiously against the edge of the bandage on his knuckle. “They were so loud,” he admits quietly. “It felt like my brain was on fire.” Ilya’s grip tightens slightly in reassurance.
“Next time,” Hayden says carefully, “we’ll have an exit plan.” Shane looks up. “Like what?” “Like,” Hayden shrugs, “you text me or him. Code word. We pull you out early. Say you’ve got a scheduled call. Or a migraine. Or literally anything.” Shane blinks. “You’d do that?” “Yeah,” Hayden says simply. “We’re your team. Not just on the ice.” The words hit harder than expected. Shane’s throat works as he swallows.
Ilya presses his cheek lightly to the top of Shane’s head. “You do not have to fight everything alone.” Shane is very quiet for a long moment. “I hate that it’s stupid stuff,” he whispers. “Fabric. Lights. Noise.” “It is not stupid,” Ilya says firmly. “It kind of is,” Shane mutters. Hayden shakes his head. “You dropped thirty-two points this season. You think the texture of a collar cancels that out?”
Silence.
“…No,” Shane admits reluctantly. “Exactly.”
Ilya shifts slightly, guiding Shane down until he’s fully lying back against the pillows. He keeps one arm wrapped around him, thumb drawing lazy patterns against his side. “You rest,” Ilya murmurs. Shane hesitates. “You’re not going back?” “No.” “You’ll get fined.” “I do not care.” Hayden snorts. “He really doesn’t.”
Shane looks between them, something fragile and soft in his expression.
“Okay,” he whispers.
His eyes drift closed again, exhaustion finally overtaking adrenaline.
Within minutes, his breathing evens out.
Hayden watches for a moment, then lowers his voice. “You staying the night?” Ilya doesn’t look away from Shane. “Yes.” Hayden nods once. “I’ll crash on the couch.”
A beat.
“And Rozonov?”
“Yes?”
“If you hurt him, I will actually kill you.” Ilya finally looks up, meeting Hayden’s gaze steadily. “I would hurt myself before I hurt him.”
There’s no hesitation in it. No bravado. Just truth.
Hayden studies him for a second, then nods. “Good.”
He turns off the main light, leaving only the bedside lamp casting a warm glow over the room.
Ilya settles back against the headboard, adjusting Shane slightly so he’s more comfortable. Shane instinctively burrows closer, fingers fisting into Ilya’s shirt again.
“Спи, ты в безопасности, все в порядке, моя любовь,” Ilya murmurs softly in Russian.
Outside, the city hums faintly through the window. Distant traffic. A siren somewhere far away.
But in the hotel room, it’s quiet.
And for the first time all night, Shane isn’t fighting anything at all.