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Shane lets himself into Ilya’s Boston house and immediately stops in his tracks. The potted plants are in their usual spots, artwork still hangs on the walls, and there’s not a single moving box in the foyer or anywhere that Shane can see.
Toeing off his shoes, Shane ventures deeper into the house, rounding the corner to find Ilya lounging on the couch, half-asleep with a hand casually down his pants and a half-eaten bagel discarded on a paper plate on the cluttered coffee table.
“Rozanov,” Shane scolds, voice sharp and firm.
Ilya’s eyes snap open. He tips his head back so it’s resting on the headrest and gives Shane a lazy grin. He forgoes a typical greeting, “You only call me Rozanov when you are annoyed, but you just got here. How can you be annoyed with me already?”
“The moving company is going to be here in 36 hours, and this place looks exactly like it always does. Why haven’t you started packing?”
“That is what the movers are for,” he responds, nonplussed.
“No.” Shane snaps. “The movers are here to help take the big furniture and load the truck with the boxes you’re supposed to have packed.” Shane glances around the room. Not only has nothing been packed, but he doesn’t even see a stack of built boxes, or god forbid, a stack of unbuilt cardboard boxes. “Did you even go to the store to get boxes and bubble wrap?”
“Garage is full of empty boxes from Amazon and places. I will use those.”
“Oh my god.”
Shane heaves the biggest sigh and drags his hands down his face. He can feel a headache brewing, and its name is Ilya Rozanov. It’s going to take days to pack everything in the house up, weeks if they want it done carefully, but they don’t have days or weeks, they have 36 hours. Even less when he factors in sleeping time and meals, and the farewell Boston house sex Shane planned to have all night when he told Ilya he cleared his schedule to spend his last weekend in Boston with him. Jesus Christ. This is impossible. It’s a nightmare. It’s a goddamn disaster. Its—
“Hollander,” Ilya says, finally getting up from the couch. He saunters over to Shane, like a Tiger circling its prey, and backs Shane up until his lower back hits the back of the couch. “Are you having panic attack again?”
“No. I’m thinking.”
Ilya tsks. “Ah, this usually leads to panic attack.”
“Fuck off.” There’s no heat to his words. How can there be? Being angry at Ilya would take up too much time. Time they don’t have because they have an entire fucking house with nearly a decade’s worth of stuff in it. “How are you this unprepared?”
“Shane,” Ilya says in a soft, soothing voice. “Is no big deal.”
Shane’s going to strangle him. No big deal? Not a single dish is bubble wrapped, not a screw drilled out of the wall, not even a fucking lamp unplugged. He doesn’t understand how Ilya isn’t freaking out. Was this how he was when he left Russia all those years ago? Unbothered and unprepared, just a few suitcases with clothes and a handful of mementos from his childhood, ready to upend his whole life like it was just another Friday afternoon activity?
He can’t relate. Moving from his childhood home in Ottawa to his Montreal apartment was a weeks-long affair. There were color-coded spreadsheets and boxes with detailed lists of what was inside. Meetings with interior designers, and Yuna and David driving back and forth between the two houses because neither wanted to take up the Metros’ offer to pay for professional movers when they were capable and available. And crying, lots and lots of crying.
It’s not like Shane expected Ilya to be Hollander levels of prepared, but he didn’t expect it to be this bad either. Even now, with Shane here and agitated, Ilya still seems unbothered. Like, he’s not about to make a giant move that’s going to majorly shake up his life.
“You are getting that look in your eyes.” Ilya gingerly grabs Shane’s chin and tilts his head up. Shane doesn’t even try to argue; there’s no point when he can physically feel himself scowling. “Come, I know how to get you to relax.”
Ilya’s right hand drifts from Shane’s chin to the center of his chest. He relaxes his palm and gives him a gentle shove. Shane teeters, ass nearly toppling over the back of the couch, but he steadies himself.
“No,” Shane huffs, crossing his arms. As much as he wants to let Ilya push him onto the couch and climb on top of him, he has to stay strong. “You screwed up the chance to fuck me in every room of the house one last time when you didn’t start packing weeks ago.”
Ilya stumbles back, as if Shane’s words physically wounded him. He kind of hopes they have. Shane watches as Ilya blinks at him, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he parses through Shane’s statement. “Was that… was that your plan?”
Shane shrugs. “Kind of.”
“You did not tell me this!”
“I didn’t think I had to bribe you with sex to pack, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no time for sex now.”
Shane is impressed with the level of conviction in his voice. He’s never been good at turning Ilya down, especially not when he’s right in front of him looking like he was carved out of marble by some sick and twisted hockey Gods, but he did it. He told him no, and now he’s going to get away from Ilya and start doing the work he should have done weeks ago.
He makes it two steps to the right before Ilya’s hand curls around his bicep.
“Shane,” Ilya says, syrupy sweet. “There is always time for sex.”
“Ilya.”
“Is like you said, we don’t have boxes. So I will order boxes and bubble wrap, and while we wait, we can fuck.”
Shane should say no. He needs to say no. Sure, they don’t have boxes, but that doesn’t mean they can’t start getting things organized. Ilya’s not taking everything, so they could start separating things into different piles, one to pack, one to donate. And there’s always trash that needs throwing out. Plus clothes that need to be properly folded before being shoved into boxes.
But Shane knows Ilya, and if sex is on his to-do list — which it always is — it’s going to be item number one. Shane could probably get Ilya to do some pre-packing tasks, but it would be half-assed, and he’d complain the whole time, and Shane really doesn’t want to have to deal with a horny and complaining Ilya. If he gives in now, they can be more productive later. At least, that’s the lie he’s telling himself as his resolve starts to dwindle.
“Fine. But the minute the stuff arrives — and I mean the minute I don’t care if we haven’t finished — we start packing and don’t stop until everything is done.”
Ilya grins, fingers dancing down Shane’s biceps now. Shane braces himself, ready to be flipped over and onto the couch like Ilya tried to do moments ago, but Ilya doesn’t make the move. Instead, he steps closer and closer until his lips are pressed to the shell of his ear. Shane shudders under Ilya’s grasp as hot tuffs of air fan across the sensitive skin.
“You don’t think I can make you cum before boxes arrive?”
“That’s not what I said,” Shane says, voice far too breathy than he wants to admit.
Ilya hums, the vibrations sending shock waves down Shane’s spine. “Maybe we play a game, yes? Let’s see how many times I can make you cum before boxes arrive, and then, after, you give me orgasm for every box I pack. Sounds fun, yes?”
“That’s—“ The words die on Shane’s tongue as Ilya dips his hand into the waistband of his athletic shorts. Ilya gives Shane an exploratory squeeze over his boxers, and he has to fight his own knees to keep from buckling. Shane needs to stop this. They’re not going to get anything done if he lets Ilya think this is the plan. One singular orgasm to cross sex off the to-do list is fine, but turning it into a game in the hopes of getting Ilya to pack is a recipe for disaster.
Ilya’s hands feel so fucking good on him. Stroking him through his boxers with the right amount of pressure. Maybe Ilya is right. Maybe they can just let the movers do all the work when they show up on Sunday, and — No. No.
Shane yanks Ilya’s arm from his shorts, holding it firmly in his hand. “We don’t have the time for that,” Shane says, gritting his teeth so he sounds sure. “I don’t think we have the stamina for that either.”
Ilya cocks his head to the side, his eyes slowly appraising Shane. “Is that a challenge, Hollander?”
Shit. He fumbled that one.
“No, no.” Shane shakes his head.
Ilya breaks free from Shane’s grasp, hand going right back to its spot in Shane’s pants, slipping under his boxer this time.
His willpower starts shrinking as Ilya palms him. He needs a new plan. Fast. Shane wills his brain to go into hockey mode, to think of this like a problem on the ice. There are fifteen seconds on the clock, they’re down by one, the puck is in the opposing team’s possession, but there’s an opening. Shane knows there’s always an opening. He just has to find it and —
“What if I let you do the first part of your plan—“
Ilya hums, “I like this so far.”
Shane’s head drops to Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya’s hand is too dry, but the pressure is so good Shane doesn’t care. He chokes down a moan. “B-but when the boxes arrive, we have to — shit — finish packing an entire room before I — jesus, Ilya — before I agree to suck your dick.”
“That is not fair. You get multiple orgasms, and I only get one after I do physical labor. ”
“You should have thought about that when you decided not to pack a single fucking thing in this place,” Shane snaps, suddenly finding the fight inside of him despite Ilya’s ministrations. “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”
“You drive hard bargain, Hollander,” Ilya concludes, as if this isn’t the first time the two of them have sparred like this. “Okay. We do your plan.”
“Great. Now order the boxes so you can go back to making me cum.”
Ilya laughs, squeezing Shane’s dick before stroking him faster. “Ah, I can do both.” He keeps up the pace with his right hand and retrieves his phone from his pocket with the left, navigating to the delivery website. “I bet I can even make you cum before I check out.”
Shane looks up at Ilya, their eyes locking as if they’re facing off at center ice and not in the middle of Ilya’s fully furnished living room with Ilya’s hand around his cock. “I’m not that easy.”
“We will see about that.”
* * *
Forty-five minutes and two orgasms later, Shane is folded in half on the couch with Ilya gripping his thighs, chasing an elusive third when the doorbell rings.
“Leave packages on the porch,” Ilya commands, pulling away from Shane just enough that his voice isn’t muffled by his ass. When he tries to return to the task at hand, Shane smacks his shoulder.
The lack of manners, Shane thinks, leveling Ilya with a capital-L Look when he glances up from between his parted legs.
Ilya sighs. “Please, leave packages on the porch.”
Shane pats him on the head, like he’s a dog who's just followed a command, and takes great pleasure in the way Ilya revels at the action, face flushing despite all his bullshit about Russians not doing this. He’s about to tease him when a familiar voice startles him.
“Roz, are you home?”
“Is that—“ Shane starts, pupils no longer blown wide from pleasure but from panic.
“—It’s Cliff.”
Shane doesn’t hesitate for a second, kicking Ilya away from him. It’s too forceful, sending them both tumbling off the couch unceremoniously. Shane lands on his, already sore, bare ass, but it’s better than Ilya, whose hip collides with the coffee table.
“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya yelps, rubbing the spot.
Shane has half a mind to crawl over to him and kiss it, but he scrambles to his feet instead. Or at least, he tries to get to his feet, but Ilya’s palm lands on his bare chest, keeping him seated on the floor. “Stay. I am not done with you yet.”
“Cliff Marlow is outside your door.” His voice is tight, pinched. “Your very see-through glass door! If he walks around to look inside, he’ll see us! Shit, where are my clothes?”
Ilya sniffs, a telltale sign that his own anxiety has spiked. Shane doesn’t have the bandwidth to talk both of them down from a panic attack. Not when they’re both naked, and Cliff fucking Marlow is outside the house. Christ, could this day get any worse?
There’s a knock at the door, this time.
“Roz? Come on, man. I’m sweating my balls off out here. Let me in.”
“I will be there in a second,” Ilya shouts, then swears in Russian under his breath.
Shane doesn’t even try to translate what he’s said, too busy, grabbing at the sweatpants on the floor beside him and hastily tugging them on. “What is he doing here?”
“I do not know,” Ilya says. With Shane wearing Ilya’s sweatpants, Ilya is forced to reach under the couch to retrieve Shane’s from where he stripped them from him on the opposite side nearly an hour ago. “I will try to get him to leave fast.”
Shane nods. “I’ll, uh, go hide out in your bedroom.”
“Yes, that is good idea.”
Shane scoops up their respective boxers on his way toward the hallway, not wanting to leave any incriminating evidence for Cliff to find. He gives a glance over his shoulder and stops, nearly colliding with an ugly ass vase some interior designer most likely forced Ilya to buy.
“You need to put a shirt on.”
Ilya scoffs. “Cliff has seen me naked many times, Shane. Nothing to be worried about.”
“I’m not worried about Cliff fucking Marlow,” Shane scoffs. “But your back is, well…”
Shane watches as Ilya stops near a mirror in the hallway. He turns, kinking his neck over his shoulder to take in the sight of his back plastered with red scratch marks. When he turns back to Shane, he has a look in his eyes and that stupid, lazy grin on his face.
“Ah, you do not want me to show off your artwork.”
“Fuck off.” Shane rolls his eyes and lobs Ilya’s shirt at his head. “Just put it on and make him go away.”
“Someone is feeling bossy today.”
Shane levels him with a glare that has Ilya throwing his hands up in surrender. He waits to make sure Ilya tugs the shirt on before Shane plasters himself to the walls and makes his way out of the living room and towards Ilya’s bedroom. Fucking house and its million windows. Shane feels like a robber the way he’s slinking about, back pressed tight to the walls to avoid his shadow being seen. Thankfully, he manages to make it to the bedroom before Ilya’s even opened the door.
The doorbell rings again and again and again.
“What the fuck, Cliff?” Ilya snaps, voice only slightly muffled behind the closed bedroom door.
“Took you long enough.”
“Wow, excuse me for trying to nap in the house I own.”
“You have company?” Cliff asks, ignoring Ilya.
Shit.
“What? No. Just me. I am waiting for boxes to start packing.”
There’s a pause, and for a second, Shane thinks Marly's bought Ilya’s half-truth. From what he’s heard, Marly's not the smartest in the locker room, and it’s not like he has any reason to believe Ilya is lying in the first —
“So that’s your Land Rover out there?”
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fucking shit.
Shane knew he should have parked a block away or told Ilya to make space in the garage or fucking flown into Boston and taken an Uber to his place like he’s done a hundred times instead of making the drive himself. Years and years of sneaking around, and his fucking Land Rover is going to be the thing that outs them.
It could be worse, Shane thinks. Cliff isn’t like Dallas Kent or some of the other more forwardly bigoted hockey players he’s forced to share a sport with. At least, Shane doesn’t think he is. Ilya’s never mentioned a bad thing about him, and sure, maybe he would hide that kinda thing from Shane, but he doesn’t think Ilya would be comfortable calling an asshole like that his best friend.
“Yes, it is mine.” Ilya’s lie snaps Shane back to the present.
Cliff cackles, loud and unabashed, the noise carrying through the entire house. “Are you having a fucking midlife crisis or something, Roz?” Shane can’t hear Ilya’s response, but he must say something before Cliff continues. “First, you’re leaving Boston for boring ass Ottawa, and now you’re driving a fucking Land Rover. Is this is a cry for help? Should I call 9-1-1?”
Shane feels his blood start to boil. Okay, fine, Ottawa might be boring compared to the nightlife of fucking Boston, but it’s not a bad city to live in. There are museums and parks, and it’s one of the highest-rated cities to live in. And a Land Rover is a luxury car! It’s British! And sensible! What the fuck does Marly know about cars anyway? He drives around on a stupid motorcycle. He wouldn’t know a sensible mode of transportation if it ran him over.
“Is sensible car for Ottawa.”
Shane feels his chest ache at his own words being said in a Russian accent. It’s a good kind of ache this time — the kind that serves as a reminder that the love of his life not only listens to him, but also remembers what he says. Take that, Marly!
Ilya and Cliff start talking over each other at that point, voices muffled and jumbled. Shane figures that his cue to stop eavesdropping, something he doesn’t like to do anyway. Still sticky from their earlier activities, Shane considers jumping in the shower. He decides against it, though, remembering the groaning the pipes make when they’re first turned on. The last thing he wants to do is tip Cliff off that Ilya is lying and does actually have company. The only thing worse than his car outing them is Ilya’s stupid, noisy water pipes.
He turns his attention to the state of Ilya’s room instead. Just like the rest of the houses, it’s untouched. Bed unmade like always, art still hanging behind the bed, a nightstand full of empty water bottles because carrying them down the stairs in the morning is too big a task for a sleepy Ilya.
Shane sighs.
He heads to the bathroom, ducking under the cabinets to grab the plastic shopping bags Ilya keeps there to use as trash bags — “it’s called recycling, Shane,” Ilya had said one night when Shane gave him shit for not owning proper bathroom trash can-sized bags — and then reenters the room.
He starts with the water bottles, then moves on to the clothes strewn about on the floor. The clothes go straight into the hamper, Shane mentally adding “do laundry” to the ever-growing list of things to do. There’s no way he’s letting Ilya shove dirty clothes into a moving box he’s probably not going to unpack for weeks. Picking up the mismatched socks all around the room is the next task. Some make their way into the hamper, but most get shoved into the trash bag. Shane doesn’t understand how Ilya can stand to have hole-y socks on his feet. He shivers at the thought.
Shane takes a moment to assess his work. It’s only been a few minutes, but the room already looks better. He’s considering starting to fold the clothes hanging in Ilya’s closet when Ilya and Cliff’s voices start to rise.
“I thought you were smarter than this, but you’re really going to throw your entire life away for some dumb chick!” Cliff shouts.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ilya says, calm but cold.
Shane knows that tone. It’s not even being directed at him, but it still gets a visceral reaction from him. His stomach drops, chills breaking out over his arms. It’s been a long time since he’s heard Ilya sound like that. He doesn’t like that Ilya’s having to use it on Cliff now. As someone who's been on the opposite end of that voice, it’s not a good place to be.
Cliff doesn’t seem to back down, though. “I’m dumb, Roz, but I’m not that dumb. This is about Montreal Jane. Why else would you abandon us for a losing team?”
“Maybe I like fixing losing teams. I did it with Boston. I will do it again in Ottawa.”
“Bullshit. You’re doing this for Jane, I know it. It might seem romantic, but it’s a mistake, Roz. One you’re going to regret. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but one day you will. You belong in Boston. Boston loves you! If Jane really loved you, she’d see that and wouldn’t make you upend your entire life and career to be with her. ”
“That’s not—“
Shane doesn’t hear Ilya’s rebuttal, panic alarms blaring in his head. Cliff was wrong. He had to be wrong. Ilya wasn’t going to regret this. He wasn’t moving for Shane; he was moving because he wanted to. Because his contract with Boston was up and Ottawa offered him a fair salary and a change in scenery would be nice and he wanted to get rid of his Russian passport and getting citizenship in Canada would be easier than in the US and yeah, sure, it also meant being closer to Shane, and Shane had been the one to suggest he try for Ottawa when he became a free agent but…
Fuck.
Fuck!
Marly was right.
Ilya was doing this for him. He was giving up his team and his home and the entire life he’s been building after leaving Russia. Fuck and Russia. Committing to their plan was going to mean he was going to eventually lose ties with Russia too.
And Shane… Shane wasn’t giving up a damn thing.
He was still going to have his family and his team and the fucking dynasty he’s been building for years. Yeah, he still had to be careful, and he couldn’t go shouting his love for Ilya from the rooftops, but he had people he could talk to about him. Rose and Hayden and his parents. Who did Ilya have? Svetlana, sure, but she lives in Boston.
Shit, Shane was taking Ilya from his best friend, too.
How did he miss this? How did he not realize how much Ilya was sacrificing for him? Why did he not ask if he was sure? Or offer to give up something in return? Shane was a free agent this season, too. He could have offered to switch teams. Play for fucking New York or New Jersey to be closer to Ilya.
But he didn’t do that.
He let Ilya make all the sacrifices.
He’s making Ilya be the one to give up everything to be with him.
And Ilya’s going to regret it.
One day.
Maybe he already does.
Maybe that’s why he hasn’t started packing yet.
Fuck.
Was that Ilya’s way of hinting at Shane that he’s having second thoughts?
Are the movers even coming on Sunday?
Has Ilya been distracting him with sex until he worked up the courage to tell him the truth?
Shane’s palm comes to rest on his chest; his heart is racing now. He looks around the room slowly, begging his eyes to focus on anything but everything is moving, spinning, and swaying. He’s having a panic attack; he thinks distantly, before his knees buckle.
Thankfully, his brain is working enough to remember to turn, letting his ass absorb the fall instead of his knees, but it does nothing to stop the loud thump his body makes when it crashes to the floor.
“Shit, is Jane here?” Cliff asks, voice more distant and disoriented than before.
Shane tries to focus, tries to listen for Ilya’s voice, but he can’t hear anything over the ringing in his ear. He clutches his head in his hands, brings his knees up to his chest. He tries to take deep breaths, imagines his lungs filling with air and then deflating, and all the other stupid techniques he learned from the two months he attended therapy before calling it quits.
Nothing works.
He’s dying, he thinks. He’s made Ilya give up his entire life for him, and now he’s dying in his bedroom, and Ilya is going to have to find him, and it’s going to ruin him and, and, and—
“Shane?”
Shane wants to scream. This is wrong. Ilya shouldn’t be calling him Shane. Not right now. Was he stupid? Cliff is here! Cliff doesn’t know about them. He can’t know about them. He can’t—
“Shane!” Ilya shouts, louder now.
Shane can hear footsteps racing down the hallway. A single set, he thinks, but he can’t be too sure. His mind is still racing, heart still threatening to beat straight out of his chest. He feels like he’s just done an entire practice of bag skates, lungs refusing to take in air. He’s so lost in it all, he jumps when he feels a hand on his shoulder.
“Shane, it’s me,” Ilya whispers. “You are okay. I am here, and you are here, and you are okay. You have to breathe for me, solnyshko.”
He’s not sure he can. He thinks getting Montreal back-to-back Cups was easier than breathing, but he’ll try. It’s the least he can do for Ilya. He breathes with him. Listening to Ilya’s instructions, inhale, hold, 2, 3, and exhale, and again. They stay like that for what feels like hours, Ilya rubbing soothing circles on the back of Shane’s back, whispering to him how good he’s doing; his other hand clutched around Shane’s clammy one, squeezing every so often to remind him that he’s there.
Slowly but surely, Shane’s breathing evens out, his heart returning to its normal resting heart rate. He’s exhausted, head lolling forward just dangling there until Ilya coaxes it to his shoulder. Shane takes a deep breath as he nuzzles into the crook of Ilya’s neck.
“Are you okay?”
Ilya snorts, curls tickling Shane’s cheek as he shakes his head. “You were just having a panic attack, and you are asking me if I am okay?”
Shane shrugs. “It sounded like you and Marly were arguing.”
Ilya waves him off. “We were having loud discussion, is fine. I will call him later.”
Ilya adjusts his grip on Shane, shifting them so he can look into Shane’s eyes. The eye contact is a lot in his current state, but Shane fights the urge to break it. Ilya’s gaze is heavy and considering, assessing Shane from head to toe like he would a new hockey play or game stats after a bad loss.
“Are you feeling better? Do you need me to go get water or snack? Or maybe we can move to bed instead of floor?”
Shane shakes his head. “I’m okay. Well, maybe we could get up off the floor.”
Ilya doesn’t need to be told a second time. He quickly gets to his feet and scoops Shane into his arms as if he were light as a feather and not a sturdy athlete with several pounds of muscles on him. The gracefulness ends there, though, as Ilya unceremoniously drops Shane onto the bed. He bounces once before his body flops against the unmade covers. Ilya crawls up after him, face hovering over his before stealing a quick kiss.
“Better, yes?”
And it should be. Shane’s no longer panicking, and Ilya is here, smiling down at him, trapping him in his bed. Shane should feel like he’s on top of the world. Like he’s won the Cup and the lottery. But there’s a nagging voice at the back of his head, a stone sinking deeper and deeper into his stomach.
You’re really going to throw your life away for some chick?
Shane promised Ilya years ago, when he’d first brought him to the cottage, that they’d be honest with each other. That the only way this complicated love of theirs was ever going to actually work is if they communicated like adults and not emotionally stunted male athletes. He’s kept his word for the most part — scolding Ilya for leaving his socks all over the place, admitting that it’s hard to fall asleep at night if he hasn’t heard from Ilya— but this would be the biggest concern he’s ever raised. Way bigger.
He has to do it, though. If he doesn’t ask now and get the truth, he risks watching Ilya throw his entire career away. Shane turns his head, too afraid to see Ilya’s face when he asks the question.
“Do you…” He starts, then stops. Ilya, always quick to interrupt or finish his sentences, stays quiet. Shane can tell he feels the gravity of this conversation. “Do you think the reason you haven’t packed yet is because Cliff was right?”
It’s quiet in the bedroom. The house creaks and settles around them, the fan in the bedroom whirls around, circulating stale summer air, a car alarm blares in the distance. Shane tries to focus on all of those sounds, but his ears acutely tune into the harsh intake of breath from Ilya.
Despite his better judgment, he turns his head and finds Ilya staring down at him, brows furrowed, eyes a million miles away. Shane reaches a tentative hand up, cupping his cheek. He lets his thumb graze the tender skin under his eyes, gentle and grounding. Ilya turns into the touch, nuzzling his cheek like a cat for a moment before he blinks back to reality.
“I don’t know what you are saying.”
Shane takes a breath and nods. In truth, he doesn’t really know what he’s saying either. Never, not once in their entire decades-long relationship, has Shane ever second-guessed Ilya’s intentions. It seems silly to start now. And yet…
“I heard what Cliff was saying to you. About throwing away your career and leaving Boston because some girl — because I am making you. And how he thinks you’re going to regret it. And I don’t know. It just got me thinking that maybe, subconsciously, without even realizing it, you aren’t sure about moving and that’s why you haven’t packed anything yet.”
Shane squirms under the weight of Ilya’s gaze. Say something, he thinks. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I’m right. Just say something.
It’s Ilya who reaches out to Shane, this time. Tilting his head closer and closer until the tips of their noses brush, and Shane has to go a little cross-eyed to hold eye contact with Ilya. His hand comes up, mirroring Shane’s actions from moments ago, thumb tracing a path between Shane’s freckles like his own personal connect-the-dot game.
“Can I show you something?” Ilya asks, finally breaking the stifled silence.
That’s not at all what Shane was expecting Ilya to say. It shouldn’t be that surprising. Ilya has never said or done what Shane has expected him to do, not since that very first day outside of World Juniors. But it’s better than the silence, better than Ilya confirming Shane’s worst thought, so he nods.
“Yeah. Of course.”
“I will be right back.”
Shane appreciates the warning, calming his anxiety as Ilya extracts himself from Shane and gets up from the bed. He saunters over to the closet like a man on a mission. Even in his distress, Shane hates to watch Ilya leave, but loves to watch him go. He disappears a moment later before coming back with a medium-sized cardboard moving box with “fragile” written in Ilya’s chicken scratch.
“I thought you hadn’t started packing yet.”
Ilya smiles, carefully setting the box in the middle of the bed near Shane before climbing back up. “I started putting some of the important stuff away a few nights ago.”
Important stuff?
“Like your birth certificate and passport?”
Ilya stares at Shane with the most deadpan look Shane thinks he’s ever seen.
“Or not.”
Ilya shakes his head, staring fondly at Shane now. “That is boring, important stuff. This is not-boring important stuff.”
Shane wants to rip open the box, wants to lean over Ilya’s shoulder and watch him open it, but he stays planted in his spot on the bed, letting Ilya lead. The box hasn’t been taped yet, so Ilya pulls the upper flaps apart with ease. He folds them down, opening the box further before sticking a hand inside.
He takes out a worn hockey puck Shane assumes must have been from one of his first games as a kid, a glass case with his Cup ring inside, and a very loved teddy bear with only one eye that he sheepishly sets aside before Shane gets a good look at it.
A simple metal picture frame comes out next, and Ilya places it down on the bed with a level of care that Shane has become used to Ilya showing in private. Shane recognizes it immediately.
It was one of the first things he noticed when he came to Ilya’s house the first time. The frame sitting proudly on the front entrance table. The photo inside is of a seven-year-old Ilya, smiling with a hockey stick held high and his mother’s arm slung around his shoulder. They’re both wearing identical smiles, blonde curls falling to their shoulders. The first time Shane saw it, he had to do a double-take, nearly mistaking Irina for Ilya.
Ilya's hands return to the box, fumbling around for a moment, pushing aside a few smaller items Shane can’t see, before he seems to find what he’s looking for. He pulls out a medium-sized, ornate jewelry box, teal with gold appliqués. Shane’s never seen it before; he would remember if he had.
“This was mom’s.” Ilya folds his legs under him and situates the jewelry box in his lap. He taps his fingers against the top before letting his hand settle over it. “She would keep her favorite things inside. Earrings, a ring from her grandmother, chocolate.” Ilya smiles. “Always chocolate. She was always hiding little chocolate balls from my dad.
“After she died, my father got rid of most of her things. I think it made him sad, or maybe he just didn’t want reminder of her failure. I do not know.” Shane watches as Ilya shuts his eyes and can’t help but reach out. His hand lands on Ilya’s thigh, squeezing firm and solid. It works because a moment later, Ilya opens his eyes and offers Shane a kind, quiet smile. “I saved this, though. Jumped into the dumpster to get it. I couldn’t find the things she kept inside, but that was okay. I had her special box that is all that mattered.”
Shane nods. He can’t imagine. Every time Ilya brings up Irina, he feels his heart ache. An instant reminder of how cruel and unfair life is. He would give anything to bring Irina back for Ilya, even if it meant they’d never have met; he’d do it.
“I kept it empty for many years, but then, I started using it to keep my favorite things inside.” Ilya’s eyes get glassy, tears welling up in them. He sniffs, then blinks, trying to keep them at bay.
Ilya’s always been better at using comedy to break the tension in emotional moments, but Shane gives it his best shot anyway. “Oh, yeah? Like what? Pictures of McGriddles?”
Shane feels the tension ease from Ilya’s body as he laughs. His own body follows the cue.
“No, but that is good idea,” Ilya teases. He picks the jewelry box up, admiring it for a moment before he sets it gently in Shane’s lap. “Open it.”
Shane’s seen Ilya naked, seen him stripped raw emotionally and physically. Has witnessed him push to the brink and still look like he’d take on more, but this? Right now, with Shane holding this family heirloom in his lap, is the most vulnerable Shane thinks Ilya has ever looked.
He takes his time, carefully unlatching the delicate hook of the box. The hinges squeal as he opens it, and he makes sure to keep his hand firmly on the lid so it doesn’t fall off. The last thing he wants to do is break one of the only things Ilya has connecting him to his mom.
Shane’s not exactly sure what he expects to find, so he gives himself a second to steady his breath and temper his expectations before he tips his head forward to peer inside.
It’s…
A pile of junk?
Random pieces of stationery, a ballpoint pen from a hotel room, a napkin. Shane sifts through the top layer, fingers brushing items inside, hoping to find something that explains what he’s holding that Ilya’s been cherishing. There’s a receipt from Wegmans, too faded to see the line items, a torn condom wrapper package, a keycard with a random set of dumbbells on it, a wrinkled black tie, a hospital visitors badge. Shane stops digging, undoubtedly confused.
This is what Ilya has deemed important enough to pack away? The frame of Irina, the hockey stuff, and the jewelry box itself he understands, but the junk inside?
“You are making weird face.”
Shane’s first instinct is to argue, but he thinks Ilya is probably right. What else is his face supposed to do when he’s holding a cherished family memento in his hands that is brimming with junk?
“Do you know what these things are?”
“Trash?” Shane blurts out. He immediately winces and watches as all the softness from Ilya’s face turns to cold, hard stone. His eyes lose all their light, turning harsh. Shane squirms under the weight of his glare. And this is why he’s always chosen not to talk in tense moments.
Ilya mutters something in Russian, probably calling Shane a fucking idiot, before he switches to English. “You are not looking hard enough.” Ilya’s voice is stern, frustration curling at the end of each syllable.
Shane should cut his losses. He should tell Ilya he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be looking for, but Shane’s had a long day, and his mind clearly isn’t in the right state of mind when he opens his mouth again.
“How is this torn, empty condom wrapper not trash?”
Ilya yanks it from Shane’s hand and clutches it to his chest. His scowl remains, but there’s a crack in his facade, his cheeks turning the faintest pink as he stares at Shane. “This is not just any condom wrapper. It is from our first time, when you stopped hiding from me and let me fuck you.”
“I was not hiding—“
“—and this,” Ilya says, pulling the Wegman’s receipt out next. “Is from when I went to store and bought Ginger Ale and tuna melt supplies. And this one…”
He holds up a napkin with a monogram logo on the bottom. Shane squints at it. A memory hazily coming back to him.
“That’s from the bar in Tampa. From the All-Star game.”
Ilya nods, his lip twitching in the corner before settling back into his judgmental scowl. He nods for Shane to continue, and Shane does, fingers reaching into the jewelry box. He examines the keycard. “Is this from the hotel gym from draft day?”
“Yes.”
Shane’s not sure why his stomach swoops at that admission, but it does. He returns to digging through the box. The pen from some shady motel in downtown Boston from the early years, when they were both too nervous to bring each other to their houses. The tie is his, from the awards the year Ilya won the cup. The night they hooked up but didn’t kiss. He thought he lost it, but all this time, Ilya’s been keeping it safe. Stationary from various hotels they’d snuck around in, the hospital badge with Ilya’s name shakily written on it from when Cliff nearly took Shane out.
It’s all here.
Pieces of their history.
Trash to the average person, but to Ilya…
“Is my priceless collection,” Ilya mumbles, hooking his chin over Shane’s shoulder. “You have been collecting my hockey cards. I have been collecting this.”
Shane doesn’t realize he’s crying until a tear lands on a piece of the hotel stationery. He swears, vigorously wiping at his eyes and setting aside the fragile pieces of their history before he ruins it more.
“Ilya.”
Ilya puts the jewelry box and the other items back in the moving box and moves it to his side of the bed before climbing into Shane’s lap. His hands move, cupping Shane’s cheeks, his thumb chasing the stray tears away. Shane settles in his embrace, lets his own arms wrap around Ilya’s torso, pulling him closer. His hands worm their way under the hem of Ilya’s shirt, settling on the warm expanse of his lower back.
“Shane,” Ilya starts. “Yes, I am moving to Ottawa because we have plan, but I am also doing it because I want to, okay?”
Shane hesitates, eyes searching for a tell in Ilya’s eyes. For an inkling of self-doubt, or regret, anything that shows his words are just words. But Shane doesn’t find anything hidden in Ilya’s eyes. All he sees is Ilya’s unwavering love and determination.
“Okay.”
“It is not sacrifice I am making. It is choice. Yes, Ottawa is not very good, but with me we will become best team. Better than Montreal.”
“Not even in your dreams.” Shane laughs wetly.
Ilya ignores him, pressing on. “You will come visit me after home games because we will be so close and you can not wait to give me a celebratory blow job.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
Ilya grins before his face gets serious again. “I will never, ever resent you or regret you or—“
“Or throw away sentimental condom wrappers from our first time?” Shane teases, desperately needing to bring levity to the conversation.
“Now who is being asshole?” Ilya chirps, pinching Shane’s cheek. “But, yes, you are right. I am never throwing you, or us, away.”
Shane can’t take it anymore; he tips his head forward, hands abandoning their place on Ilya’s waist to thread into the curls at the nape of his neck, and gently guides their lips together. Even after all these years, the first contact is electric. Shane’s body lights up like a live wire. He kisses Ilya with fierce determination. I love you he thinks, kissing him. I love you so fucking much, he thinks as he licks into Ilya’s mouth.
Before things can escalate further, Shane pulls back, desperately needing air. He doesn’t move too far, though, letting their foreheads rest against each other as they both try to regulate their breathing. Shane takes the time to look at Ilya. His pupils are blown wide, his cheeks lightly dusted pink, his lips slightly swollen. He’s beautiful. So, so, so beautiful.
Shane wishes he were good with words. Wishes he were the type of guy who could weave sentences into sonnets or lyrics. Sure, he speaks English and French, knows enough Japanese to get by in Japan, and is slowly adding Russian to his lexicon, but none of them offer him the right words to describe everything he feels for the man under him.
With no other options, he returns to old habits, easily falling back into the chirping and quick-witted back-and-forth banter that they’ve spent over a decade perfecting. A love language just for them.
“So, your lack of packing really isn’t a sign you don’t want to move?” Shane asks, half-teasing, half needing another round of reassurance.
Ilya snorts, shaking his head. “No. It is because packing is boring, Shane.” He groans, dramatically flopping himself and Shane backwards onto the bed. Shane falls on top of him with an oomph, but Ilya doesn’t seem to mind, wrapping his arms tight around Shane’s back so he has no escape. “It’s so boring, I hate it.”
Shane hums, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at Ilya’s dramatics. “That’s why we’re turning it into a game, remember?”
“Oh, I remember.” Ilya smiles up at him. His hand trails up Shane’s side, lulling him into false security before using his strength to flip them. It happens so fast, the air is punched out of Shane’s lungs as he lands with his back on the bed. Ilya wastes no time, peppering hot open-mouth kisses down Shane’s neck. He pulls away for a moment, lips settling by Shane’s ear. “I do not think the boxes have come yet. You know what that means?”
Ilya doesn’t give Shane time to answer, yanking his sweatpants off and shoving at his thighs until they’re pressed to his chest. He trails kisses up the back of Shane’s thighs, breath hot as he inches closer and closer to Shane’s ass.
“This is where we left off, yes?”
Shane moans, his legs spasm, right foot narrowly missing Ilya’s head. The moving box of Ilya’s prized possessions is not so lucky, tipping sideways. The contents tumble to the floor. “Shit, Ilya!”
Shane scrambles out from under him, a shiver running down his spine at the loss of a heat, and peers over the bed. Thankfully, the jewelry box is still in one piece, cushioned by the ridiculous shag rug Ilya loves. The frame is also intact, but there’s a small bottle that seems to have rolled farther and cracked on the floor, its liquid brown contents spilling out.
For a second, Shane thinks it’s some kind of alcohol Ilya’s been keeping tucked away in a box, but then he gets a whiff of a familiar scent. Woodsy with a hint of something spicy; not peppermint, but definitely in the pepper family. It takes him a moment to place it, but when he does, his entire face breaks out into a shit-eating grin.
“You stole my cologne.”
“What? No. That is not true.” Ilya’s face is the reddest Shane has ever seen.
“Yes, you did. I’ve been wearing the same cologne for years. I think I know what it smells like.”
Ilya groans, falling back on the bed. He drapes a hand over his face, as if that’ll do anything to shield the blush spreading down his neck. “Fine, yes. Maybe I stole some of it one time. Maybe two times. I do not know.”
“What were you just siphoning it off every time we hooked up?”
“You smell boring,” Ilya says, easily slipping into his own defensive mechanism in the face of emotional vulnerability. “It helps me sleep, so I sometimes spray it on my pillow when we are not together.”
Shane grins. “You are such a fucking sap.”
Ilya rolls his eyes. “You are also sap, Mr. spend million dollars on my hockey cards, remember?”
“I changed my mind.”
Ilya’s brows furrow. “About what?”
“The plan.” Shane crawls over to Ilya, situating himself so he’s hovering over his sprawled out body. “You did pack one box. I think that deserves a reward, don’t you think?”
“Yes!”
Shane doesn’t give him a verbal response, sliding down Ilya’s body instead. He quickly yanks down Ilya’s sweatpants before taking him into his mouth. Distantly, Shane thinks he hears a delivery truck pulling into Ilya’s driveway, but he tunes it out and focuses on the breathy moans coming from his boyfriend’s lips instead.
They have thirty-three hours to pack up the entire house; they have time for a little fun in the meantime. It’s the least he can do to repay Ilya for creating a timeline of their relationship in scraps of paper and trash. Shane supposes that saying is true: one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.
He’s glad to be Ilya's treasure.