Chapter Text
February 2015
He’s grateful to be only one of two Voyagers at the All Stars Game this year. J.J. is easy enough to get rid of, ditching him at the bar or with any number of friendly players. Shane feels a bone deep exhaustion when dealing with any of his teammates off the ice. After four seasons together and no longer a rookie, Shane still gets the icy reception from some players unable to let go of being upstaged by a rook. It doesn’t help that Shane made captain this year and is more determined than ever to win the Stanley Cup by June. If he can pull a miracle out of his ass, maybe it’ll warm them up to him and he can stop feeling like he needs to watch over his shoulder.
It’s not bad, per se, Hayden Pike has been a good friend over the years, persistent in his attempts to be Shane’s friend, and J.J. is friendly with everyone. On the ice, playing hockey, they’re a cohesive unit, they have the longest winning streak this season since before Shane was drafted, but off the ice… Shane is incompatible with the rest of them, lingering barely an hour at bars, not drinking during the season. Enduring the wet-blanket comments like he knows they’re just ribbing him. Ilya always fails to school his scowl when Shane has a new story, voice laced with exhaustion.
“They say I talk about hockey too much, but they just can’t seem to leave me alone about it!” He’s pacing their hotel room. Well, Ilya’s hotel room, but beyond checking in at the desk, Shane hasn’t been to his assigned room. “And the slurs! You would think as captain, I could stop them, but no! They just stop long enough to think I’ve forgotten or moved on.”
Shane sits on the bed, letting Ilya wrap arms around him. “They are stupid, solynishko. You are best player, they are threatened, but they should still listen to their captain.”
His head tips back, resting on Ilya’s shoulder. “At least I get a break for now, J.J. isn’t on my team for All Stars. And he’s loud, but manageable.”
“Still dumb. He is your friend, yes? And Pike? They do not say anything?” Shane shakes his head.
“Hayden will say how fucked up it is, but only to me, usually when we’re alone. J.J. says he doesn’t mean anything by it, promises to stop, and then promptly forgets and ten minutes later I’m hearing cocksucker echoing in the locker room.” Ilya gathers his husband into his arms and pulls them back against the headboard.
“What do you need from me?” He asks, aware that Shane sometimes didn’t need a solution, just for the thoughts to exist somewhere other than his brain. Ilya was very good at comforting, and protecting. The Voyagers should know they are very lucky. Ilya can’t do anything more than check them extra hard against the boards when they face each other, disguising bloodlust under more acceptable bloodlust. “Boiziau is on my team, I will not let him, or anyone, say bad things in my locker room.”
He feels his husband sigh, “I don’t think it will help, but spasibo. Right now? We have two hours before media. I want you to hold me, please.” Ilya can do that, it’s one of his favorite things to do. He holds his husband together in his arms, letting his mind wander while Shane drifts off. It sucks, what Shane must put up with. Ilya entered Boston with the skills to back up his attitude, he proved he was to be respected. Shane, he knew, didn’t have the same force off the ice. When Ilya was made captain and led the Bears to the cup, he doubled that respect. It helped, he thought, that Boston already was a locker room that by the time Ilya was shutting down foul language, accepted the direction with little complaint. Part of his vitriol came from knowing how green the grass wasn’t on the other side. It would be impossible, especially now, to find a team to take both of the hockey husbands, but Ilya refused to stop dreaming about it. Montreal sucked, Ilya hated watching it drain Shane from five hours away. Listening to Shane talk about his friends, as if they could claim that honor, fair-weathered. A phrase he learned from Marlow that fit the situation perfectly, even if he knew he needed to let Shane come to that conclusion on his own.
So he offered support the best he could, waking Shane with enough time to wash his face and change before heading downstairs.
Facing off against Shane was his favorite part of playing hockey. Playing with Shane on the ice in general is his favorite part, but getting to look his husband in the eye and say something that will work him up. That Ilya looks forward to the most. To add to an already good day, Boiziau lasts not two minutes before throwing out the word faggot and Ilya gets the pleasure of almost punching him. Luckily, most of Ilya’s team for the game have played with him before and know to let J.J. experience Rozanov drawn to full height threatening a man six inches taller, somehow cowering before the Russian. Boiziau doesn’t do it again. At least, until they’re off the ice, nursing a two point loss—Shane will pay for his hat trick—and Boiziau can’t seem to help complaining about losing to those fucking cocksuckers.
Shane isn’t even disappointed at Ilya’s split knuckles, cleaning them gently, whispering spasibo when he kisses the clean, broken skin.
—
March 2015
It’s Marlow that kicks his ass into gear, as he so often does, cornering him after a rough practice. Ilya doesn’t even have the energy to fight him off or lie when Cliff straight up asks him if he’s ok.
“Does your girl know?” Ilya doesn’t try to argue, and nods. Cliff nods back. “Good. Do you need anything?”
Ilya shakes his head, but later he finds himself back on a saved tab from years ago. He’s refined his search a little bit, looking for therapists in Boston who speak Russian. He books an appointment with a woman named Alya who works with high profile athletes — whose page proudly displays a picture of her and her wife. He clicks over to his messages with Jane and hovers his fingers for a moment over the keys before typing out goodnight, lyubimyy. Ya tebya lyublyu. He’ll tell Shane after his appointment, he decides. Shane is aware, to some extent, of Ilya’s moods. When he gets quiet like this. It doesn’t happen often, and almost never when they’re together. They both miss each other like limbs during the season when they’re more apart than together, but sometimes Ilya clings a little harder when they’re on the couch, refusing to be parted for a moment, like he’s charging himself on skin contact and Shane clings back just as hard.
The appointment went better than Ilya thought it would. Alya reminds him a little of Sveta, a little intense, but in a good way. A productive way.
He waits until he gets home to call his husband. He’s glad he does because as soon as he sees Shane’s face, he bursts into tears. Shane’s panic would usually be cute, but Ilya is distracted by the unexpected crying. He’s alternating between reassuring Ilya and trying to find out what’s wrong. He’s able to listen to Shane’s voice enough to make it to the couch where he wraps himself in a blanket and curls into himself.
“Am ok, lyubimyy.” Ilya sniffles. There are still tears leaking from his eyes, but he has control over his breathing again.
“That didn’t look ok.” Shane sighs, “What happened?”
“Don’t know.” He shrugs at the look Shane levels him, but acquiesces, “I miss you. I, um.”
He takes a deep breath, “I went to therapy today. I don’t- I miss you. And it hurts sometimes, how much. And I don’t want-” He cuts himself off. “I talked about Russia, mostly. She speaks Russian. And she’s married to a woman. I like her.”
There’s a shine to Shane’s eyes and he’s smiling. “You’re amazing, you know. I’m happy you’re talking to someone. And happy you told me.” Ilya nods. “Do you want to tell her about us?”
Ilya nods again. “Not right now, not yet. But yes, I think so. Like Farah, she has to keep secrets. She is helping.”
“Ok. Then tell her when you’re ready. I really wish I could hold you right now.”
“YA ochen' skuchayu po tebe, moya lyubov'”
—
The Voyagers won their game in New York, securing their playoff spot, followed by three days off. Shane had taken a flight directly to Boston post-game. They’re eating dinner when Shane brings it up.
“Do you think it would be a good idea for me to go to therapy too?” Ilya pauses, swallowing the food in his mouth before answering.
“Maybe. Yes. What brought this up, solynshko?” He asks. Shane puts his fork down.
“I’ve been thinking about it since our phone call. I just, I miss you all the time. And with the playoffs and sponsorships and everything, I feel like I'm juggling very badly and I’m going to drop something.”
Ilya reaches out to take Shane’s hand, “You did research.”
“I did research.” Shane confirms. “It started because I wanted to know how to support you. But one thing led to another and… yeah, I did a lot of research. I don't know if I want to go every week. That definitely feels like too much, right now. But I was thinking once a month or so? Maybe schedule extra if I need it? I can do it over the phone, which I think would be easier than going in person.”
Shane decides to stop there before the rambling can get worse. He waits for Ilya to say something while he focuses on his husband’s hand in his.
“I think that is a good idea, moy lyubov.” He says quietly. “I am proud of you.”
Shane offers a shy smile, “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
—
He waits until after Shane’s first appointment to call him. The appointment, over skype, goes well. Shane’s therapist is also Boston based, something Ilya finds incredibly amusing. He manages to wait twenty minutes before bringing it up.
“Can I talk to you? About therapy?” Ilya asks.
“Uh, yeah. Yours or mine?”
“Yours.” He says. “You know I do not like new Montreal nutritionist.”
Shane nods. They’ve had this argument. Ilya pokes fun at Shane’s diet, but always in good faith. It’s something they’ve worked on as a couple. Cooking is a domestic task Ilya has taken to with fervor. When they’re eating together, even over the phone, Shane has an easier time letting go of the stricter rules. Ilya finds recipes that fit his diet, and has learned modifications to others. He refuses to let Shane deny himself the smaller, easier to get away with things. But Montreal hired a new nutritionist, one that Ilya disliked because he was straight up bad at his job. Shane had trouble still, putting his foot down too hard when it came to anyone with significant say over his hockey life.
“I am asking, as your husband, because I love you.” He waits for Shane to focus his attention on the words. “Will you bring diet plan to therapist? Talk about it there. I will trust her, if she says it is ok. I just want professional'noye mneniye. From someone outside hockey.”
Shane looks contemplative, then asks, voice small, “What if she agrees with you?”
“It is therapy, lyubimyy, you work on it. And we work on it, together. Is not about being right. Moy komanda, ok? Ya tebya lyublyu.”
“I’ll think about it,” is said in a tone that says he’ll do it. He does, and it’s not perfect, but Ilya feels it get better. It’s another little thing, and life keeps moving on just a little better than before.