Chapter Text
The house was quiet in a way it hadn’t been in weeks.
Not in a bad way, just soft. Settled. The kind of quiet that came after months of airports, locker rooms, hotel hallways, press scrums, long practices, bad losses, and one spectacular fight that had left both of them raw and furious and then, six miserable hours later, crying into each other’s shoulders in the kitchen like idiots in love.
Their season was over. It didn’t end the way anyone had wanted, but it ended all the same. For the first time since playoffs ended, there was nowhere they had to be.
Late spring light spilled across the living room floor in a warm rectangle, catching on the pale wood and the edge of the couch and the black, white, and copper blur of Anya sleeping on her side in the sun. One paw twitched every so often.
Shane sat at one end of the couch with a book open in his hands, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. He had his glasses on; the ones Ilya loved for reasons Shane pretended not to understand but absolutely wore them to make Ilya heated a little. His hair had gotten long again, soft at the nape, falling into his eyes when he tilted his head down to read. He kept pushing it back absently and tucking it behind his ear, where it kept falling anyways.
Ilya laid lengthwise beside him, not really doing anything. His phone was in his hand, his thumb moving lazily up the screen, but he hadn’t absorbed a single thing in at least ten minutes. There were headlines, vacation photos from teammates, some stupid video Troy had sent him, and messages from group chats he was too tired to answer.
Every few seconds, his hand rose to the chain around his neck. The small Russian Orthodox cross had been there for years, the only thing he had left of his mother, worn smooth by his hands over time. He had always reached for it without thinking. During flights, after bad games, in locker rooms, in bed, in airports, in the quiet after fights. Now his wedding ring rested beside it on the chain, the gold clicking softly against the cross whenever his fingers found them. It felt strange sometimes, to have both there. Grief and love; his life from before and his future; his mother and his husband.
The whole year had left them both a little frayed around the edges.
Their first year of marriage had been good. Better than good. Waking up together, coming home together, stealing each other’s food, arguing over laundry, laughing in bed, enjoying every inch of each other with private, reverent delight. But it had also come with a spotlight neither of them had been ready for. Their sudden outing came with too many personal questions, assumptions, and backlash. Being on the same team made space impossible, causing them extra strain and stress, which came to a head right before playoffs. They screamed and cried and left each other alone for a few hours. Yet, they still returned to each other like moths to a flame and held each other sobbing in their kitchen. Face pressed to face, hands shaking, both of them saying variations of I’m sorry, I’m tired, I love you, I didn’t mean that, please don’t look at me like that, come here, we’re okay. They were okay.
But the bruise of the season was still there, tender when touched.
Shane sighed and turned a page. Ilya looked up from his phone. A minute later, Shane sighed again, longer this time. Ilya let a few seconds pass, just to be sure this was becoming a pattern worth mocking. Then another sigh.
“Baby,” he said at last, without looking away from his phone, “if you keep doing that, I’m going to assume your book is more boring than you.”
That got a quiet laugh out of Shane, but he still didn’t look up.
“What?” Ilya asked.
“Nothing.”
Ilya turned his head and looked at him properly. “You’ve got that look.”
Shane glanced over. “What look?”
“The one where you’re pretending that you are doing one thing but are running laps in your head”
Shane huffed a laugh through his nose. “That specific, huh?”
“I know you extremely well.”
“Unfortunately.”
Ilya smiled, leaning forward slightly. “You’ve got a wrinkle right,” he said as he tapped lightly between Shane’s eyebrows, “here.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Shane tried to read another page. He made it maybe halfway down before huffing and shutting the book with more force than necessary.
Ilya’s mouth curved and he let out a snort.
Shane rolled his eyes, but there was already something sheepish in his expression, like he knew he’d been caught.
“Have you ever gone on a road trip?” he asked.
Ilya blinked at him.
“With the team? All the time.”
Shane shook his head. “No, not like that.”
Ilya waited, cocking an eyebrow.
Shane shifted, tucking one leg under himself as he turned more fully toward him. “I mean like packing up the car and driving somewhere because you want to. Stopping at weird little places. Seeing things. Going hiking. Camping. Just,” he paused as he shrugged his shoulders, “going.”
Ilya considered that for a second.
“Why would anyone do that on purpose?” he asked. “It sounds very boring.”
Shane made an affronted noise. “I’m serious. We could go on one. Just us.”
Ilya let his gaze move slowly over Shane’s face, the glasses, the soft mouth, the loose T-shirt, the faint flush starting to rise in his cheeks. He smirked, lazy and wicked.
“If your goal is to get me alone outdoors,” he said, “there are much easier ways to make that happen, sweetheart.”
Shane snorted despite himself and shoved at his leg. “You’re such an asshole.”
“Yes,” Ilya said. “Still handsome, though.”
Shane tried not to smile, failing almost instantly.
Ilya watched him for another second, then set his phone on his stomach. “A road trip,” he repeated, testing the shape of it. “Across Canada?”
“Maybe not all of Canada.”
“Coward.”
Shane laughed softly and leaned back again, his book abandoned beside him. “I just thought...” He glanced toward the window, toward the trees beyond it, green and shifting faintly in the breeze. “You’ve seen airports and hotels and arenas. Restaurants. Whatever sad little touristy bullshit we have to go to. But you haven’t really seen it.”
“I’ve seen Ottawa.”
Shane gave him a flat look. “That is not helping, Ilya.”
“I’ve seen Toronto traffic,” Ilya said solemnly. “That feels…significant.”
Anya snorted in her sleep.
Shane smiled in spite of himself, then it faded into something softer. “I just want to show you the things that make me love Canada.”
There it was.
That simple, earnest note in Shane’s voice that always slipped under Ilya’s skin before he could brace for it. Honest in a way that made it hard to joke his way around. The season had left them both worn thin, but Shane had always been dangerous when he got earnest. Dangerous in the way that made Ilya want to hand him every soft, hidden thing he had and trust Shane not to drop any of it.
Before Ilya could answer, Anya lifted her head from the patch of sunlight and made a tiny, offended sound.
Shane looked over. “You feed her lunch?”
“Of course! But it has been far too long,” Ilya said.
It had been three hours.
Anya huffed, stood, stretched extravagantly, and padded into the kitchen, where she turned and stared at them with the grave disappointment of someone who had clearly never been fed in her entire life.
“See?” Ilya said. “She’s fading away.”
“She’s fine.”
Anya whined.
“She’s obviously dying,” Ilya corrected.
Shane laughed and got to his feet. “Come on. We should eat too.”
They made dinner together because neither of them had the energy to do anything complicated and because after the season they’d had, moving around each other in the kitchen without snapping felt like its own small miracle.
Shane cut vegetables while Ilya hovered too close and stole pieces. Shane elbowed him away without heat. Ilya kissed the back of his neck. Shane shoved him again and smiled despite himself.
They ate at the kitchen island, knees brushing every so often.
They talked about everything and nothing, but Shane kept talking about the road trip. At first it was casual, half-embarrassed, like he was trying not to push too hard. They could drive north first, maybe. Or east. There were parks he’d always wanted to see again. Places he’d gone as a kid, places he’d gone with his family, places he’d found during off-seasons when he needed to disappear for a little while and be somewhere quiet. Lakes. Forests. Trails. Mountains, if they wanted to go far enough. Good camping spots. Tiny towns with amazing pie. Roads with ridiculous views. Places where the sky opened up so wide it made everything in you go still.
Ilya mostly listened. Occasionally he asked a question, but mostly he watched Shane’s face change as he spoke. The tension in him loosened. His eyes got brighter. His hands moved more when he talked. He was doing that thing he did when he cared about something, when his whole body leaned in before the rest of him caught up.
By the time they finished eating, Shane had circled back to it three separate times.
Ilya took their plates to the sink while Shane wiped down the counter. Then he dried his hands, crossed the living room, and put on a movie neither of them needed to actually watch.
Shane looked over from the kitchen doorway. Ilya patted the couch. “Come here.”
Shane came, suspicious but willing, and sat beside him. The opening credits rolled across the screen in a wash of light.
Ilya turned to look at him. “This really matters to you?” he asked softly. “You want this?”
Shane didn’t joke. Didn’t shrug it off. Didn’t pretend it wasn’t a bigger ask than it sounded like. “So much,” he said.
Ilya held his gaze for a moment. Then he nodded once. “Okay.”
Shane blinked. “Okay?”
“Make the plans, sweetheart.”
The transformation in Shane’s face was so immediate, so bright, that Ilya almost laughed.
Instead, Shane made a helpless little sound and climbed straight into his lap.
The kiss landed half on Ilya’s mouth and half on his cheek because Shane was smiling too hard to aim properly. Ilya caught his face with both hands and kissed him again, slower this time, and then Shane’s fingers were in his hair and Ilya’s hand was sliding under his shirt and the whole evening tilted toward something hotter. Shane moaned slightly into Ilya’s mouth, causing them both to feel heat build.
Then Anya whined sharply from the kitchen.
They both froze.
Anya whined again, louder, with purpose.
Shane dropped his forehead to Ilya’s shoulder and laughed. “She has unbelievable timing.”
“She’s jealous,” Ilya said.
“No, Ilya, that’s gross.”
“And starving.”
“Go feed your daughter.”
“Our daughter,” Ilya corrected, kissing Shane once more before setting him back on the couch.
As he crossed into the kitchen, Anya trotted in place and gave him a hopeful spin. “You are manipulative,” he informed her, reaching for the dog food bin. “Very cute, but manipulative.”
Her tail wagged harder.
“And no, you are not going camping,” he added. “Your grandparents have already been trying to steal you for weeks.”
That was true. Yuna and David had made it abundantly clear that if Shane and Ilya were going away for any real length of time, Anya would be spending that time being spoiled beyond reason. Yuna had already started referring to it as “her holiday,” and David had sent Shane a photo two days earlier of a new dog bed he absolutely had not needed to buy.
From the living room, Shane called, “Mom texted me yesterday asking if Anya likes blueberries.”
Ilya looked toward the doorway. “That is not suspicious at all.”
“She’s definitely making her homemade dog treats again.”
“Of course she is.”
By the time Ilya came back from the kitchen, Shane was already in full planning mode.
Notebook open, his laptop balanced on the coffee table. Glasses on. Opening and closing tabs faster than Ilya could keep track.
Ilya stood in the doorway for a moment and just looked at him.
Shane glanced up. “You’re staring.”
“You’re beautiful when you get like this.”
Shane rolled his eyes and reached for him without looking. Ilya took the invitation and stretched out beside him on the couch instead, settling with his feet in Shane’s lap. Shane absently gathered a blanket over both of them while scrolling through routes.
The movie kept playing.
Shane scribbled things in the notebook. Park names. Estimated drive times. Campground ideas. Backup hotel options. Gear list. Weather notes. Scenic routes. Places to stop. He muttered to himself under his breath occasionally, and every now and then he’d pause to push his glasses back up his nose, tucking his hair behind his ear.
Ilya watched him work for a while. The rhythm of Shane’s hand moving across paper, the low murmur of the television, the weight of the blanket, the warmth of Shane’s thigh under his calves, the bone-deep exhaustion he still hadn’t fully slept off from the season, all of it pulled at him until his eyes slid shut. The last thing he remembered was Shane absently rubbing his ankle with one hand while reading about campgrounds.
When Shane looked down again, Ilya was asleep. His head had tipped sideways against the back of the couch, mouth just barely open, one hand curled loosely over his stomach. A soft snore came a few minutes later, faint and outrageously endearing.
Shane smiled before he could stop himself.
“Good,” he murmured. “Get some sleep.”
He kept going.
Money wasn’t a problem, which made everything easier. He could prioritize comfort without ruining the trip. Good gear, reliable routes, flexibility. Campgrounds for most nights, because he genuinely wanted that with Ilya. The smell of trees. The cold morning air with coffee made badly on a camp stove. Quiet…but hotels in reach when weather turned ugly or when they decided sleeping on the ground had lost its charm.
He made a list of everything they’d need:
- Tent
- Sleeping bags
- Sleeping pads
- Camp stove
- Lanterns
- Folding chairs
- Cooler
- Hiking gear
- Rain layers
- Good boots for Ilya
- Extra layers (because Ilya always claimed he wasn’t cold until he was shivering claiming his Russian blood kept him warm)
- Portable charger
- First-aid kit
- Bear spray????
- Real maps (because if his phone dies, he will not be getting murdered in the woods)
He added a note to call his parents and confirm they still wanted Anya for the full three weeks, then immediately felt ridiculous for even thinking the answer might be no. Yuna would probably pack a bag for her in advance. David would definitely pretend he wasn’t thrilled and then let Anya sleep in his recliner anyway.
Shane smiled faintly and kept writing.
He caught himself, once or twice, looking at photos of remote lakes and quiet trails and thinking of all of the free time he would have with Ilya…outside…alone…
He closed those tabs with mild embarrassment, focusing on the task at hand.
The movie ended, credits rolling and moving to the start screen. The house darkened around him. Upstairs, the bedroom waited. The road slowly took shape under his hands.
At some point, Shane checked the time and realized it was just after one in the morning.
Ilya was somehow still on the couch, feet still tucked into Shane’s lap, his face smushed into the armrest completely tucked into the blanket.
Shane glanced over at him, startled, then smiled helplessly. He set his pen down and turned.
“Hey,” he said softly, rubbing a hand up and down Ilya’s legs. “Baby. Wake up a little bit.”
Ilya made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan, then blinked slowly at him.
“What is it, krasivyy?” he slurred, voice sleep-thick and warm.
The endearment landed low and sweet in Shane’s chest.
He leaned down and kissed the back of Ilya’s hand. “You need to go to bed, Ilyushka.”
Ilya frowned at him. Then, with stubborn determination, he pushed himself upright, blinked at the laptop screen, then at Shane, then around the room like he had briefly forgotten where he lived.
“You should come to bed too,” he said.
“I’m almost done.”
Ilya moved behind him, cuddling Shane’s back with his head on his shoulder. “No.”
Shane laughed quietly. “Yes.”
Ilya narrowed his eyes. “You look tired, Shane.”
“I’m planning.”
“You’re...what is the word, overanalyzing?”
“That’s rude.”
“It’s true.”
Shane smiled and reached up to smooth a hand over his hair. “Go upstairs. I’ll be there soon.”
Ilya stared at him for a long moment, all sleep-heavy irritation and reluctant affection. Then he sighed, leaned in, and kissed him tenderly on the cheek. Slow enough that it gentled something in Shane’s chest.
“Soon, promise?” Ilya murmured against his mouth.
“Soon,” Shane promised.
Ilya looked deeply unconvinced.
Still, he hauled himself upright, muttered something in Russian that Shane was almost certain was affectionate and not at all certain was clean, then shuffled toward the stairs.
Shane watched him go, smiling to himself.
Then he turned back to the laptop. One route became three. Three became seven. He cross-checked campgrounds, looked at trail difficulty ratings, searched weather patterns, read reviews of provincial parks, hunted for scenic detours, mapped out where they could stop for supplies, and built in rest days so the trip didn’t start feeling like another obligation with prettier views.
He wanted this to be good. He knew logistically it wouldn’t be perfect and that things would go wrong, but he wanted it to be perfect for Ilya. He wanted Ilya to see the country beyond rinks and charter buses and carefully curated team outings. He wanted to show him the versions of Canada Shane loved best: the cold blue hush of lakes in the early morning, pine trees breathing in the wind, stretches of road that felt endless in a comforting way, the shock of stars when you got far enough away from city light.
He wanted Ilya to love it. More than that, maybe, he wanted Ilya to understand it. To understand why Shane had always needed open space sometimes. Why the quiet helped. Why standing next to a lake at sunrise could feel like the answer to a prayer you didn’t know you asked for.
That made him feel selfish in a way he couldn’t quite explain.
By four, his handwriting had gotten messier. By five, he was comparing camp stoves like his life depended on it. By six, the sky beyond the windows had begun to pale.
Somewhere around then, Shane finally leaned back against the couch, notebook still open in one hand, glasses slipping down his nose. He only meant to close his eyes for a second. Just a second.
The next thing he knew was warmth at his temple.
A kiss.
Another, gentler this time.
Fingers brushing his hair back from his forehead.
Shane made a confused sound and blinked up into soft morning light and Ilya’s face.
For one disorienting second, all he could think was that Ilya was very pretty to wake up to.
Then he remembered where he was. On the couch, folded at a terrible angle, notebook still in his hand, his neck likely destroyed forever.
Behind Ilya, Anya sat alertly at the edge of the rug, tail wagging in slow, pleased sweeps, like she had personally supervised this rescue mission.
Ilya’s mouth curved. “Good morning.”
Shane tried to sit up straighter and immediately regretted it. “Ow.”
“Yes,” Ilya said. “You are too old to sleep like that.”
Shane squinted at him. “Fuck off. What time is it?”
“Morning.”
“That is not a time, Ilya.”
“It’s enough.”
Shane dragged a hand over his face, glasses askew. “I was almost done.”
“I can see that. You’ve planned enough for years of trips.”
Despite himself, Shane fumbled immediately for the notebook. “Wait, no, look. I figured out a better route if we go north first and then cut east instead of trying to do the longest drive in one go, and there’s this campground that takes dogs, except maybe not because obviously Anya’s going to my parents, and there’s another one near a lake that looks really nice, and I made a list of gear we need because we can’t just show up with nothing, and also I think if it rains for more than two days in a row we should just get a hotel because you’ll hate me if I make you sleep in a wet tent, and there’s this one trail I think you’d really like because it’s not too hard but the view at the end is insane, and-”
“Shane.”
He stopped immediately, looking up at Ilya.
He was smiling at him in that soft, helpless way that always made Shane feel a little too visible and a little too loved all at once.
“Come upstairs, sweetheart,” Ilya said.
“I should at least put this-”
“Shane.”
There it was again. That tone. Gentle, warm, and impossible to argue with.
Shane looked down at the open pages in his lap. At the mess of notes and maps and scribbles and ideas, then back at Ilya.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep down here.”
“I know.”
“I was almost done.”
“I know.”
“I wanted to-”
“I know,” Ilya said, even softer this time.
Something in Shane loosened all at once.
He let Ilya take the notebook from his hand. Let him close the laptop. Let him stand and tug Shane carefully to his feet, one hand warm at his waist when he swayed a little from the stiffness in his neck.
Anya danced in a quick circle at their legs and then bounded ahead toward the stairs, delighted by movement, delighted by everyone being awake, delighted perhaps by the general existence of stairs.
“Traitor,” Shane muttered.
Anya sneezed.
Upstairs, the bedroom still held the cool dimness of early morning. The curtains were only half open, enough for pale light to spill in gentle stripes across the bed. Shane looked at the clock. 7:41.
Ilya guided Shane down with surprising firmness for someone who had barely been awake himself a few minutes earlier.
“Lie down,” he said.
Shane gave him a sleepy, automatic glare. “Bossy.”
“For you, yes.”
Shane climbed into bed anyway.
The mattress felt heavenly after the couch. He barely had time to pull the blanket up before Ilya was beside him, tucking him in with an efficiency that would have been embarrassing if Shane weren’t so tired.
“There,” Ilya said.
Shane blinked slowly up at him. “You’re weirdly good at this.”
“At putting my stubborn husband to bed?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’ve had practice.”
Shane huffed a laugh and shifted closer on instinct, fitting himself against Ilya’s side. Ilya had other plans.
He gathered Shane in with quiet certainty, drawing him close until Shane’s head rested against his chest, one strong arm around his shoulders, the other hand smoothing once down his back. It was such a familiar gesture, so instinctive and sure, that Shane felt his whole body go loose with it.
“There you go,” Ilya murmured again, this time into his hair.
Shane’s eyes drifted shut.
“Did you see the notes?” he mumbled.
“Yes.”
“Do they make sense?”
“Mostly.”
Shane frowned faintly without opening his eyes. “Mostly?”
“You were awake all night. Some of it is nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense.”
“There’s a page titled ‘maybe sexy forest’.”
Shane’s eyes snapped open.
Ilya looked down at him, mouth twitching.
“You liar,” Shane said, already blushing.
Ilya grinned. “Maybe.”
Shane shoved weakly at his ribs. “Asshole.”
“Go to sleep.”
Shane tried to stay annoyed, but Ilya’s hand was moving slowly through his hair now, and the rhythm of it was impossible to fight.
His last clear thought before sleep tugged him under was embarrassment, fond and warm and harmless. Beneath that, something gentler still: the quiet certainty that Ilya understood exactly what he had been trying to do.
Above him, Ilya felt Shane soften fully into sleep. His breathing evened out. His hand, still curled lightly in the front of Ilya’s shirt, went slack. A few minutes later, he made the tiniest snuffling sound and then, finally, began to snore, soft and steady against Ilya’s chest.
Ilya smiled.
He looked down at Shane’s long hair falling over his forehead, at the smudge his glasses had left on the bridge of his nose before Ilya took them off downstairs, at the faint crease in his cheek from sleeping at a terrible angle on the couch. He thought of the notebook full of routes and lists and backup plans and weather contingencies and campgrounds and all the careful, ridiculous love packed into every page.
Shane was doing this for him. To show him things. To give him something beautiful after a season that had scraped them both raw. To hand him a version of this country that was not arenas and cameras and pressure and noise, but quiet and green and open and theirs.
Something in Ilya’s chest ached with it.
He lowered his head and kissed Shane’s hair. Then he settled more comfortably against the pillows, tightened his arms around him just a little, and closed his eyes.
Anya, after circling the foot of the bed exactly three times for reasons known only to her, flopped down against their legs with a dramatic sigh.
Ilya smiled again in the dim light. His husband was asleep in his arms. Their dog was warm at their feet. The season was over. The house was quiet. For the first time in a long time, everything felt still. And by the time Ilya drifted back to sleep with Shane held close against his chest, the road ahead already felt a fresh start.