Chapter Text
It should have been a perfect evening.
It had been, against all probability, a perfect day. It was day fourteen of what had been planned to be only fourteen days, and instead of going home today, Ilya got to wake slowly, ensnared in sweaty sheets. The trip had recently been extended from “a week or even two” to a luxurious 25.5 days.
It had started with a literal bang, a hot string of days breaking with a thunderstorm at six fucking thirty in the morning. A barbaric time to be awake in august. All morning, to use Shane’s words, it had “absolutely pissed down”. They left the windows open, let the cool breeze chase the heat out of the cottage and listened to the rain hammer on the deck and the roof and the leaves of the trees around the house. It was, it turned out, an extremely pleasant environment for a first lazy fuck of the day.
First and only. Because, as it happened, having sex every day (more than once usually) for two weeks was in fact pretty hard on your body. He’d never had to work so hard to get off, and when they were done Ilya was genuinely worried that his dick was going to fall off. Shane expressed similar concern that a) he would be lucky to be able to sit down for the rest of the day and b) the next time he came, they might only get sand. They needed a break.
So Ilya had lain in the tangled sheets while Shane had rolled his eyes and stumbled to the kitchen in search of an ice pack. And then laughed his ass off when, returning with a bag of frozen peas, he was treated to the sight of Ilya stuffing said bag of peas into the front of his basketball shorts and flopping back against the pillows.
He had only laughed harder when Ilya waddled out of the bedroom a few minutes later, bag of peas still firmly in place (and doing therapeutic work, thank you very much) in search of tea. Ilya had been party many times to Shane red-faced and begging with tears in his eyes, but this was the first time he was privileged to witness it because Shane was laughing too hard to stand up. “Oh my god,” he gasped, doubled over the counter, mission of refilling the kettle abandoned. “Stop stop, I can’t breathe!” and Ilya parked his ass on a stool, adjusted the peas (Shane had lain on the floor by this point, holding his middle, tears flowing freely down his face as he laughed and laughed), his abs protesting being asked to work so hard to hold in his own laughter so soon after fucking Shane through the mattress. Where was his phone anyway? He wanted to record the sound of Shane’s mirth and file it away for emergencies.
By the time they had managed to get themselves reasonably under control, the tea had been steeping for ten minutes and was black as tar. Perfect. He swirled in a spoonful of jam and waddled to the couch to enjoy it and the rain in peace. Away from Shane, who was still hiccupping in his lack of empathy as he attempted to fill the french press.
The rain had broken right before lunch, and they grilled hot dogs in the steamy air as the temperature climbed back up to twenty five, twenty seven, thirty one degrees. Too fucking hot to do anything but dabble their feet in the water and drink beer after beer, interspersed with what had to be several litres of water. Shane didn’t even need to nag him. It was too fucking hot to say no.
They lay in the sun, swam when it was too hot, lay back onto the dock when the water got too cold. The lake was large and deep enough, Shane had explained early in the trip, that it stayed relatively cool throughout the summer. It apparently made swimming an extreme sport until at least mid July, but kept days like today bearable. So they cycled through too hot and too cold, somehow maintaining a balance of just right around a bowl of tortilla chips and homemade salsa.
They reapplied sunscreen, and swatted bugs. Ilya was learning that as a lifelong city boy (to say nothing of a transplant to North American soil) that not only was his blood irresistible to the local mosquito population, but he also welted up and itched like a motherfucker anywhere he was bitten. Bless his boy scout boyfriend (boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend!), who traipsed up to the house and returned with two more cold beers, a refill on the salsa, a tube of after-bite, a bottle of insect repellant, and a lighter.
“Watch this,” Shane had ordered with a grin, while Ilya dabbed half a tube of aromatic gel over his arms and shoulders. “Wait no, don’t slather it, just dot it where the bites are, you’ll use up the whole tube.”
“What the fuck is lighter for, Hollander? You will light the bugs on fire? I think we will be here all day and still not make a dent.”
“Ha! No, watch.” and then Shane, perfect, well behaved, Shane with his freckles multiplying by the day, had flicked the lighter, held up the bug spray, and demonstrated how to make a mini flame thrower out of insect repellant. His nose wrinkled and eyes almost disappeared with the force of his grin, and Ilya had been so delighted he had to try it himself and then kiss Shane stupid.
Their phones lay, forgotten for once, on the coffee table, as they swam some more, watched the sun turn orange, then pink, and finally purple. As they microwaved some grilled salmon from a few days ago, and Ilya cooked the now-thawed and mushy peas with butter and a sprig of mint pinched from a pot growing by the door. “Penis peas!” he announced proudly as he plated up dinner, cackling at Shane’s expression, “Until the real thing is ready for you again.”
They dragged themselves to the couch, made out, satiated on dinner and half silly with beer and proximity. Watched a forgettable movie about baseball, a similarly forgettable sport. Made out some more. Felt each other up a bit before acknowledging that they were still too exhausted and sore, and possibly too tipsy, to escalate. They told silly stories from their childhoods, and painful ones too. Shane got up to piss at one point, came back with one last beer split between two glasses, and settled into Ilya’s lap. They fell into comfortable silence, listening to the cooling breeze in the branches, to the sound of the evening birdsong, water lapping against the bank. .
And now they were half asleep (Shane was actually asleep, judging by the slowly expanding patch of drool on Ilya’s hoodie), a little sunburned, a little dehydrated, blissed out on contact and too much beer and food. Ilya was watching a firefly blink outside the window, nose in Shane’s hair and hand playing idly with the hood of Shane’s sweater. His boyfriend smelled, for once, a little rank if he was being honest. A mix of lake water, old sweat and insect repellant instead of his usual expensive rosemary and mint shampoo. Ilya was sure he would find the smell of Deep Woods Off painfully nostalgic for approximately the next twenty years.
It was perfect. It had been fourteen days of near perfect so far, and there were another eleven and a half days before he had to figure out how the fuck to survive this new state of being and that was a problem for Future Ilya. Right now was perfect.
Which is exactly why his phone, hitherto forgotten and quiescent on the coffee table beside two abandoned beer glasses, chose that moment to vibrate over to the edge and tumble to the floor.
The buzzing alone jolted Ilya out of his half doze - trying and failing to snag the phone as it fell, and woke Shane in the bargain, blinking and grumbling adorably on Ilya’s chest and looking extremely put out. “What… whose phone is that??
“Mine,” Ilya mumbled, groping on the floor as the phone’s vibration scooted the fucking thing halfway under the couch. Who the fuck was calling? It had been on Do Not Disturb since he’d arrived. There had been intermittent activity on the Boston group chat and a few texts from Sveta and Marly. One, already viciously swiped away and forgotten, from Alexei. No calls. Until now.
There the damn thing was. He tightened his grip on Shane as he leaned sideways and juggled the phone up in front of his face. Incoming call: Svetlana
“Shit. Sveta.”
Shane’s gaze sharpened as he came back online in a hurry. She’d come up in conversation a few times since that night that Ilya had brought up marrying her (and yes, done penance for the suggestion, many times, on his knees and other places, gladly). Shane had a better understanding now of who she was and the role she played in Ilya’s life, enough that the look on his stupid pretty face was more of concern than, say, murder. “Something wrong?”
“I don’t know. I better answer.” Ilya accepted the call. “Hello?”
He heard a sharp intake of breath, and then his best friend’s voice was breathing out “Ilya!” in a tone so heavy with relief that his heart did a quick nervous stutter.
“Sveta? What’s going on? Are you ok?”
“Am I ok? Ilyusha what the fuck? Are you ok?” So much for the relief. Svetlana sounded ready to strangle him. “You told me you would be home yesterday! Where the fuck are you?”
Shit.
“I’m ok! I’m ok, I'm fine. I’m …. Uhh…” he should really have thought this through.
“You told me you would be home on Monday. I don’t hear from you, ok, fine, maybe you’re sleeping off the flight, I don't know. But it’s Wednesday, Ilya, I have been texting you all day and you haven’t even seen my messages, you’re not answering my calls.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I wasn't looking at my phone, Sveta-”
“I came to your house, Ilya!” Uh oh. “I used my key, the mail box was full of flyers, there’s no sign you’ve been here, the only thing in the fridge is a carton of milk that expired a week ago. What am I supposed to think? Not on your couch, not in your bed, I was checking the bathtubs! Ilya!” Oh fuck. “If you hadn’t picked up the next call was going to be to the police!”
“I’m fine, I swear! You don’t need to worry!”
“Fuck you I don’t need to worry! You were acting so weird when I saw you last. I’m fucking worried Ilya! I was afraid i was going to find you, i don’t know, in the tub with your wrists cut, on the patio with a gun your hand, Ilya what the fuck!”
“I don’t even own a gun-” he tried, weakly, to protest.
“Don’t be fucking cute, you know what I mean. You scared the shit out of me! Where the fuck are you? What the fuck is going on?”
Shane was watching him with an expression that was a mix of concern and alarm, having recognized that Ilya was backpedalling even if he didn’t understand the language. Fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck! This wasn’t a call he could improvise.
“Sveta, I'm ok, I promise. Hang on for one minute ok? I’ll be right back.” And he tapped the mute button before her furious spluttering could weaken his resolve. Ilya girded his loins, enfeebled as they were, and met Shane’s eyes.
“I forgot to tell her I extend my stay. She thinks I was in moscow, couldn’t reach me, and panicked. She is at house, and she is freaking out.”
He could practically see the gears turning behind Shane’s eyes. Multiple streams of thought, more than likely. “You didn’t tell her you weren’t going to Russia?"
“No,” Ilya admitted, chewing his lower lip. “Maybe I should have, I don't know. I had no idea what was going to happen when I got here.”
There was a beat as Shane considered his words, frowning, but mercifully let it slide for now. “She sounds really freaked out.” No kidding. “What did she say?”
One conversational can of worms was plenty, thanks very much. Ilya did his best to sidestep, hoping (optimistically) that Shane’s having woken up two minutes ago would help him out. “She’s worried, I don't know. I usually let her know when I get home. It has been a while since we talked. She thought maybe…”
“Maybe what?”
Maybe that this was a conversation for another day. Hopefully a conversation for never, actually, because it was fucking embarassing. Shane didn’t need to know about the time that Sveta had broken into his condo a week after Boston had won the cup and found him on the couch surrounded by two days worth of cigarette butts, pizza boxes, and empty bottles. Or the time two years later when she’d stayed to help him tidy up after the cup final watch party dissipated, and rubbed his back as he’d brought up most of what he’d eaten and drank that night, after the high of the company of his teammates had come crashing back down. There had been calls and messages from his father and brother both, interspersed with texts from Shane and news items about the Metro’s win. Without the buffer of the party, it had been more than he could keep at bay.
He was pretty sure Svetlana had read it as disappointment about losing the playoffs (Again! Fuck!), compounded by filial inadequacy, that had chased the stale vodka back up his throat. Pretty sure. Not 100% sure. There was, after all, the whole Jane thing.
“Maybe, I don't know, I've done stupid things before.”
“That she was there for?”
“Enough, yes. Shane, listen, I need to tell her something, I am afraid she will call police.” Ilya was desperate and not above begging. “Help me think, please!”
More gears. It was incredible he couldn't hear them grinding away, but then, Shane was not the sort of person who wouldn’t keep his inner workings well oiled, was he? Ilya watched as Shane’s gaze darted around for a few beats, seeking data for god knows what calculation he was running. Finally those big brown eyes met his own. “Does she know anything about this? About us?”
Ilya opened his mouth to say, no of course she doesn’t, and closed it. Closed his eyes too. Heard Sveta’s voice, felt her fingers adjusting his collar in that fucking bathroom in fucking Moscow. I hope Jane knows how lucky he is. He opened his eyes again, took in Shane, whose chin was resting on his sternum and whose face was open, guileless, tender.
“She knows there is someone,” he admitted, quietly. “Jane. I think she knows Jane is not a woman.” He sighed and watched Shane’s head rise and fall with his chest. “Nothing more I don’t think. But with Sveta?” A helpless shrug. “I don’t know. She has known me a long time.” Remembered her smirk as he rambled some excuse for watching Shane do yoga on the lawn (the lawn that was visible through the window, yes, that lawn! Incredible). Looking askance at him as he pretended that Shane wasn’t a great player, worth moving to wing for, a total smokeshow. “She may have guessed. I don’t know.” The weight of her teenaged regard, taking in himself and Sasha and their disheveled hair, their careful nonchalance. “Would not be the first time.”
Even with the audio being phone only, no speaker, they could hear Svetlana on the other end, muttering to herself with increasing irritation and anxiety. “Ilya I am losing my patience!” she barked, once, and they both jumped.
“She cares about you a lot.”
“Yes.” Ilya swallowed and held the lid on that can of worms down with all his strength. “More than I deserve.”
The skeptical look that Shane leveled at him was so reminiscent of Svetlana’s best that it squeezed a nervous giggle out of Ilya. Shane glanced away, studied their reflection against the dark glass for a long moment before meeting his eyes again with confidence.
“Tell her you’re here.”
Ilya blinked. “Really?”
“Yeah I mean, don’t tell her everything, but tell her you’re with Jane.”
“You are sure.” This was paramount. The day had been so perfect. It did not need to be ruined by a panic attack.
“I mean, no. But like, she’s freaking out. She’s your friend.” Shane’s voice wobbled, but his gaze was steady. “She shouldn't have to worry.”
Ilya was so fucked, so in love. What a man.
He drew what he hoped would be strengthening breath. And another. And tapped the mute button again.
“Sveta?”
“Finally! Start talking, Ilyusha. By the way I dumped out the spoiled milk and it smells disgusting.”
“I’m fine. I’m safe, I'm fine. I’m with - ah, I'm with Jane.”
The silence was so immediate and unfamiliar that he was afraid for a moment that the call had cut. A quick glance at the screen showed it was still on, the timer counting up the minutes, second by second.
“Jane.” he finally heard, flat, disbelieving.
“Yes.”
More silence. Shane left his post on Ilya’s chest, sat back against the other end of the couch, and the spot where he had lain cooled to match the icy pool of anxiety behind Ilya’s ribs. Their legs remained mercifully tangled.
“Jane,” Sveta repeated, louder. “Your mystery man.”
“... Yes”
“And you’ve been there this whole time.” He thought he heard, maybe, the sound of something being put down on his stone counter. Maybe the sound of Sveta swallowing, or sighing, or chewing on a string of words until they were soft enough to speak aloud. “You never went to Russia."
The image of her exasperation was so vividly, fondly familiar that his throat threatened to close. Somehow, he managed, “Yes.”
There was more busy silence, this time punctuated by the sound of a glass clinking, a bottle being set down. Sveta had had enough and was helping herself to his vodka. Good. He hoped she had gone for the good stuff, and trusted that she had. He heard her swallow, exhale, and set the glass back on the counter, and then. “Ilyusha. I am going to fucking kill you.”
It took a great deal more discussion for Svetlana to be satisfied enough to let Ilya go and move on with his day. He spent most of it pacing back and forth from the living room to the kitchen, while Shane puttered about nervously, tidying up, even hand-washing the few dishes, before giving up and disappearing upstairs into the shower. Ilya was as cagey as he dared, confirming that yes, he and Jane were official now (he felt that this ought to have earned him an excited squeal - what was the point of a female best friend if you couldn’t be one of the girls now and then? - but Sveta apparently wasn't in the mood). Yes he’d spent the last two weeks in a sun and sweat drenched haze of sex and cuddling while Svetlana had been, per her, working her ass off and worrying about his mental health and bodily safety. Yes, he absolutely owed her more details over dinner when he was home, and yes he would send her his flight information as soon as they hung up. Yes, he was sorry, yes he loved her, yes, he was ok, he was fine. Perfect.
And he was. He was.
Upstairs, the water cut off, and Shane was towelling off and getting ready for bed. Ilya could hear the buzz of Shane’s stupidly expensive electric toothbrush. The perfect day was coming to an end. One down. Eleven point five to go.
Was there a bag of peas that could ease a bruised heart? He felt overworked and tender, sore to the touch. He wanted to call Sveta back and spill everything. He wanted to lay his head in her lap and listen to her tell him everything would be fine. He wanted to wrap himself around Shane and listen to his breathing and never let go. It had been entirely too long.
Well. One of those at least was in reach.
The love of his life was spitting foam into the sink, hair a tousled mess around his head when Ilya slunk into the bathroom. He was greeted with a minty peck before Shane pulled back and wrinkled his nose at him. “You stink, baby,” Shane informed him, and Ilya’s poor swollen heart turned over happily in his ribcage. He dutifully scrubbed himself down as quickly as he could get away with, sluicing off a perfect day’s worth of sunscreen, lake-bottom grit, bug spray, sweat, and maybe a few tears if he was being honest. He stood in the clean smelling steam, inhaled as much of the day as he could hold, then cut the heat and relished the jolt of cold as the water temperature plummeted. It wasn’t a cannon ball off the end of the dock into the lake, but it would do for now.
“Jesus, you’re freezing,” Shane griped sleepily as Ilya wriggled under the sheet and spooned in behind him. “What the fuck?”
“Someone told me is good for immune system to have cold shower,” Ilya retorted into Shane’s shoulder, making no effort to keep his wet hair from dribbling onto Shane’s pillow. It was still hot as fuck, the added moisture would keep them cool. “I told Svetlana I would be home week after next. Said yes, with Jane, I am Jane's boyfriend now.” Thump, thump. It was easier for his heart to beat when it was well supported against Shane’s broad back, the best, warmest kines tape. Boyfriend! “Nothing else, about you. You are good? After call?”
Shane considered for a breath or two, while Ilya held his own breath and tried not to catastrophize. “Good, I think,” Shane replied, rolling back along Ilya’s arm to face him. “I might freak out later, or tomorrow, I don't know. But… I'm glad she’s looking out for you, Ilya.”
Something in his tone, in his big sincere perfect Captain Canada eyes, gave Ilya the impression that Shane had read a lot more out of the conversation than what Ilya was telling him. The can of worms was sealed tight and carefully shelved, but Shane’s mental inventory had noted it and was laying out the conversational can opener for future use.
“Yes,” Ilya allowed, finally. “I am too. I do love her, Shane.” It was imperative that Shane understand. That he be ok with this simple fact, this complicated truth. “Not like I love you. But I do.”
“I know.” Shane threaded his fingers into Ilya’s hair and pulled him in. Ilya allowed himself to be kissed lazily for the space of a few heartbeats before helplessly deepening this kiss and chasing the taste of toothpaste and Shane. Shane made a happy little mmf and opened his mouth, pressing closer. Sliding his hand down Shane’s back and over his ass, Ilya felt his cock give an optimistic twitch, before waving a white flag. They parted reluctantly, Shane’s huffed laugh puffing over Ilya’s lips. “I love you too, Ilya.”
Ilya gathered his boyfriend in so that Shane’s face was nuzzled into his neck. Peppered kisses into his lovely soft hair. Wakefulness was sliding away from him.
“Think your dick will work again tomorrow?” he heard Shane mumble, half muffled by his shoulder.
“Mm, hope so.”
“How do you say ‘good night’ in Russian?”
“Spokoynoy nochi.”
“Spokoynoy nochi. Ya tebya lyublyu.”
Bless his perfect, perfect boyfriend with his abysmal accent. Ilya’s smile bled into his voice as he pressed, “I love you too,” into Shane’s hair. He took a few more comfortably rosemary-and-mint-scented breaths and let sleep pull him under.