Chapter Text
They pull into the driveway after what seems like a lifetime. Shane spent the whole way home completely lost in his own head, stomach gnawing, heavy with guilt. Sick with himself, Shane hangs back in the car while Ilya herds Nicole inside, already promising her ice cream for a treat after supper.
Shane knows he should follow them. Knows he should wrap his daughter up tight in his arms and tell her that he loves her more than anything in the world, that he’ll love her forever, no matter what. Knows he should explain to his husband why he ran, why he freaked out. Knows he should tell Ilya about the hollow feeling tearing him apart from the inside when he thinks about what Miss Rhea said.
But he can’t. He feels frozen. He wills his body to move, begs his hand to open the car door so he can get up and go inside and act like a normal goddamn human in front of his family for once.
His breath is even. Intentional, measured. Four seconds in, hold for four, four seconds out, hold for four. It’s the only thing he can control, when even his limbs won’t listen to him. Shane hates not being in control, has ever since he was little. It made everything so difficult, made school impossible when he couldn’t control the overlapping voices and the flickering lights, made being at home impossible when he couldn’t find the words to explain what was wrong. The only place he ever truly felt in control was on the ice. Even with so many factors out of his control on the ice, even when control seems to slip away from him, Shane has always known exactly what he needs to do, where he needs to be, how he needs to move. He can’t control everything out there, but he can control himself and the rest will fall in place. If only it worked like that in the real world.
The car grows cold, the sting against his shin forcing Shane out of his head. He doesn’t want to check the time on his watch, doesn’t want to know how long he spent hiding from the people he loves most while he forced himself to breathe, afraid he might forget if he didn’t remind himself. There’s no need to check, anyways. It’s getting dark, the sun having already dipped below the horizon. Probably past Nicole’s bedtime, Shane’s brain supplies unhelpfully.
Slowly, he drags himself inside. Music trails softly from the living room and Shane toes off his shoes at the door. The kitchen is clean save for a few dishes left in the sink to soak. Nicole’s backpack is packed and ready to go on the chair it always is, her parents having learned early on in her school years that leaving it out in the wrong place could ruin her entire week. Backpack on the spare chair at the edge of the kitchen, lunch box in the fridge on the lowest shelf, every single day. It’s what works for them. Ilya always giggles to himself about it, not quite understanding it but more than happy to do anything to support his baby. Shane always assumed she got it from him, thinking about the way his hockey bag has always had its own shelf in the garage.
He makes his way to the living room. Ilya is curled on the couch, long limbs and strong muscles tucked carefully into the armrest, with a laptop balanced on his knees. He’s got the TV turned to one of the lo-fi YouTube videos he’s been obsessed with recently, one with a girl wearing headphones and a cat lazing in the corner.
While his body looks soft, wrapped in his favourite grey sweatpants with a blanket wrapped around his bare shoulders. His face is pulled tight. It’s a look Shane doesn’t see very often, only when a teammate takes a particularly bad hit and gets hauled off the ice, or when Nicole comes to him with teary eyes and scraped knees. The wrinkles in his forehead cut deep, brows furrowed as his eyes trace their way across the screen. His cross necklace is snagged between his teeth. Shane has always wondered how the cross doesn’t have teeth marks in it given how often Ilya chews on it, and he would make a joke about it now but he knows that this isn’t the time.
He clears his throat, unsure of how to start. Words seem to fail Shane a lot more often than he would like to admit, and it is never any less humiliating. Ilya looks up from his laptop instantly, worried eyes finding Shane’s. Unshed tears have gathered on his waterline, and Shane can feel his shame grow stronger. Carefully, he sits himself down on the opposite end of the couch, not deserving of the comfort that tucking himself into his husband’s side would bring him. Ilya notices this, of course he does, but he doesn’t comment. He knows his husband well enough by now to know when he needs space, even when it pains Ilya to watch his husband punish himself.
“I’m sorry I missed dinner,” is all Shane can say, the words feeling strained as they fight their way out. He knows it’s not enough, that he’s avoiding the subject. He knows Ilya knows that too.
“No apologies for that. I knew you needed your space. Supper is in fridge for whenever you feel you can eat it.” His words are calculated, no pressure or attached strings. No expectations.
Shane nods. He wants to say more. He doesn’t know where he can possibly begin.
“I don’t want to push you, Shane. But I need to know.”
“I-” Shane tries to interrupt, tries to explain or to tell Ilya to leave him alone or to just fucking say something, but Ilya is quick to shut it down.
“I just need to know that you are okay. We can talk when you are ready to talk, but I need to know if you are okay. That was… intense moment in the car. I worry for you.”
Yes, Shane wants to say. Of course I’m okay. I’m always fucking okay. I have to be okay. If I’m not okay then people stare and treat me like a fucking idiot and I spiral out of control. I always have to be fucking okay. What do you fucking think?
“Shane-” Ilya has moved closer, a gentle hand brushing away tears from Shane’s cheeks. Tears he hadn’t even noticed until they were smeared across his skin. The moisture is sticky and Shane longs to scrub it all away, scrub away all the feelings of wrongness that runs through his blood, but Ilya is quick to pluck a tissue from the coffee table and wipe it all away for him.
Before either of them know what is happening, Shane throws himself at his husband. His face buries in Ilya’s neck, sobs wracking his body. Tears stream down his face and soak into Ilya’s bare skin. Muttered Russian sweet nothings ghost Shane’s ears but pressure is building in his head and he can’t process anything anymore.
Everything feels wrong. Too much. There are no words, nothing he can do but sob until he can’t breathe. Ilya runs his hands down Shane’s back, offering a small comfort while his world crumbles down.
“Is okay, my love. I have you. You will be okay.”
Shane knows they need to talk. He knows that they will… eventually. But not right now. Right now, he needs this release more than anything.