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Ilya isn’t scared of flying.
He understands why some of the team might be, on a logical level. It makes sense; a lot of people are scared of planes. Even if they weren’t scared before, their plane almost crashed. That’s enough to turn anyone off flying. He’s not sure how or why his usually obsessive brain didn’t latch on to that particular fear, but he’s grateful.
It allows him to help other members of the team through their anxieties, and close out the season on a high note. It allows him to fly to and from Spain with his beautiful, perfect husband, pleasantly tipsy in first class, and he doesn’t even think about it.
Which is why it’s so strange that he’s so nervous now.
Ilya sits on the closed toilet lid, staring down at the tiled floor of their ensuite, heart beating against his ribcage. There’s no reason for him to be feeling like this, nervous, anxious. Pre-season was good; better than good, even. Shane is exactly what the team needed, and without the pressure of holding the captaincy he’s been thriving. Ilya is happy to be his wing when needed, but right now they’re centering on separate lines.
It’s all clicking. It’s all perfect. They won their home opener against Colorado, and tomorrow they fly out to Pittsburgh. But something just feels… Wrong.
“Ilya?” Shane’s voice is muffled by the door, soft with exhaustion after a morning of practice and an afternoon of sponsorship meetings. “You okay?”
Ilya clears his throat, pushing himself up and opening the door. Shane looks concerned, his glasses pushed up to hold his hair from his face. He’s wearing one of Ilya’s old Boston Bears hoodies, brow furrowed. Ilya wants to kiss him.
“Fine,” He says, shuffling past his husband into the bedroom. “I think I forgot to take my medication this morning, maybe. I feel weird.”
”Oh. Okay, that’s okay,” Shane sits on the edge of the bed, folding his glasses carefully and putting them on the nightstand, “Don’t double-dose tomorrow. I’m gonna get you a pill box, I don’t care if it makes you feel old, It’ll—”
“Maybe if you suck my dick it will make me feel better.”
”Oh, fuck you, I was actually worried!”
“Shane Hollander? Worried? No, it can’t be.”
”Fuck off. You’re so fucking annoying.”
It would maybe be more convincing if Shane wasn’t crowding into his space, hands pressing into his ribs, nosing at Ilya’s neck. Suddenly, with the warm, comforting weight of Shane pressing up against him, the worries of the day don’t seem to matter so much anymore.
Shane watches him take his medication the next morning, and Ilya realises his ill-timed lie last night will likely have very annoying, if merely inconvenient, consequences.
He can’t bring himself to care all that much, because before he can blink they’ve dropped Anya off at her hotel (Not a kennel) and they’re on their way to the airport.
As the estimated miles remaining on Shane’s boring fucking GPS tick slowly down, Ilya’s anxiety skyrockets. It’s an entirely unusual, totally unpleasant feeling; Ilya feels a lot, and he feels it deeply, but he’s never been someone who deals in anxiety.
His poison of choice is apathy, deep sadness, depression, numbness. Not this sickly fear, setting every nerve in his body on fire. Fuck, how does Shane cope feeling like this? He makes a mental note to look into anxiety more, because this is fucking hell.
Ilya doesn’t realise he’s been bouncing his leg until Shane’s hand lands on his knee. The car has stopped; they’re in the parking lot.
“Ilya,” Shane says, and it’s all he really needs to say. Ilya wonders, sometimes, if they’d be able to communicate like this— A single word, a single touch —if they didn’t have to spend a decade hiding.
Ilya forces a smile, but it sits on his face wrong, feels foreign on his cheeks. “I’m okay. Sorry.”
”Is it Anya? Because the kennel said—“
”Hotel, Shane, fuck. Is not a kennel.”
He regrets snapping immediately, and even more so when Shane’s eyebrows shoot up. Shane doesn’t look hurt, but he does look really fucking concerned. His hand doesn’t move from Ilya’s knee.
“Ilya.”
”Fuck. Sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t know. I think maybe I slept badly, or something.”
”Okay,” Shane nods, but he looks unconvinced. Ilya can’t blame him. “Well, the hotel said the cameras will be working again by tonight, so we can check on her after the game.”
Oh, right. That must be it, Ilya thinks, because what else could he be so anxious about? When they dropped Anya off, Sheila at the front desk had told them that the remote camera system was down, so no-one could check in on their dogs remotely until they were back up. They had an engineer on the way, and she reassured them that they could call or text for updates at any time. That must be it.
Ilya’s heart swells when Shane says we can check on her, and not you can check on her.
“Would be easier for us to check on her together if we were sharing a room,” Ilya tries, because he desperately wants to move on from whatever the fuck just happened to him. Shane rolls his eyes immediately, unbuckling his seatbelt with a click.
“I’m not sharing a fucking room with you, Rozanov.”
”But why?” Ilya whines, following him from the car. He stands with his hands in the pockets of his jeans as Shane pops the trunk, retrieving their suitcases. “We are married. Married couples share rooms. Beds, even, I have heard.”
”Because we need to keep, like, some semblance of professional boundaries.”
Professional boundaries. Ilya snorts, but chooses not to push it. It’s Shane’s first season with the Centaurs, his first season as a married man, and Ilya knows it’s been playing on his mind. The guys would never go any further than good-natured ribbing, but the Voyageurs had done a fucking number on Shane.
So, instead of teasing him anymore, Ilya just kisses his cheek and says, “Okay, sweetheart.”
Shane huffs, but leans into him for a second before slamming the trunk shut. Mournfully, Ilya thinks about how fun it would be if they did share a room; Shane looks fucking good in his stupid travelling outfit, dark, soft slacks and a tight button-down shirt, a black baseball cap covering his dark hair.
He’ll cave when he’s more comfortable with the team, Ilya is sure, but for now it sucks.
Flying with the team is always an experience. Some of the guys bounced back faster than others; Ilya knows that he’s one of the lucky ones. It’s a testament to the strength of their team and to their genuinely good natures that no-one feels ashamed of feeling nervous about flying.
As they move through the airport towards the private terminal, Shane makes idle chatter about the power-play and the adjustments he thinks they should make on the penalty kill, and Ilya feels himself shifting into what the rookies call Captain Mode. Ilya thinks that’s a stupid fucking name, because he’s always in Captain Mode, but he has to admit he kinda gets it, now.
It’s easier to push down the anxiety that rises with every step they make towards the terminal when he’s focusing instead on what he needs to do for the team. First, check on Luca, because he’s still shaky with flying, and this is his first flight of the season. Luca is a really fucking good kid, and his skating already has Shane’s stamp of approval. Ilya wants him to feel safe, even if flying isn’t safe. Well, it is, but—
“Okay,” Shane interrupts his train of thought, and Ilya blinks back to reality. They’re standing in a gaudy little gift shop, nowhere near their terminal. “You need to tell me what’s going on. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me, Ilya.”
Fuck. Shane is looking at him so expectantly that Ilya can’t even scramble for a lie, can’t find a joke to put his husband at ease. And so, because they both signed the marriage certificate and they both made promises, Ilya makes the impossible decision to be honest.
”I don’t know,” He says, pursing his lips, looking stubbornly at the floor. “I am scared, maybe. Anxious. I don’t know why. Or for what.”
Shane doesn’t say anything, not for a few seconds; Ilya can feel his brown eyes boring into him, searching him for some unspoken answer, even as Ilya himself keeps his gaze square on the scuffed-up floor of the gift shop.
Still, Shane steps forward, so they’re standing chest to chest. Someone is probably taking pictures of them, posting them on Twitter or some gossip site, but it doesn’t matter. It feels good, it feels right, and Shane smells like his stupid seaweed shampoo and the cologne that sponsored him when he was nineteen and he just… Never stopped wearing it.
Ilya takes a slow, deep breath. He can’t help but feel ridiculous; he has, at this point in time, everything he has ever wanted. It’s all sitting in front of him, a lifetime of happiness. But still, standing here, the thought of the team getting on that fucking plane—
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Ilya groans, letting his head drop forward onto Shane’s shoulder. His husband’s hand reaches up and tangles in his hair, as if on instinct, and Ilya groans again. Fuck. The team getting on the plane is making him anxious, because Shane is part of the fucking team, now.
Fuck, that is so not good. That is not professional boundaries. In fact, it’s the opposite, because what does that say to the rest of the team? Sorry, I am not scared if the team is you guys, I do not care if you die in fiery plane crash. I only care if my Shane dies in fiery plane crash, and since we are fiery plane crash team, this is inevitable horror.
Fucking ridiculous. He can’t tell Shane, because Shane will overthink it, and probably get offended, because he’s not fragile. Ilya has never, ever thought of him as fragile— Wouldn’t have checked him half as hard or half as much if he did— But it’s something that’s been playing on Shane’s mind since they came out. People make assumptions, and some of the fans, while well-meaning, have been saying things that make Shane spiral and leave a bad taste in Ilya’s mouth.
Shane isn’t small, and he isn’t fragile. He has never needed Ilya to protect him, not from anything. If anything, he’s the one who protects Ilya. He’s not sure if it’s because they’re queer, or because Shane isn’t white, or a mixture of both, but he knows it’s annoying and that it has been on his husband’s mind.
So he can’t tell him that this sudden, debilitating anxiety is about Shane getting on a plane. Because it’s embarrassing, because it will play into a rapidly developing narrative that neither of them have any control over. And because it is, frankly, ridiculous.
Ilya takes another deep breath, and then steps away from Shane with a parting tap on the small of his back. Shane appreciates these little touches, little moments of pressure, and Ilya hopes that the small movement will convince him that he’s fine.
”Okay?” Shane asks, glancing up at him with thinly-veiled concern. There’s little more than an inch or two between them, but Ilya still does his best to rise to his full height, tries to project confidence and the cocky nonchalance he’s so well-known for.
“All good, knizhnaya polka.”
Shane wrinkles his nose, eyes narrowing as he processes the phrase. It’s a difficult one; Ilya chose it, purposefully, to test him.
”Bookshelf?”
”Ding ding,” Ilya imitates the bell that rings on the stupid gameshow that Shane likes, and tries to ignore the way the little toy airplanes on the shelf behind his husband’s head makes his stomach twist. “Twenty points for Hollander.”
For a long, long second, Shane just looks at him. He’s always had this awful, uncanny skill for making Ilya feel completely see-through; like he has no skin, and Shane can see directly into his brain, untangle the web of thoughts in his brain and read every single one.
He can’t, of course. Maybe their life together, their journey here, would have been easier if he could. Or maybe it would have scared him away, and Ilya would have none of this. It doesn’t matter.
“Promise you’ll tell me if…” Shane trails off, eyes going soft, “If, you know. It’s getting loud in there.”
His hand is so soft, and so warm on Ilya’s jaw, that for a second he’s scared he’s going to cry; that would make the gossip sites happy, he’s sure.
“I promise,” Ilya lies, and ducks down to kiss Shane’s cheek.
The flight to Pittsburgh is about four hours. Usually, that would be no big deal— Enough time for a nap, and maybe some strategic discussion with Wiebe. Harris is travelling with them this time, so maybe he’d make time for a TikTok or some other content thing.
This time, though, he’s busy trying not to shake so hard he breaks into a thousand pieces.
The team board the charter jet in reasonably high spirits, and Ilya is satisfied that Luca is feeling okay after their short chat at the gate. The flight in Tampa is, to most of the team, just a bad memory. A bad experience, a fluke, something to be forgotten about. They’ve had countless successful flights since then. Everyone else, even Luca, is fine.
I have never been in a plane crash, Ilya reminds himself, because he hasn’t. A near-miss doesn’t count, and the nightmares he has about fire, and explosions and screaming and Shane don’t count, either.
Shane is sitting next to him; Ilya was generous enough to give him the window seat. Ever efficient, Shane has already stowed his bag in the overhead, and is in the process of setting up his iPad, probably to review some tape from the last game. Over-achiever, eager to please, eager to get things right.
The attendant’s voice crackles through the overhead speakers, and Ilya realises with a growing horror that goodie-two-shoes, teacher’s pet Shane Hollander hasn’t even taken his earbuds out.
Ilya nudges him with his shoulder.
”Hollander,” he hisses, “Is important. You need to listen.”
Shane raises a questioning eyebrow, pulling one earbud out and shooting him a confused, if slightly uncomfortable, look.
“Ilya. I know the safety protocols for a charter jet. I’ve only heard it, like, a thousand times.”
And— Yes, well, obviously. If Russians ever blushed, which they don’t, Ilya is sure he would be beet red. The heat in his cheeks is purely coincidence, he’s certain.
Because Shane has been on thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, flights. Millions, billions, even. Well, that might be dramatic, but still. He’s heard this speech more than Ilya has, certainly, and he isn’t a child that needs to be scolded into listening.
Instead of apologising, or saying something, anything, Ilya just pulls a face at him and turns back to the flight attendant at the front of the jet. Watching her go through the motions, pointing out the emergency exits and the locations of the life jackets and oxygen masks, does little to quell the anxiety once again rapidly growing in Ilya’s chest.
“Good evening, Ottawa Centaurs,” The captain’s voice replaces the safety monologue, and Ilya shifts in his seat. From here, he can see the top of Harris’ head, Troy’s dark hair sticking up beside him. “We have about four hours ahead of us to Pittsburgh. It should be a pretty smooth ride, but we’ll be looking at some turbulence the further out we get. Have a good one, guys.”
The speaker crackles out, and the flight attendants sit down and buckle in for takeoff. Wiebe is saying something, and Ilya vaguely registers laughter, but the rest is lost in a muffled blur. As soon as the word turbulence came into play, Ilya found himself sinking faster and faster into some unknown void.
Turbulence. That’s usually harmless, right? Just bumps. Like a pothole in a road, but the airplane equivalent. It’s not a problem. It won’t be a problem, unless it’s worse than expected, unless an engine catches fire— He can see the wing through the window. The window beside Shane.
Ilya can feel a pressure on his chest, and when he manages to look down he realises it’s his own hand, spread out and pressing palm-down against his sternum. Fuck. He can feel his own heartbeat beneath his hand, pounding, far too fast.
Oh, God. He can’t have a heart attack, he’s only just turned thirty. But Shane says he eats like shit, the steaks, the red meat, the wine and the cheese. His chest tightens; Ilya can feel sweat slicking the back of his neck, beading at his temples. God, he really is having a heart attack, isn’t he?
He keeps his hand against his chest, the other gripping the armrest between him and Shane so hard that the skin around his knuckles tightens, turning white. Eventually they’ve made their ascent, and the seatbelt sign clicks off, and Ilya scrambles from his seat as fast as his shaking legs will allow.
The journey to the back of the plane is a quick one, and the faces of his teammates blur as he passes them; Troy, Luca, Wyatt, Holmberg and Bood, and then finally, mercifully, the bathroom.
Airplane bathrooms are always a grim sight, even on fancy charter jets like this one. It’s a little bigger than the kind you’d find on a commercial flight, but Ilya still needs to crouch if he doesn’t want to hit his head.
Ilya braces himself against the sink, staring down at the porcelain and trying to will away the sheer panic coursing through his system. Distantly, he can hear raucous laughter and good-natured jeering; a muffled ‘Okay, fuck off, jeez!’ and then a knock at the door.
He would’ve known it was Shane even if he didn’t use the stupid, secret knock he’d put in place back when they were sneaking around. People actually like me, asshole, I get visitors, Shane had said, wound up and angry and pretending not to grind against Ilya’s thigh, And, ah, fuck, and anyone could be knocking. So if you use this one, I’ll know it’s you.
If I suck your dick, will you stop talking about door knocks? Make me feel like cold-war spy.
Fuck off, Rozanov.
Mm, no, fuck me, more like. Ask nicely and maybe I will.
Shane knocks again, and Ilya opens the door.
“Ilya,” Shane says, voice low, and it’s so much like the old days that Ilya almost laughs. The way Shane darts inside, nearly slamming the door behind him in his haste to put a barrier between them and the rest of the world; Ilya has seen him do this in hotels all over North America. “Sweetheart, baby, what’s wrong? What’s going on?”
Sweetheart, baby. He must mean business, using two English petnames in one go. It’s so unlike him.
Ilya wants to say this to him, wants to tease him for his brazen show of affection, but he can’t quite get his mouth to move. Shane’s hands are warm on his shoulders, and Ilya squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see the concern in his eyes.
”Ilya,” Shane repeats, squeezing slightly. The pressure makes Ilya open his eyes, and Shane is just as concerned as he’d feared, but there’s something else in his expression; something close to desperation. “Please, just—”
”I don’t want you to die in a plane crash.”
The words tumble out of Ilya before he can stop them, the edges sharpened by his accent and falling like rocks to his feet. Immediately, he wants to take it back, because saying it out loud makes him realise how fucking ridiculous it all is. It doesn’t get rid of the fear, though, or the hammering of his heart against his ribcage, or the sweat slicking his back.
Shane’s eyes widen slightly, the confession hanging between them. He can see the cogs turning in his husband’s head, can practically hear Shane’s thought process in the silence between them.
Slowly, one of Shane’s hands travels up from Ilya’s back, to his neck, to finally tangle in his curls. Ilya knows he should protest, or pull away; he’s covered in sweat, now, and the sensation won’t be pleasant. But Shane doesn’t seem to care; he just tugs him closer, until his husband’s strong body is pressed against his.
Ilya has always taken comfort in Shane’s body, and not just because he’s so fucking hot. He’s just… Solid. Tall, and broad, and strong; he makes Ilya feel held. Safe.
“Is this what you’ve been worried about?” Shane asks, once Ilya’s head is resting safely in the crook of his neck. He takes comfort in how Shane scratches idly at his scalp, dulled nails moving through his curls. “This week, the… The anxiety?”
Ilya nods.
“Fuck, Ilya. I’m sorry.”
It’s all he says, and it almost surprises Ilya. He expected— Well, he expected a lecture on how safe flying is, how one bad experience doesn’t mean every flight is unsafe, how many times they’ve flown separately or together and been fine. Well-meaning but ultimately unhelpful or, worst case, harmful rambling. Something to make the voice in the back of Ilya’s head cry out no, you don’t understand, I’m cursed and by loving me you have cursed yourself, too.
Hm. Maybe there are deeper factors at play, here. Ilya is too tired to examine it any further; he slumps in Shane’s arms, letting himself believe that the wetness on the shoulder of his husband’s shirt is from sweat, and not the tears silently tracking down his cheeks.
“Has this happened before?” Shane asks, rocking them side to side slightly in the cramped bathroom. “Like, I mean, have you always been scared of flying?”
”Fuck, Hollander, I’m not scared of flying,” Ilya sniffs, but makes no effort to move. “I just— Today, I don’t know. Flying with the team for the first time with you, I think about Tampa, you know? And… What if something happened? To you? Because you are here, with me?”
So much for keeping it all to himself. Fuck Shane Hollander and all of his stupid skills, including hockey and getting Ilya to spill his fucking guts just by batting his stupid fucking eyelashes at him. He wants a divorce.
Except, he doesn’t. He really, really, doesn’t.
”Nothing bad will ever happen to me because of you,” Shane says, after a long moment of silence. Ilya immediately wants to protest, because what the fuck have the last ten years been, if not a decade of strife caused expressly by loving Ilya?
“I’m serious,” Shane continues, his voice strong, tone conveying nothing but confidence, “I know you’re scared. I’m not saying I can fix it, fuck, I wish I could, but— Loving someone never caused a plane crash. If that was possible, we both would have died, like, ten years ago.”
Ilya sniffs. “You did not love me ten years ago, Hollander.”
“Fuck you, Rozanov.”
Ilya shakes his head, pressing a gentle kiss to Shane’s jaw before pulling back. The panic is still there, but lighter, now. Easier to hold, maybe, now that Shane is sharing the weight.
Fuck. He loves him so much.
“Mm, I think I will not fuck you here,” He sighs, settling back against the sink and brushing a gentle thumb over Shane’s cheek. “It would be fun to join mile high club with you, but the team is probably already thinking very sexy things about us—“
”Don’t even start,” Shane says, but he’s laughing; he does that so much more, these days. Laughing, smiling. “Terry is in back, anyway. I think— I mean, if it’s really bad, he can probably give you something. Just for the flight.”
Immediately, and probably to no surprise of Shane, Ilya shakes his head. He doesn’t want drugs, or at least he doesn’t want any more drugs. His anti-depressants are enough.
“Okay,” Shane murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of Ilya’s mouth. “Let’s just… Go back out, then. We can watch a movie, or something. Okay?”
”So bossy, Hollander.” Ilya says, because it’s easier than showing any more fucking emotion than he already has.
He feels like a wrung-out sponge, days of anxiety squeezed out of him in shakes and sweat and a few well-earned tears. He’s fucking exhausted.
“You like me bossy,” Shane mutters, but he unlocks the door and shoots Ilya one last worried glance. “I love you.”
“Mm. I love you, too.”
Shane raises an eyebrow. “Say it in Russian? Please?”
”Ya tebya lyublu. Happy?”
”Very,” Shane grins, and finally steps out of the bathroom. He holds the door open for Ilya, who follows dutifully.
The team don’t tease them nearly half as much as Ilya had expected; in fact, they make the trip back to their seats in almost complete silence. Harris shoots him a small, encouraging smile, which only really serves to make Ilya feel worse. He must look like shit, eyes red-rimmed, hair a mess, and not in a cool, sexy way.
But, he reminds himself, he has a good team. The best team, in personality if not in skill. Maybe he couldn’t get away with this in Boston; No, he definitely couldn’t have Shane Hollander follow him into a bathroom on a plane in Boston. Or anywhere, for that matter, even though it was totally innocent; even though he was just holding him.
But he can get away with it, now. Because Shane Hollander is his husband, and he has a Canadian passport that says Ilya Hollander-Rozanov. People know about them, and Ilya can freak out in a bathroom and let his husband ease him back out into real life, and it’s not a big deal.
Shane’s head drops onto his shoulder, like he can read his thoughts and wants to emphasize the point. It’s not a big deal.
In the end, there is no turbulence.
Whatever weather system they were expecting to run into passed; they landed in Pittsburgh a half-hour early, with no trouble at all. Some of the guys clap when the plane lands, a phenomenon that Ilya has gotten used to after many years in the States, but still can’t bring himself to join in with.
He does squeeze Shane’s hand, though, and offers him a grateful, shaky smile. It’s been a difficult day. A difficult few days, and it’s not over, Ilya knows this; They have a game to play tomorrow, and then a flight home.
But the anxiety that had been lingering for the better part of the week, that awful nausea that had rooted itself in the pit of Ilya’s stomach, was gone. Maybe talking to Shane helped; maybe it was the fact that the plane didn’t actually fucking crash.
As they de-board, Ilya makes a mental note to talk to Galina about all of this. It hadn’t felt important enough until now, but if Shane is risking the teasing that comes with following him to the bathroom, Ilya figures it’s relevant enough to talk to his therapist.
“So,” Shane breathes, bumping his shoulder against Ilya’s as they walk towards the bus, “I spoke to Wiebe. He’s going to fix the, uh, mistake on the rooming assignments.”
“Mistake?” Ilya frowns, shifting his bag where it rests against his shoulder. “I was very clear with admin that me and you are not—“
”No, no,” The tips of Shane’s ears turn pink, and he tugs his baseball cap and little further down in the stupid, adorable way he does when he’s nervous. “Um. We’re together, now.”
Ilya holds his hand up, showing off the black band currently sitting safely on his finger. “Oh, wow, are we? I thought we were just very close friends—“
”I mean we’re sharing a room, asshole. God. Why do you have to make everything so—“
Whatever Shane was going to snipe back is swallowed when Ilya tugs him to the side and kisses him. Just once, and quickly, because he knows how Shane feels about public displays of affection. But still, Shane smiles against his lips, and chases him when he pulls back to press a sweet, chaste kiss to his cheek.
The rest of the team are slowly boarding the bus, leaving their bags and suitcases aside to be stowed away.
“You do not have to room with me,” Ilya says, serious, “I know is hard, with the team. I will be okay.”
”I want to room with you. You’re my husband,” Shane argues, picking Ilya’s bag up off the floor, “I just… I’m still learning that I’m, like, allowed to. Love you, I mean. In front of people.”
Ilya blinks; he can only watch Shane carry both of their suitcases, effortlessly, and stow them away under the bus while giving the assistant a polite smile. Control freak Hollander, Ilya thinks, and adjusts his backpack on his shoulder.
He’s loved Shane for so long, and still, he finds ways to surprise him. Ways to take care of him, make him feel held, feel loved. Ilya wants to spend the rest of his life being surprised.
“C’mon, Rozanov!” Shane calls, halfway onto the bus. “We’ve got a game to win!”