Chapter Text
To no one’s surprise, it happens in Toronto. The defenseman comes out of nowhere and before Shane fully registers what has happened, he’s lying on the ice.
There’s a flurry of activity around him, as the play stops and the medics hurry to check him over. He’s vaguely aware of his husband screaming bloody murder from somewhere inside the penalty box, but Shane has little headspace to focus on anything except the excruciating pain across his abdomen.
It’s towards the end of the Third Period, and Shane is carted off the ice and into an adjacent medical room. A few minutes later, Ilya comes bursting through the doors, making a beeline towards Shane’s side.
The doctor has looked him over, by this point, and has concluded that probably nothing serious has happened. Shane is to go to the hospital for further checkups, but most likely the doctors will say the same. The pain, too, has been reduced to little more than a manageable throb and Shane, by all accounts, considers himself to be quite lucky.
Ilya, however, is not so easily persuaded.
He asks further questions, pestering the doctor and fawning over Shane simultaneously, continuing even as Wiebe enters the room, and the doctor relays the same message.
Shane, by now, wants nothing more than to leave the arena, get to the hospital and go home. He tries to tell Ilya as much, but Ilya ignores him. He’s scared, Shane knows, ignoring his words and the doctor’s, too. His fingers keep flitting across him, checking his head, checking his chest, checking his abdomen, whispering soft apologies as Shane lets out a hiss.
Over Ilya’s shoulder, Shane sees the doctor and Wiebe give each other a look, and in a single, sudden bout of impatient anxiety, Shane ends up saying the words that come to ruin everything –
– “Don’t touch me.”
Shane barely recognizes his voice, although it was certainly he that said it. His mouth which formed those words.
The effect is instantaneous. The room goes quiet like someone’d sucked all sounds from it.
As if they’d coordinated it, both the doctor and Wiebe turn away, similar embarrassed-looking hues spreading across their cheeks.
Shane doesn’t notice, all his attention focused on Ilya. His kind-hearted, worried husband who freezes, hands flying to his sides as if he’d been burned.
Shane wants to take it back. Wants to explain that he doesn’t actually mind Ilya touching him, it’s just that he doesn’t want others to see him do it. Doesn’t want others to judge them. To take something that is precious and twist it into something ugly.
Shane, of course, has no idea how to convey this, and gets a front row seat as Ilya’s heart breaks before his eyes. Eyes dimming and lips trembling in slow, painful technicolor.
It causes Shane’s heart to break, too, and he vows, immediately, never to see such a look cross his husband’s face again. He lifts his hand, pathetically, reaching for Ilya, but his husband doesn’t see, his back turned as he asks the doctor another question.
Shane’s heart stutters. He promises that he will do better. He will practice; he will make a plan; he will become so goddamn good at PDA that Ilya will grow tired of his touch once he’s done with him.
Like he does with everything else, Shane throws his head into PDA planning with meticulous finesse. With lists and charts and diagrams. He creates a timeline and a list of potential PDAs, ranking them on a scale from “Small” to “Scott Hunter”, wondering which ones might fit best within which particular contexts. With a burner account, Shane creates a vision board, and then, just to be thorough, he creates three more.
He plans and plans, and yet – he doesn’t really get anywhere. After The IncidentTM, as Shane has decided to call that day in Toronto, Ilya makes sure to keep his hands to himself, and Shane… Shane lets him. And contents himself with the fact that Ilya’s touch is one to indulge in behind closed doors only.
Ilya is, as always, perfect. He never says anything. Doesn’t so much as indicate that he is unhappy with Shane or their life and the way they go about it. Perhaps he isn’t.
Except Shane sees him. Sees the way he looks at their teammates with their partners, and Shane knows that his husband is jealous. To be completely honest, so is Shane. But on the best of days, his anxiety wins out and on the worst… he keeps picturing the Montreal locker room. Their sneers as they realized that his relationship with Ilya was true. As they realized that Shane had fallen in love with the enemy. With Ilya Rozanov.
Shane’s most beautiful, kind-hearted, precious husband.
Shane cannot bear the thought of anyone in Ottawa ever looking at them like that. Looking at Ilya like that. Not when their lives are so much better than they ever have been. Not when Shane gets to play on the same team as his husband. Not when he gets to go home with said husband and fall asleep in his arms. Wake up next to him, too, never having to worry over goodbyes or when they will see each other again.
But Ilya trusts the team, and Shane trusts Ilya, and, so, Shane can be brave for him. Wants to be brave for him. For the both of them.
In the end, it isn’t any of his lists that does the trick. In fact, Shane’s ensuing actions aren’t even mentioned on a list. No, when Shane finally breaks the bubble, it is because he cannot help himself. Because he is helpless in the face of his husband and that magnetic pull which has kept him in a chokehold ever since that cold, snowy day in Saskatchewan.
They are in the locker room, air filled with mindless chatter. The team is celebrating a win against Winnipeg, and it is, in itself, rather an inconspicuous night. The win was expected, and so, they aren’t elated so much as they are content in the knowledge that these wins are now something they can trust in. The knowledge that they can trust themselves to live up to their own expectations and those of the people around them.
When he feels that first pull, Shane has just come out of the showers. Ilya was quicker than him, having been tapped for post-game interviews, and he’s got half his suit on already when Shane pulls open his locker.
Ilya gives him a small smile, a quick acknowledgement of the fact that Ilya sees him. That Ilya is glad that he is here, that he loves him. He’s humming a tune beneath his breath, something Shane doesn’t recognize, but it makes his insides go fuzzy all the same. Reminds him of summers spent at the cottage, and slow mornings cooking breakfast side by side.
Shane returns the smile, a faint blush covering his cheeks, and Ilya’s lips quirk into the smallest of smirks. Shane rolls his eyes good-naturedly, moving to pull on his own suit.
Harris’s head pops into the locker room, asking Ilya and Hayes if they’re ready. Both men nod, yelling out something in the affirmative. Then, Ilya turns to Shane, saying something else as he puts on his wristwatch. It’s a Rolex, a deal he secured after their secret was out.
But Shane doesn’t hear what Ilya says. Doesn’t look at the Rolex, either, even though it is a truly beautiful watch.
No, Shane’s attention is completely and utterly occupied by Ilya’s tie. A tie that Shane’s father gave to Ilya last Christmas, and one that Shane knows that Ilya cherishes. It’s also, Shane notes, completely crooked.
Shane feels his fingers twitch at his sides, urging to reach out and fix it. Except Shane doesn’t move. He feels frozen in place, eyes locked on that one conspicuous piece of clothing.
“Looks good?” Ilya notices Shane’s gaze, fingers coming up to touch the fabric. Ilya doesn’t look down, eyes fixed on Shane, and so, he doesn’t fix it. He gives his husband another smile, and then he joins Hayes, heading towards the door. Towards the reporters.
Towards the cameras.
Shane knows that Ilya will be sad, later, when he sees it. Not due to vanity but due to it being that tie. Worried that he would have hurt Shane’s father, as if Shane’s father would ever take something like that to heart.
Shane feels like he’s watching a movie in slow motion.
Ilya and Hayes join each other at the door, the latter saying something that makes the former laugh. They’re slapping each other’s backs, Ilya’s hand reaching towards the handle, pressing down on it, and then –
“Wait!”
Several heads turn in Shane’s direction, before he realizes that he has yelled the word for all to hear. Ilya turns, too, a small frown appearing between his brows, the telltale signs of worry making their way onto his face.
Shane licks his lips and then, before he has time to second-guess himself, he strides across the room in short, controlled steps, coming to a stop right in front of Ilya. His husband opens his mouth, undoubtedly to ask him whether everything is all right.
But Shane is on a mission. He ignores Ilya, opting instead to reach out, to grab hold of the tie to smooth it out, straighten it, making sure that it is absolutely perfect.
Once he’s satisfied, he looks up, meeting Ilya’s eyes.
His husband looks at him with a carefully controlled gaze. Shane sees a bit of confusion, too, but whatever he sees in Shane’s eyes seems to satisfy him, and Shane watches in real time as Ilya’s face softens, every feature relaxing into one of love.
Shane is nothing short of helpless as he leans forward and presses a kiss to his cheek. “It was crooked,” he whispers, and the smile that Ilya gives him is so warm, so open, that Shane thinks the sun would have trouble competing.
Shane leans back, and Hayes lets out an apologetic sound. “We should be going,” he says, but when Shane gathers the courage to look at him, he, too, has a smile playing around his lips.
“I’ll find you after,” Shane says to Ilya, and Ilya rewards him with a wink, before the two disappear out of the door.
Shane gives himself a moment to pause, to prepare, but when he turns around no one is looking at him. Not because they’re ignoring him, but because everyone has returned to their previous activities upon realizing that the matter did not concern them. The air is abuzz with that same mindless chatter, and Shane attempts to copy Ilya’s tune, softly humming it beneath his breath as he returns to his locker.
Later, at home, when Shane and Ilya rewatch the interview, Shane notices that Ilya’s hands keep straying towards the tie before he freezes and lowers them again, opting to fold them across the desk instead.
“Did not want to ruin artwork,” Ilya whispers. He presses a kiss to Shane’s hair, and Shane tightens his hold around him. They’re lying on the couch, legs tangled, Anya snoring softly somewhere behind him.
There are no signs of anxiety sneaking up on Shane.
In this moment, he feels nothing but utter bliss.
It becomes a habit, thereafter, Ilya asking Shane to straighten his tie. More often than not, they’re crooked, and Shane suspects that Ilya does this on purpose, although neither ever comments on it. Shane is only too happy to be given an excuse to touch his husband, Ilya more than happy to be touched. It feels grounding, after games, and Shane comes to look forward to these moments.
It doesn’t take long, however, for Shane to feel that he needs to up his game. He can’t wait for a crooked tie in order to be able to touch his husband in public, and whether or not Ilya has caught on to what Shane’s doing, he knows that he will let him set the pace. It is what he has always done, and this, it seems, is no different.
Shane consults his lists and his vision boards, wondering which action might be appropriate as a next step, but he isn’t able to settle on anything. He doesn’t have to stress for too long, however, as the next moment, like the first, presents itself spontaneously.
This time, they’re in Bood’s backyard. They’ve been playing together for about two months, and although it has turned chilly outside, it’s not too chilly to engage in one last BBQ. They’ve been on the road for two weeks, winning more than even they had dared hope, and it is a cause for celebration.
The space is filled with Centaurs and their partners, and Shane cannot help comparing it to the gatherings with the Voyageurs. Partners had rarely been invited, and a considerable amount of alcohol intake was mandatory. He makes a mental note to talk to Jackie about it, wondering what that must feel like from a WAG perspective.
Shane, of course, is technically a player as well as a WAG, although his situation is rather unique. To be compared with Ilya’s, only. At least as far as they are aware.
Like the first time, it all begins with a piece of clothing. Despite consulting the weather forecast several times throughout the day, the air outside felt colder than Shane had expected. It had resulted in no less than three conversations in the car over whether Shane should have brought an extra sweater or not. He doesn’t understand why he didn’t. He could have left it in the car or draped it across a chair.
Ilya doesn’t say much, seemingly content to let Shane have the discussion all by himself, and, perhaps, secretly knowing that nothing he says will help dispel Shane’s anxiety. He offers to turn around, several times, but Shane is still worried about his impression on the team. He doesn’t want Ilya to turn around, doesn’t want them to be late, doesn’t want to seem like he doesn’t care about Bood’s invite.
In the end, they pull up to the house, and as Shane is about to start the discussion for a fourth time, Ilya takes off his sweater, pulling it over Shane’s head before he has time to protest.
“There.” Ilya says. “Can’t have you getting cold.” He presses a quick peck to his lips and starts towards the house.
Shane splutters. “You’ll be cold,” he says, once he catches up to him, “It’s cold outside.”
“Not that cold,” Ilya says and to him, that seems to settle the matter. He waves to Barrett and Harris who are approaching from the other direction. Shane takes a slow breath. Then, he decides to leave it.
Except, it turns out, Shane is right. Two hours into the gathering, bellies filled with delicious food, Ilya is shivering. He doesn’t show it, in fact, Shane is sure that he is the only one noticing, but to Shane, this is all that he is able to focus on.
He’s in the middle of a conversation with Harris and Haas, but it’s been several minutes since he perceived what either one was saying. His eyes are trained on Ilya across the yard, sitting next to the fire with half a dozen players and their partners.
Again, Shane feels that magnetic pull, and before realizing what he is doing, he excuses himself, making his way toward the fire.
Ilya notices him as he walks around the pit, smile lighting up his face, even as he doesn’t break his conversation with Dykstra. He goes to move, too, to make room for Shane, but Shane shakes his head, stops him.
A look of confusion crosses Ilya’s face, smile briefly faltering, before Shane decides to muster his courage and plops down, not beside Ilya, but behind him. He stretches his legs, thighs coming to circle his husband, one hand sneaking around his front to tangle their fingers together.
Dykstra’s talking, now, replying to something that Ilya has said, and which Shane doesn’t follow. Shane is hyperaware of his husband, feels him stiffen, briefly, against him before tentatively leaning back, weight settling against Shane’s chest.
Shane gives his hand a squeeze, and Ilya positively melts against him, a small sigh escaping his lips as he does. Shane tightens his grip, makes sure his husband is comfortable, before parting his gaze to look around.
His eyes flicker from Centaur to Centaur, but, Shane is surprised to note, no one pays them any attention. Dykstra’s speech never halts, and the others are busy, engaged in their own conversations. Some of the other partners sit like Shane and Ilya do, and no one’s batting an eyelid.
Shane feels a slight rumble against his chest, and his attention returns to his husband. Ilya is talking again, and Shane detects the warmth in his voice. An easiness which wasn’t there before.
Emboldened, Shane lets his free hand trail across Ilya’s arms, reminding himself of his original mission. He moves his hand back and forth in an attempt to warm him. He wants to offer him his sweater, too, but knows that Ilya will refuse.
Once happy that his husband is warmer than before, Shane shifts his attention, hand coming to settle at the nape of Ilya’s neck, fingers twirling around his husband’s curls. Ilya lets out another noise, one most fittingly reminiscent of a purr, and Shane presses a kiss between his shoulder blades. The purr deepens, and Shane has to hide a smile.
Once the conversation reaches its natural conclusion, Dykstra rises and asks Shane and Ilya if they would like anything to drink. They thank him and, when he’s gone, they stay like that for a few moments, silent, Shane’s hand never stopping its small ministrations.
“Are you cold?” Shane asks, words spoken softly, for Ilya’s ears only.
Ilya takes a moment to reply, mouth opening and shutting, before finally settling on a shaky breath.
“I’ve never been warmer,” he whispers, fingers tightening around Shane’s own.
Shane gives him another kiss.
Slowly, it becomes easier, hands touching and fingers caressing as they progress throughout the season. It’s not obvious and never outside the circle of Centaurs, but it’s something. It’s definitely more than before the beginning of the season.
Still, it doesn’t feel like enough.
Ilya has yet to instigate touches himself, seemingly content with whatever Shane is willing to give, and Shane has no idea how to address it. Shane wants to. Wants to let Ilya know that he is allowed to have this, to ask for it when he needs it. But he doesn’t want to make his husband self-conscious. Doesn’t want to make him think that he’s expecting too much.
For the first time, this means that Shane decides to act out an item from the list. It’s not one originally planned in those early days, but it’s one that made its way on there after the BBQ in Bood’s backyard.
It is, however, also a tricky one.
With no other way to explain it, it is a recreation of The IncidentTM.
The trickiness, of course, stems from the fact that it requires for Shane to be knocked down during a game and, so, isn’t really something that is within Shane’s control. He doesn’t want to be knocked down on purpose, in fact, doesn’t particularly want to be knocked down at all. But they are hockey players, and therefore Shane figures that it is bound to happen at some point. And when it does – Shane’s plan is ready to execute.
Like most of Shane’s plans, however, it goes to absolute shit.
To begin with, it happens, of all places, in New York. Against Scott Hunter.
Shane and Ilya are on fire. They’re leading the Admirals 4-1, Ilya’s chirps loud and boisterous and relentless in a way that Shane knows is bound to grate on Scott’s nerves. On anyone’s nerves, really, except the Admiral’s captain looks more than normally annoyed. Shane considers asking Ilya to stop, but Ilya looks so happy, so carefree in a way he didn’t for years, that Shane doesn’t have the heart to do it.
They’re on the power play, puck flying between them, when, suddenly, Shane feels himself being checked into the boards.
He doesn’t think much of it, beyond the initial shock. In fact, for a moment he’s almost happy, ready to be whiny and needy and begging for Ilya to hold his hand – after the game, of course, when the doctor will insist on another check-up. Except, when he looks for Ilya, he has trouble finding him, the entire world spinning as he pushes to sit.
He makes a pathetic grabbing motion with his hand, but when he’s able to anchor himself it is Barrett, there, to steady him and ask him to stay where he is.
Shane scoffs, goes to tell him that he is fine, except Barrett winces, eyes straying towards the ice. Shane takes a moment, then follows his gaze and realizes that, perhaps, he isn’t too fine. The ice beneath him has turned a shocking shade of red, and it turns redder still, as Shane ignores Barrett.
He looks around with renewed vigor, wanting to make sure that Ilya isn’t hurt as well. It takes him a second, but when he finds him, he just about has time to see his husband throwing down his gloves, Scott’s hands raising in an apologetic gesture. Then, the former’s fist connects with the latter’s face, and Shane can’t hold back a wince, even though he’s the one currently bleeding.
Ilya gets ready to strike again, when, head pounding, Shane lets out a whimper.
It is a dumb move on Shane’s part as Ilya stiffens, gaze straying to look for Shane. A defenseman from the Admirals is quick to exploit this as he gets a hook in, and then, Ilya’s the one going down.
Shane lets out a strangled noise, and then he’s on his feet, ignoring both Barrett and Hayes, as they tell him to stay down until the medics arrive. Shane, however, is hyper-fixated on his husband, who’s still lying on the ice.
Before he has time to think through his actions, his gloves join Ilya’s and he makes an absolutely pitiful attempt to hit the defenseman. Scott intercedes, gaze remorseful, and he gives Shane an undeniably gentle push, letting him fall back across Ilya’s prone form.
Ilya, somehow, manages to shield his head from further damage, probably, partly, helped along by Scott’s directions, and the two stay down, the fight decidedly over.
Shane lets out an embarrassed huff which quickly turns into a groan, as he accepts that, yes, he really should have stayed down. He’s just barely aware of Ilya’s fingers flitting across his face, and if Shane had ever had a plan in a situation like this, the memory of it has been successfully knocked out along with a substantial amount of his blood.
“You okay?” Ilya says, voice laced with pain. He fights his way upright, looking Shane up and down. The medics have arrived at this point, and they’re telling Ilya to get out of the way, except Ilya doesn’t move and with a couple of exasperated huffs, the medics begin to move around him.
“’m fine,” Shane mumbles, then winces, “Head hurts.” His words trail off, and then Ilya’s there, closer, gently cradling his head between his hands. Shane lets out a soft hum and feels a short burst of victory although he has trouble remembering why this should be.
Ilya’s asking him to look at him, and Shane realizes that his eyes have closed. He wonders why that is, but things are starting to become fuzzy.
Ilya repeats the words, louder than before, and Shane gathers every ounce of strength to fixate on his husband. Ilya rewards him with a smile, but he is covered in blood and Shane frowns in return, ignoring a stab of pain as he does.
Ilya follows his gaze. “It isn’t mine,” he whispers, fingers trailing across his brows, his freckles, into his hair. “You’re going to be okay,” he adds, “Just look at me. You defended me.”
Shane feels a stab of humiliation. “Very pathetically,” he whispers.
“Oh no,” Ilya shakes his head, a few tears escaping his eyes as he does, “Was very sexy. Most sexy punch I’ve ever seen.”
Shane lets out a laugh, which quickly turns into a cough. Ilya shushes him, tells him to save his energy.
A few minutes later, Shane is placed onto a backboard. He briefly loses sight of Ilya and lets out another pathetic whimper before warm hands interlace with his, soothing words filling the air around him. There’s a kiss, too, he thinks, pressed to his temple, although he might have imagined it.
He’s reminded, inadvertently, of another incident like this. One where Ilya wasn’t allowed to follow. Remembers begging for the medics to let Ilya know that he was okay.
Shane feels a sudden jolt of happiness, however strange, relieved by the knowledge that no one will try to separate them this time. He hums softly, acknowledging Ilya’s words, his presence, silently urging him to continue as he’s wheeled into the back of an ambulance.
No one tries to make Ilya leave, and when Shane repeats that he is fine, he means it.
Despite the team being down not only Shane Hollander but also Ilya Rozanov, the Centaurs win the match, and they continue winning until they make it into the playoffs.
Shane has to stay on bed rest for a few matches, but mercifully nothing is broken, and when, finally, they win that decisive game, Shane is next to Ilya on the ice again.
Shane doesn’t know if they have what it takes to win the Cup yet, but for this one night, no one’s thinking of that. They have taken over a bar in downtown Ottawa, players and WAGs mingling in a happy, mindless cluster.
It isn’t Shane’s favorite activity on Earth, clubbing, but he knows that Ilya wants to go and who is Shane to deny him? Besides, he thinks the experience might have grown on him after he doesn’t have to pretend that he enjoys being flirted with by strange women.
It’s also, he figures, a good opportunity to amp up on the PDA. He’s already seen his teammates do things with their partners which are definitely NSFW, and Shane figures that this is as good an opportunity as any to expand his repertoire.
Except, Shane isn’t sure what to do. He considers asking Ilya to dance, except Ilya doesn’t seem interested in doing this. At least, he hasn’t asked Shane, and Shane has spent around 90 minutes wondering whether this is because he does not want to, or because he figures that Shane does not. So far, Shane hasn’t mustered up the courage to ask him himself.
The problem is that Shane is a terrible dancer. Rose has told him this many times, dating back to when they were dating, and Shane doesn’t wish to embarrass Ilya. He only ever wants Ilya to feel content and confident when they are together, and maybe he hasn’t asked Shane because Ilya shares Rose’s sentiments.
He’s lost in thought when Lisa and Cassie plop down on either side of him.
“Girl.” Lisa makes a gesture with her hand, and it takes Shane a moment to realize that he’s the one being addressed. “You need to go claim your man.”
“What?” Shane is confused.
“Take it from a fellow WAG.” Cassie’s voice is gentle but firm. “Some fans are relentless. Don’t let them get away with it. They’ll start unfounded rumors on Reddit.”
Shane is utterly confused, looking from one to the other. He gazes absentmindedly at the dance floor, but Ilya isn’t anywhere to be seen.
Lisa seems to sense his confusion, and she very gently nudges him to look across the bar, to a cluster of tables where Ilya has been cornered by a flock of women.
Shane gulps, clocking Ilya’s discomfort even from across the bar.
Cassie and Lisa misinterpret his discomfort and hurry to reassure him.
“Oh, no, honey.” Cassie speaks and Lisa shakes her head. “You have absolutely nothing to worry about – dude is whipped. That man is in love.” Her voice slurs a bit, although her confidence is not to be doubted. “We have never seen him so much as look at another person since he moved here.”
“Most of the time, he used to stare at his phone,” Lisa supplies, “And now we know why.” She gives him a playful nudge, and Shane attempts a smile which, he is sure, looks more like a grimace.
“However,” her voice sobers, and she leans in again, waiting until she has his full attention before speaking, “You need to show those fans that they cannot get away with this. Not with the two of you.”
“Not with a married man,” Cassie scoffs, “Not with a Centaur. That shit might work in Toronto or Montreal, but it does not work here.”
Shane looks at Ilya, again, and he can see him disappear further into his seat, too polite even as he itches to get away. For a moment, Shane doesn’t move. Then, a bout of protectiveness overtakes his instincts, and he downs his drink, Lisa and Cassie both whooping as he rises.
He’s oddly reminded of that time in the locker room, when he went to fix Ilya’s tie and felt an almost otherworldly determination overtaking him. It’s the same determination that he feels now, as he crosses the dance floor, not stopping until he’s reached Ilya’s table.
His husband looks at him, sends him a mildly panicked look, but Shane ignores it. Ignores the women, too, as he walks around them and straddles his husband’s lap.
Shane sees it again, that brief look of confusion, but it doesn’t stop Ilya from securing his arms around him, one going around to rest on his ass, to keep him from falling.
“Hi,” Shane says. It’s all he says, before he leans forward, catching Ilya’s lips in a searing kiss. The sort of kiss that would make Scott Hunter blush.
For a moment, Ilya is frozen. It’s almost enough for Shane to pull back, doubt starting to creep into the corners of his mind, but then, Ilya makes an appreciative noise, moving to deepen the kiss. A few more seconds and he’s matching Shane’s fervor, the latter panting to keep up.
Both men ignore the offended sounds of the women, even as one of them goes so far as to attempt conversation.
Shane lets out an exasperated huff, fingers tightening in his husband’s curls.
“Sweetheart.” Ilya tries to make a soothing noise, pulling back even as Shane’s grip grows tighter. “I love you for this but – everyone can see.”
Shane knows that Ilya isn’t thinking of himself, when he says this, but of Shane. Shane, however, is also slightly drunk, and so, he lets out a confused moan, chasing his husband’s lips as they disappear. When he doesn’t find them, he presses his mouth against his neck, and Ilya lets out a tortured groan.
The women are leaving, by this point, but Shane has no intention of stopping. He doesn’t want to share Ilya with anyone else. Doesn’t want anyone in this building to think that they have a chance. They came here to celebrate – together – and no one gets to ruin that. No one gets to make his husband feel uncomfortable.
“Moya lyuobov …” Ilya is breathless, fingers trailing up and down Shane’s back. “Let me take you home,” he whispers, “I cannot do here the things I want to do to you.”
For a moment, the scrape of Shane’s teeth grows stronger.
Then, he pulls back. Considers Ilya’s words.
It’s a tempting offer, and a few months ago, Shane would have already been moving. But now… Now, Shane is settled with the knowledge that Ilya isn’t going anywhere. The two of them are going to go home, together, be it now or another three hours from now. They don’t have to rush out, don’t have to make the most of every single moment before the sun rises. Tomorrow, Ilya will still be there. In the same city, in the same house. The same bed.
“Dance with me,” Shane says. He watches the look of surprise as it crosses Ilya’s face, but it’s a positive one, Shane thinks. His mouth is twitching as if he doesn’t dare believe what Shane has just asked him.
“You mean that?” he says, eyes shining in the glow of the bar.
Shane nods, shyly. He can feel a blush spreading across his cheeks, but he repeats the question, Ilya’s smile growing bigger as he does. “I mean it,” he says, “Unless you do not want to. I know I’m not as good as –“
Shane doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Ilya hauls them both up, Shane’s legs going around his husband’s hips, before they’re standing, and he can slip down without falling. He doesn’t get the chance to say much else, however, before Ilya’s hands are dragging him towards the dance floor.
There’s a moment of hesitation, as they join the throng of bodies, Shane not sure what to do with himself. He doesn’t recognize the song, but Ilya, as always, doesn’t let him falter for long. He raises his hands, indicates that he should clasp them around his neck, and Shane follows the directive without pause. Once his hands are secure, Ilya lets out yet another smile, hands coming to rest, safely, around Shane’s hips.
Ilya is gentle with him, as they begin to sway, making sure that Shane is with him, that he is comfortable.
Shane is inadvertently hit by a stark contrast, mind flitting to a memory of him and Rose, together, in a club, and Ilya’s arms around someone else. He’d cried, that night, after he’d left Rose, big ugly sobs racking his frame as he’d imagined Ilya with someone else. Imagined someone else with his arms around them, his kisses across their skin.
Shane raises his gaze and without either of them speaking, he swears he can see Ilya thinking of that same night. He knows, now, that Ilya didn’t leave with that woman. That he, too, fell asleep with thoughts of Shane haunting his mind.
In the present, Shane presses closer, arms tightening around Ilya’s neck. He isn’t sure which one of them makes the first move, but another beat, and they’re kissing, exchanging breathy moans beneath the flashing lights.
Shane knows that they’re in public. Knows that anyone can look at them, knows that anyone can record them. But Shane doesn’t think about that. Doesn’t think about all the things that could go wrong.
In this moment, he thinks only of his husband. His love. He thinks of his arms around him, thinks of the safeness that ensconces him.
He might be crying, he thinks, soft tears trailing down his cheeks. They’re tears of joy, but Ilya notices them all the same. He leans back a bit, lets his lips trail across his cheeks, catching them as he goes along. He whispers sweet nonsense against Shane’s skin, Shane not entirely sure what he’s saying, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except that Ilya is here, in his arms, and Shane is never letting go.
And if anyone’s looking at them? They can keep looking for all Shane cares.
In the end, the Centaurs don’t win. They make a good run for it, but the Admirals clinch a surprising win in the final round. In some way, Shane is happy for Scott, happy that he got to have more than one Cup. With his talent, he deserves it.
He thinks that Ilya is happy for him, too, although he doesn’t verbalize it. He still hasn’t forgiven him for the check against Shane, although it was a clean one.
When the season finally ends, all Shane and Ilya want to do is escape to the cottage. The year has been nothing short of incredible, although not without its challenges.
Shane, however, convinces Ilya to hold off a little longer. Ilya has been nominated for the Hart Memorial Trophy, and Shane wants him to enjoy it. Wants him to go to the awards and soak in his much-deserved attention. What he has done with the Centaurs is nothing short of incredible, and Shane wants to remind him as often as possible. Wants the world to see it, too.
It takes a while, and Shane has to pull out more than his fair share of tricks, but eventually they fly to Las Vegas. They enter the building, clad in similar tuxedos and hands intertwined, ignoring the paparazzi as they do.
Once inside, Ilya attempts to let go, but Shane doesn’t let him. To prove a point, he grasps Ilya’s hand in both of his, and Ilya gives him a peck to the lips.
Shane is happy to note that Ilya has finally gained the courage to instigate PDAs himself. They still haven’t discussed that first night in Toronto, but Shane likes to think that Ilya knows what Shane is feeling. Likes to think that Shane wants to do this for the both of them. Needs to do this for the both of them, even as he struggles to convey why.
The night itself passes mostly without incident. They know by now who’s safe to talk to and who’s to be avoided. To Shane’s continued sorrow, most of his former teammates fall within the second category. Every time they come near them, however, Ilya is quick to distract him. He makes him laugh and blush and fluster in an endless loop so that Shane doesn’t have time to be sad.
They talk to Scott Hunter and his husband, although Shane does most of the talking. He’s slightly mortified to discover that, yes, Ilya plans on ignoring the Admiral despite the numerous apologies that he has sent Shane’s – and Ilya’s – way. Even despite the fact that he’s signed up to coach the camps in Ottawa as well as Montreal this year.
Shane fully plans on confronting Ilya except shortly after, they run into the defenseman who’d hit Ilya, when Ilya had turned to check on him. Then, it’s Shane’s turn to go quiet, as Ilya turns up the social skills. He teases Shane for it, afterwards, and Shane finds that he doesn’t care. No one gets a free pass to hurt his husband.
Eventually, it’s time to sit down. They’re mercifully surrounded by their teammates and their partners, and somehow, they manage to have a good night.
It becomes all the better when it’s time to announce the Hart Memorial Trophy, and the presenters call out Ilya’s name. For a moment, Shane can feel him stiffen beside him.
Shane knows that Ilya didn’t really believe it. Didn’t believe he’d ever win another trophy after moving to the Centaurs. Believed that that part of his career was over.
And Shane knows, too, that Ilya wouldn’t have cared. That he would choose Shane over hockey any day of the week. Would let himself be sent down to the AHL if that was what it required for them to be together.
Shane forgot that once, but he has vowed never to forget it again.
As the applause overtakes them, Ilya turns to him, happy confusion clouding his face, and he leans forward, cradling Shane in his arms. Shane returns the hug, happy tears welling in his eyes, for his husband, for the both of them. For the fact that they get to share this moment together.
Their teammates are clapping Ilya’s back, and then he rises, remembering that he has to go on stage and deliver a speech. He pauses for a second, turning to give Shane one final, dazzling smile, eyes so soft that Shane wonders, for the umpteenth time, what he did to get so lucky.
What he does next is pure instinct. It has nothing to do with lists or charts or vision boards. It is done, perhaps, a little defiantly, but Shane thinks that Ilya will forgive him.
He rises, and when his eyes lock on Ilya’s, they are finally, blessedly, free from that confusion which has overtaken them since that day in Toronto.
His husband smiles as their lips meet, barely able to return the kiss, but Shane doesn’t care. It is, without comparison, one of the best ones that they have ever shared. It might look terrible, but that is all right. Shane will try to outdo it next year when they win the Stanley Cup.
For a second, Ilya’s fingers tighten around Shane’s. Then, he lets go, gives him another peck to the cheek and turns, taking in the thunderous applause as he mounts the stairs.
Ilya’s looking at Shane as he gives his speech. He barely hears a word of it, attention focused solely on the glow of his husband beneath the lights.
He’ll watch it tomorrow, Shane tells himself. He’ll watch it until it is forever ingrained in his brain. He’ll frame the photo, too, and show it off to anyone who’s willing to watch.