Work Text:
Dec 24 2012
The bar was dark, with sconces hanging off the wood-panelled walls, offering a red glow that added to the rustic feel the establishment was obviously going for. Ilya sat alone on one of the copper-legged stools at the lacquered wood bar, staring at the ring of condensation his beer left on the surface. He dragged a finger through it, watching the ring turn into an amorphous blob of water.
The bar was quiet. A welcome escape from the bustling streets outside as Bostonians tried to do their last-minute Christmas Eve shopping.
“Here you go, man,” the bartender said with a look that said he was wondering what Ilya was doing at a place like this on Christmas Eve. He slid a basket of fries in front of Ilya.
Ilya smiled tightly and nodded his thanks. Grimaced at the soggy fries in front of him. That was what he got for choosing the emptiest, most hole-in-the-wall bar he could find. But it was the only place that wasn’t playing damned Christmas music.
Ilya shoved three more fries into his mouth, trying to convince himself they weren’t that bad. He needed at least something to eat if he planned to drink more, which he did. Christmas was stupid. Ilya had been in America for 3 years now and still didn’t understand the appeal. The work involved seemed tedious; stressed people crowded the malls and shopping districts, panic-buying whatever they could find for people they forgot to buy gifts for. The number of people who slipped off ladders while they tried to put lights on their houses was a bit ridiculous, and the music had been incessant since November and was altogether too cheerful for Ilya.
The three days the NHL gave them off weren’t enough time for Ilya to visit home like many of the other players—not that he wanted to—and it was barely enough time to make it home from whatever away game they had just played. It was also cold, damp, and dark.
Ilya wondered what Shane Hollander was doing.
Probably spending the perfect Christmas with his perfect family being perfect. Whatever.
North Americans could keep their weird obsessions.
Tonight, Ilya planned to drink maybe five more beers before he cabbed home and fell into bed.
Tomorrow he would workout, maybe see if he could get into the rink to kill some time. He would play himself a Russian movie to soothe his homesickness and maybe try to find some lonely girl to hook up with. There were always lonely girls on Christmas.
December 24 2021
Ilya wiggled back into the plush warmth of the couch. They’ve been sitting there long enough that the fabric is soaked through with their body heat, the cushions perfectly indented with their weight.
Shane’s head rests heavily on his shoulder, and he’s drooling slightly into Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya’s cheek is probably creased by the indentation of Shane’s wiry hair where he rests his own head.
The expensive Artemide lamp Shane insisted on buying on their honeymoon, just because Ilya said he liked it, glows softly in the corner, and the smooth yellow lights of their Christmas tree make the room honey-drenched and warm.
The tree also has multicoloured lights, at Ilya’s behest, despite Shane’s teasing that the tree was going to fall over with how many lights Ilya had strung up on it. But Ilya liked watching the jumbled reds and blues and greens, and he knew Shane couldn’t relax with the chaos of it blinking away in the corner. So they got both.
Now, so that Shane can find calm inside that neurotic mind of his, the lights have been switched to their calm white-yellow glow.
A Christmas Story plays on the TV, the volume turned down to barely a whisper. Shane had exploded when Ilya had given him a blank look at the mention of the movie.
“You’ve never seen a Christmas Story?” he said incredulously.
“No,” Ilya rolled his eyes at the dramatic display.
“But it’s a classic!”
“American classic, maybe.”
“And you call yourself a cinephile.”
“I have never in my life called myself this.”
“It means someone who really likes movies, Ilya.”
Oh. Ilya liked that one. He would file that word away for later.
“Ah, yes, I like movies.”
“You’re always teasing me for not knowing things.”
“You have never seen Twilight!”
“And you’ve never seen A Christmas Story. I can’t be married to someone who hasn’t seen A Christmas Story.”
Ilya had groaned dramatically, throwing his head back, even as something warm glowed in his chest. “Okay, Hollander, you win. I must make sure I am worthy of this ring.” He held up his left hand where the black band warmed his finger. “I will watch.”
Shane smiled—that sweet, genuine expression that made Ilya’s stomach flip—and said, “You’ll always be worthy of that.” He kissed Ilya’s finger, and Ilya couldn’t help the way he felt the press of Shane’s lips against his wedding band like heat in his gut.
Shane’s laugh after that had been knowing as Ilya had hauled him onto the counter and fucked him in the kitchen.
Shane had fallen asleep less than fifteen minutes into the movie, despite the fact that Ilya was usually the one who fell asleep when they watched movies.
Ilya still didn’t fully understand the appeal of Christmas. But he liked it the same way he liked his birthday—being afforded time off to spend uninterrupted with Shane, receiving presents, so he wasn’t complaining.
Tonight, they would fall asleep on the couch together as the movie played softly in the background.
Tomorrow, Ilya would listen to Shane complain about how they were professional athletes and shouldn’t have let themselves sleep on the couch, while he rubbed a crick out of his neck. Ilya would tease him for being an old man. They would go to Shane’s parents' house, where Yuna would have 5 different types of cookies, including Ilya’s favourites.
Dec 24, 2022
“I don’t understand why we are doing dinner tonight. Is not Christmas.”
Shane rolled his eyes, “My parents insisted on flying Christmas Day, said the flights were cheapest, like they forget I’m a professional athlete. I could charter them a plane if they wanted.”
“We can just do next year,” Ilya shrugged.
“We can’t just ‘do next year’,” Shane laughed, imitating Ilya’s nonplussed tone, “Christmas is about spending time with family. We can’t just skip that.”
Ilya still didn’t really get it. “We can spend time with family all year,” he pointed out.
“Ilya!” The exasperation in his husband's voice made Ilya smile. “It’s about the time of year, the ambience. Like,” Shane waved his hands in the air looking adorably frustrated as he tried to find the right way to explain himself, “it’s about the season. The lights, the decoration, the music, it's magical. It’s a feeling. Spending time with family is part of it.”
Ilya made a face. “Christmas music. I don’t get it.”
“You don’t understand Christmas, period.” Shane rolled his eyes.
“True.”
Ilya watched as Shane sighed dramatically.
“You like spending time with family,” Shane insisted.
“Also true.”
Ilya dipped his finger into the pot of mashed potatoes on the stove, which was currently full of a myriad of pots and pans with different dishes in them. He made a “ooh, ooh, ooh” sound as he misjudged the temperature and shoved the buttery mixture in his mouth as quickly as possible.
Shane batted him away.
“Hey! We won’t have any left for tonight if you keep eating everything. I promised we'd make the side dishes,” Shane hissed.
“Ugh, live a little, Hollander,” Ilya griped good-naturedly, swiping another taste and narrowly avoiding Shane’s smacking hands. “Mmmm,” Ilya said dramatically, closing his eyes at the taste. It really was delicious.
“Good?” his husband said, with raised eyebrows, a fond exasperation on his face that Ilya had become so accustomed to.
“Incredible, lyubimiyy,” Ilya said, unable to help the way he grasped Shane’s waist to reel him in. His fingers played at the hem of Shane’s shirt, slipping up to find warm, dry skin. He leaned in and pressed his lips to Shane’s. The kiss was only chaste for a moment—sue him, he had no self-control when it came to Shane—before Ilya was plunging his tongue inside Shane’s mouth.
When he finally pulled away, Shane scrunched up his face. “You taste like garlic.”
“This is easy fix,” Ilya said, swiping up more mashed potatoes and smearing them across Shane’s lips.
Shane’s mouth dropped open in mock disbelief. His lips quirked up in a smile, “Rozanov, you’ll pay for—”
Ilya didn’t let him get that far. He kissed his husband with vigour, sucking the mashed potato off his face with messy enthusiasm. Shane spluttered and protested, but it was half-hearted, and soon he melted into it, butter under Ilya’s hands.
Shane had a dazed look when Ilya was finished. Pupils blown as he stared up at him with heat in his eyes.
Ilya smirked. “Now we both taste like garlic.”
Shane didn’t respond, only stared up at Ilya with that same expression, his lips slightly upturned, still catching his breath. Ilya stared back, letting his eyes wander down to Shane’s lips and back up. Ran his fingers along Shane’s hipbones, under his now rumpled dress shirt.
Ilya watched as Shane’s expression morphed from playful to lustful, the smile dropping from his face, his lips parting. A wet tongue swiped out, making them spit shiny. Then he was surging up, hands insistent in Ilya’s hair, tugging at his curls in a way that made Ilya’s hips jerk. Ilya pressed their hips together, their arousal obvious against each other.
“Wait, wait,” Shane groaned as he used his grip on Ilya’s hair to pull him away. “We have to finish this food. We have dinner in less than two hours. We don’t have time for this.”
“I can make it work. Two minutes only,” Ilya promised, leaning back in.
“Ilya, Svetlana will be here any minute.” Ilya groaned dramatically. “You’re such a baby. What happened to your Brussels sprouts anyway?”
Ilya turned to look at the bowl of halfed brussels sprouts he had been working on. Made a face.
“Why are we talking about Brussels sprouts right now, Hollander? When your dick is rock hard against my leg?”
Shane looked up at him with his dark doe eyes, cushioned by freckles. “Tomorrow,” Shane promised, “we have all of tomorrow to ourselves. I’ll make it worth it. I promise.”
He leaned up to press a soft kiss, right above the corner of Ilya’s mouth, then one on his nose.
“You promise,” Ilya echoed.
“I promise, big guy.”
“Yes, I am big guy. You are little guy,” Ilya nodded. Shane only rolled his eyes.
“If that will keep you on task, then fine. Now get back to those Brussels sprouts.”
“Yes, chef,” Ilya mock saluted, turning back to his task. “You will do them with the maple syrup and the bacon?”
Shane laughed. “Look at you, so Canadian with your maple syrup. Of course I’m doing them that way, it’s your favourite.”
On their way out the door, Sveta, having arrived an hour prior for her first Hollander Christmas Dinner, Ilya watched the two of them bicker about the stats of their last game as they hauled the dishes out to the car.
He stopped to switch the lights on their Christmas tree, wanting to come home to the warm glow of it, when his breath caught. Alongside the ornaments of Shane’s family— the two matching wreath-style frames, one with a photo of David and Yuna sitting on a couch looking younger than Ilya had ever known them, and the other with a photo of Shane and Ilya from their first Christmas as a couple—was a photo of Ilya’s mother, nestled into the pine branches.
He stared in consternation, wondering how Shane could have possibly gotten hold of a photo like that. Wondering when Shane had gotten it printed. Wondering how long it had been on the tree before he had noticed it. Wondering if Shane was ever going to mention doing it.
Tonight, Ilya would eat dinner with the Hollanders and Svetlana. He would stuff himself with good food, and make Yuna laugh when (as always) he ate a ridiculous amount of servings of brussels sprouts cooked the way Shane knew he liked them, and wonder if this was what it was like to be known.
Tomorrow, he would ask Shane about the ornament, and his sweet husband would smile shyly at him and shrug and say “Christmas magic.” He would distract Ilya with gentle kisses, then with more than that, and Ilya would forget more than the ornament as Shane rode him on the couch with enough eagerness that Ilya forgot his own name.
Dec 24 2023
It was snowing. The world felt soft and dark and quiet. Outside of their living room window, the snow reflected the lights that Shane had strung up out front of their housem bathing the white ground in an almost warm glow.
Inside was warmer. The fireplace flickered with its gas-powered flame, and Ilya stared transfixed at the tiny baby that was cradled in Shane’s arms, where he sat on the couch, surrounded by pillows and Christmas-themed blankets. Ilya’s baby. Their baby.
Born on December 14th at 3:04 am to an unprepared 17-year-old, with a shock of dark hair and a sweet cupid's bow on her lips, Maria Hollander had spent exactly 8 days with them.
Shane had taken two months off, then Ilya would take two months off, then it would be off-season. Yuna had also been prepared to move in with them if they needed the help. So far, they hadn’t been struggling. Little Masha was perfect.
“She’s perfect,” Ilya whispered, sitting beside Shane.
“She’s so small,” Shane whispered back. Neither of them took their eyes off the tiny being breathing quietly in Shane’s arms. Her little button nose scrunched, and a small, sweet coo escaped her as she nuzzled into the crook of Shane’s elbow.
“She smells so good.”
“Yeah, it’s the amniotic fluid, and something called the vernix caseosa, I think.” Then, at the look Ilya gave him, “What? I looked it up.”
“Yuck,” Ilya said, “why can’t she just smell good, Hollander?”
“She does smell good.”
“I don’t want it to be amniotic fluid.” Ilya scrunched his nose, his accent wrapping strangely around the new words.
“Then don’t think about it.”
“Is too late. Now I can only think about it.”
“You’re such a baby,” Shane rolled his eyes, “Sorry, I like to be informed. I want to be a good dad.”
Ilya felt his entire soul soften towards his husband.
“You will be amazing papa, moy lyubov. The best,” Ilya said softly, pressing a kiss to his temple, doing his best not to jostle anyone.
Shane finally looked away from Maria. “So will you, Ilya.”
“Yes, maybe.”
“Yes, definitely, okay?” Shane made eye contact for longer than he normally liked to, an intensity there that meant he was saying something important. Something he needed Ilya to believe. “You’re already everything a dad should be. You’re kind, and thoughtful, and patient, and affectionate, and you’re going to be the best dad.”
Ilya allowed himself a small smile. Shane wouldn’t let him fail at this. They had always complemented each other in everything, and Ilya felt pretty sure they would complement each other in this too.
They lapsed into silence as they watched Maria’s little sleeping breaths like it was a Stanley Cup hockey game. Shane had a jazz version of Christmas music playing in the background, and Ilya liked the way it made everything feel soft. He liked the way some of the songs reminded him of family dinners, and that one time they tried to bake their own gingerbread houses, and Ilya’s ended up being a big, gluey mess of cookies and icing, while Shane’s looked perfect.
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask about all the suspicious-looking bags you brought home earlier?” Shane asked.
Ilya shrugged noncommittally. “Just presents for Masha.”
“Ilya.”
“What?” he gave his best innocent eyes.
“We said we wouldn’t. Everyone already bought her so much stuff, we literally still have toys in boxes in the garage. My mom and dad are going to spoil her tomorrow; she doesn’t even know what’s going on.”
It was true. The team had bought them an excessive amount of baby gifts, insisting on throwing a surprise baby shower in the locker room not long after Shane and Ilya had announced the news of their upcoming fatherhood.
The gifts had ranged from practical (from the men who already had children), like strollers, sleep sacks, high chairs, to completely unusable for the first year of her life (from rookies and single men), like dresses for a two-year-old, boxes of Lego, a hockey stick.
Ilya’s favourite gift had been the smallest little custom-made Centaurs jersey with Hollanov stitched into the back.
“I couldn’t help it,” he finally said sheepishly, “I love her.”
“I know,” came Shane’s soft reply, “I love her too. And you. So much.”
“I love you too, moy dusha.”
Tonight they would stay up into the stupid hours of the morning, listening to jazz Christmas music and watching their daughter. Ilya would hold her tiny foot in his hand and wonder how he had ended up here.
Tomorrow, Yuna and David will bring food and presents to them. Shane and Ilya would hand off sweet Maria to her doting grandparents and walk around the snowy neighbourhood until they found a secluded spot to make out, hands inside jackets, pressed hot against one another, a contrast to the crisp weather.
Dec 24, 2024
Ilya had to admit, the venue they had chosen for the team Christmas party was nice. He supposed they deserved it, considering they had won the Stanley Cup last season, and were on track for another shot. Little Masha was their good luck charm—almost everyone could agree on that.
The hotel restaurant they had chosen was modern and sleek, dressed up with twinkling lights and mini Christmas trees.
Ilya bounced on the balls of his feet where he stood at a bar table beside Shane as his husband laughed with Harris, Troy, and Bood about something Ilya truly couldn't care less about.
“Shane,” he whined, not caring that he was interrupting the conversation.“You said an hour.”
“We’ve only been here forty-five minutes, Ilya.”
“It will take us at least fifteen minutes to get home,” Ilya countered. “There is your hour.”
Harris laughed, “I should have known Rozanov would be the helicopter parent.”
Ilya scowled. “Helicopter parent? What is this? I am not helicopter parent.”
Shane patted his shoulder, consolingly. “You’re a helicopter parent, love. It’s okay, it’s not a bad thing yet.”
“Yet!” Ilya exclaimed, “It will become a bad thing?”
“I won’t let it,” Shane assured. If Ilya trusted nothing, he trusted that.
“So we can go?” Ilya couldn’t hide his impatience.
Bood barked out a laugh. “Glad you’re having a good time, Roz.”
Ilya grinned at his friends, “Sorry, none of you are as interesting to talk to as my Masha.”
“She can’t even talk!” Bood cried, in mock outrage.
“Of course she can talk! She is genius. She says papa, dada. She says bye bye. Is riveting conversation. Much better than this. She says more words in one day than Troy says all year!”
“Fuck you, Roz.” But Ilya could see the sparkle in Troy's eye, the way Harris grinned and bumped up against the surly man.
“You’ll make my mom sad if we come home too early,” Shane tapped his shoe against Ilya’s. “Besides, it’s supposed to be good for us to take a night off together.” Shane leaned up and pressed lips to Ilya’s ear. “And I got us a room if you want a quickie before we go home.”
Ilya stared at his husband, feeling like he was seeing him for the first time. But he supposed, with Maria, they hadn’t had so much time for each other, and Ilya only realized how much he wanted Shane when his dick became interested after nothing more than hot air against his neck.
“I don’t think I even want to know,” Bood said.
“I don’t think you need to with the way Roz looks right now.”
“That’s some blush Hollzy.”
Shane’s whole face was red, the blush spreading alluringly down his chest where his black shirt was unbuttoned.
“I will extend my time to two hours,” Ilya declared.
Shane chewed on the inside of his lip, glanced back at their friends.
“Yup, okay, we’re going now. Nice to see you guys. Merry Christmas.”
“Wow, real subtle, Hollander!” Bood shouted after them. Shane’s hand was a perfect bracelet around Ilya’s wrist as he led them away.
“Ilya misses his daughter!” Shane tossed over his shoulder.
“Whatever you say.” Ilya could hear the eye roll they were getting from here.
Tonight, they would make clumsy, desperate love like they were pent-up teenagers. Then they would do it again, slower, more intense, with the practiced ease of two people who knew each other's bodies better than they knew their own.
Tomorrow, they would wake up at 6 am with their daughter and open her presents, marked by Shane “from Santa”.
Dec 24, 2027
Ilya breathed deep, savoured the sweet smell radiating from the newest member of their family. 5-month-old Max.
Beside him, face scrunched up with concentration as she stood on a kitchen chair, was Maria, piping the most uncoordinated squiggles of green icing onto cookies for Santa. Beside her, Shane, with an equally concentrated face, supervised and kept up a constant stream of conversation.
“Santa will love these cookies, Maria. That is some impressive cookie decoration. I think Santa will appreciate it very much. Oops, okay, that’s good for the icing, maybe! Hey, should we pour Santa his glass of milk?”
The distraction worked, and their little firecracker was sliding off her chair, cookies forgotten, as she followed her dada to the fridge.
Sweet, quiet Max watched everything quietly from Ilya’s lap with wide eyes.
Tonight, they will watch The Grinch Stole Christmas, put out Santa’s cookies and milk, hopefully get the kids down by 9, put Santa's presents under the tree and spend the evening cuddled up in front of the fire.
Tomorrow, Ilya would prepare for their biggest Christmas dinner yet. The Pikes were visiting this year—all six of them—Sveta, Yuna and David, and the four Hollander-Rozanovs. Ilya’s life had never been more full of family.
Dec 24, 2031
Shane closed the door to their master bedroom quietly behind him and smiled tiredly at where Ilya was sitting, sprawled out on the floor with wrapping paper, ribbon, tape, and toys strewn around him.
“I don’t think she’ll be up again,” he said.
“She is just excited for Santa,” Ilya smiled and shook the pink Barbie convertible he was about to wrap.
“Remind me why we do this every year?” Shane asked, sitting down beside Ilya and grabbing his own gift from the pile.
“Do what? Christmas?”
“No, wrapping presents at 1 am on Christmas Eve.”
“Ah, this is easy. Because there is no other time.”
“Oh, right,” Shane drawled, “I remember now.”
Ilya smiled, leaned over to kiss him, licking over the seam of his lips, asking permission. Shane opened for him with a hard, aroused breath. Their tongues tangled, hot muscles sliding wetly against each other. Ilya crawled over the mess around him, a roll of tape sticking into his knee, and he grunted, looming over Shane.
“The bed?” Shane gasped.
“We should wrap presents,” Ilya said, the words muffled by his lips on Shane’s. He had no intention of stopping. Neither did Shane.
“Ilya,” Shane breathed.
It didn’t matter how long they had been together, Ilya would never tire of hearing his name like that—adoring, lustful, reverent—on Shane’s lips.
“Moy prekrasnyy muzh.”
They didn’t make it to the bed before Ilya was pressing himself into Shane, surrounded by wrapping paper, a hand pressed over his husband's mouth as they tried not to wake their children.
Tonight, they would lay against each other as Ilya softened inside Shane. Then, despite their exhaustion, they would get back up and finish wrapping presents. They would creep downstairs with armfuls of gifts, under the cover of the gentle light of the Christmas tree. Ilya would munch messily on Maria’s carefully decorated cookies and Max’s chaotic ones, while Shane drank milk from a mug that said “Santa’s eggnog”.
Tomorrow, Ilya would watch his daughter shriek, “Max! Look! Santa came! Santa Came!” And he would watch his son giggle and jump around, not 100% sure what he was excited about, but spurred on by his big sister’s mood. He would sip the coffee that Shane placed in his hands, and wrap his free arm around his husband as their children investigated their plate of cookies and mugful of milk and declared “Santa ate it!” and think that maybe this weird holiday he claimed he never understood was as magical as Shane had declared it all those years ago. That maybe this was Ilya’s favourite time of year. Cold and damp and dark as it was, it filled Ilya’s home with warmth and family and a lightness that he had never known.
Tomorrow, he would press a kiss into his husband's hair and listen as three voices told him they loved him. One a sweet falsetto, whistling through two missing front teeth. One bubbly and candied with the consonants softened in an endearing lisp. And one voice, so achingly familiar it felt like part of his own soul, telling Ilya he loved him so easily that it was almost painful.