Work Text:
Mine
The thing was, Ilya had wanted this.
He'd spent years trying to get Shane to see himself the way Ilya saw him—beautiful, desirable, worthy of being looked at. He'd watched Shane flinch away from his own reflection, dismiss compliments, treat his body like equipment instead of something to be celebrated. And Ilya had been patient, had been encouraging, had slowly, carefully helped Shane build a relationship with himself that wasn't based on shame.
It had worked. Shane was finally—finally—comfortable in his own skin. He dressed in clothes that actually fit his body instead of hiding it. He wore his hair down sometimes just because he liked how it looked. He tried colors and accessories that attracted attention. He moved through the world with a confidence that made Ilya's chest tight with pride.
Ilya had wanted this.
He just hadn't anticipated the consequences.
The Coffee Shop
It started small.
They were at a café near their house—one of those aggressively hip places with exposed brick and overpriced oat milk lattes. Shane was wearing jeans that actually showed he had an ass (big thank you to Rose Landry's stylist friend), and a fitted sweater in that blue-gray color that made his eyes impossible to ignore. His hair was down, tucked behind his ears, and he was waiting at the counter for their drinks while Ilya saved their table.
The barista was young—early twenties maybe, with a bit too much product in his hair and rolled-up sleeves showing off heavily tattooed arms. Ilya watched him do a double-take when Shane approached the counter, watched his smile go from professional to interested in about three seconds.
The barista said something. Shane laughed—polite, friendly, not flirting but also not running away like he would have done a year ago. The barista said something else, gesturing at Shane's hair. Shane touched it self-consciously, smiled again.
Ilya's grip tightened on his phone.
The interaction lasted maybe two minutes. Shane got their drinks, thanked the barista, and came back to the table completely oblivious to what had just happened.
"He was very friendly," Shane said, setting down Ilya's latte.
"Yes," Ilya said. "Very friendly."
"He said he liked my hair. Wanted to know where I got it cut."
"Of course he did."
Shane gave him a look. "What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing," he said tightly, "Perfectly fine."
Shane was clearly not convinced, but he let it drop. Ilya stared at his latte and tried not to think about the barista's interested smile, the way his eyes had traveled over Shane's body, the casual assumption that he could just... flirt with Ilya's husband.
Ilya had been there first. He'd been there when Shane couldn't even look at himself in a mirror. He'd been there through the panic attacks and the self-loathing and the slow, painful process of learning to exist in the world as himself.
Some tattooed hipster with a foam art certification didn't get to benefit from that work.
The Bar
The second incident happened a week later.
The team was out celebrating Hazy's birthday at some downtown bar. It was loud and crowded, and Shane had ditched his jacket somewhere, leaving him in a black henley that fit him in ways that should probably be illegal.
Ilya had gone to get drinks. When he came back, there was a man talking to Shane.
Not a teammate. Not anyone Ilya recognized. Just some guy—tall, fit, wearing one of those button-downs that was trying too hard to look casual. He was leaning in close to be heard over the music, and he was definitely flirting.
Ilya stopped a few feet away, drinks in hand, watching.
Shane was being polite. Of course he was being polite—Shane was always polite. But he was also engaged in the conversation, smiling, not running away. The guy said something and Shane laughed, a real laugh, and something in Ilya's chest went hot and tight.
He crossed the remaining distance and handed Shane his drink with perhaps more force than necessary.
"Thank you," Shane said, then gestured to the stranger. "Ilya, this is—sorry, I didn't catch your name?"
"Marcus." The guy extended a hand, completely unfazed by Ilya's sudden appearance. "I was just telling Shane I saw his Sports Illustrated spread. Really powerful stuff."
"Yes," Ilya said, not taking the offered hand. "Very powerful. I have seen it many times. I am his husband."
"Oh." Marcus blinked. "Oh, sorry, I didn't realize—"
"Now you realize." Ilya wrapped an arm around Shane's waist, possessive and obvious. "If you'll excuse us."
He steered Shane away before Marcus could respond.
"That was rude," Shane said, but he was trying not to smile.
"He was flirting with you."
"He was being friendly."
"I invented flirting with you, Hollander." Ilya repeated. "I know flirting. That was flirting."
Shane's smile broke free. "Were you jealous?"
"No."
"You were jealous."
"Establishing boundaries, remind people you are taken."
"People can see my ring."
"Clearly they cannot. Or choose not to." Ilya pulled Shane closer. "Maybe I should get you a bigger ring -- more obvious one. Or a shirt that says 'Property of Ilya Rozanov.'"
"That's insane."
"Is it? Because people keep hitting on my husband like he's available, and maybe need to be more clear about the situation."
Shane was laughing now, and Ilya wanted to be annoyed about it but couldn't quite manage it when Shane looked like this—happy, confident, comfortable enough to be amused by Ilya's jealousy instead of uncomfortable with the attention that had caused it.
This was what Ilya had wanted. Shane being attractive and knowing it. Shane being comfortable receiving attention.
He'd just thought he'd be the only one doing the attracting and attending.
The Grocery Store
The grocery store incident was almost funny.
They were shopping for ingredients for some recipe Yuna had sent Shane—because apparently that was Shane's life now, cooking complicated meals just for the joy of it—when Ilya noticed Shane was being followed.
Not followed in a creepy way. Followed in a "I'm pretending to need items from the same aisles you're in" way.
The follower was another man, roughly their age, pushing a cart that seemed to contain only a single can of soup. He'd been three aisles behind them, then two, then suddenly he was right there in the produce section, intently examining avocados while stealing glances at Shane.
Shane, oblivious as always, was focused on selecting the perfect tomatoes. His hair was up in a bun, and he was wearing those jeans again—the ones Ilya both loved and hated, because they made Shane's legs look endless but also made everyone else notice Shane's legs looked endless.
"Excuse me," the man said, moving closer. "Sorry to bother you, but you're Shane Hollander, right?"
Shane looked up, smile automatic. "Yeah, hi."
"I thought so. Big fan." The man shifted his weight, nervous but determined. "I just wanted to say—what you've done for representation in hockey, it means a lot. I have a nephew who plays, and seeing you be so open about who you are, it's... yeah. It matters."
"Thank you," Shane said, and he meant it. Ilya could tell. "That's really good to hear."
"Also," the man continued, and Ilya saw it coming before Shane did, "I don't know if you're on any dating apps or anything, but if you ever wanted to grab coffee—"
"He's married," Ilya interrupted, appearing at Shane's side with their cart. "To me. I am the husband."
The man's eyes went wide. "Oh. Oh shit, I'm so sorry, I didn't—"
"Now you know." Ilya wrapped an arm around Shane's shoulders. "And now you can go finish your shopping. I think the soup aisle is that way."
The man fled.
Shane waited until he was out of earshot before turning to Ilya with raised eyebrows. "Really?"
"What?"
"'I am the husband'? You sounded like a caveman."
"Only establishing facts. He needed facts."
"He was giving me a compliment about representation."
"He was asking you on a date."
"Only because he didn't know I was married!"
"Everyone should know you are married. I should get you a shirt."
Shane rolled his eyes but he was smiling, and Ilya felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders. It was hard to stay irritated when Shane looked like this—amused and affectionate and so completely comfortable in a public space, being approached by a stranger, not immediately panicking about what it meant or who might see.
This was growth. This was good.
Ilya just wished the growth didn't come with quite so many men hitting on his husband.
The Conversation
That night, after they'd put away the groceries and Shane had started prep work for tomorrow's elaborate dinner, Ilya found himself watching his husband move around their kitchen.
Shane's hair was still up, though pieces had escaped to frame his face. He was wearing an old Centaurs t-shirt and sweatpants, nothing special, but there was something about the way he moved now—unselfconscious, present, at home in his own body—that made Ilya's chest ache.
"You're staring," Shane said, not looking up from the vegetables he was chopping.
"I'm allowed to look at pretty husband."
"That's your answer for everything lately." Shane set down the knife, turned to face him. "Okay. What's going on?"
"Nothing," Ilya replied with a clearly forced nonchalance.
"You've been weird for like two weeks. Possessive. Territorial. You threatened a barista."
"I threaten no one."
"You said 'I am the husband' in your scariest Russian hockey player voice."
"That's just my voice."
Shane crossed his arms, waiting. He was getting better at this—at not backing down, at insisting on real conversations. Ilya loved it. Ilya also found it inconvenient when he was trying to avoid examining his own feelings.
"Fine," Ilya said. "I'm jealous. Happy?"
"Of what?"
"Of them. All of them. The barista and the man at the bar and the one at the grocery store and everyone else who looks at you and sees—" He gestured at Shane. "Sees this. Sees you confident and comfortable and beautiful, and thinks they can just... have access to that."
Shane's expression softened. "Ilya—"
"I wanted this," Ilya continued, the words spilling out now. "I wanted you to see yourself the way I see you. I wanted you to be comfortable, to be confident, to let people look at you without flinching. And you are. You're there. You're everything I hoped you would be." He paused. "But now everyone else can see it too. And they don't know what it took to get here. They don't know how hard you worked, how scared you were, how many years you spent hiding. They just see the finished product and think they can—"
"Can what?"
"Can have you," Ilya finished quietly. "Can look at you like you're available. Like you're theirs for the taking."
Shane was quiet for a moment. Then he crossed the kitchen, took Ilya's face in his hands.
"I'm not," he said. "Available. I'm yours. That's not changing."
"I know. I know." Ilya covered Shane's hands with his own. "But seeing other people notice you—seeing them look at you the way I've been looking at you for years—it makes me feel..."
"Possessive?"
"Territorial," Ilya corrected. "Like I need to put up signs. 'Do not touch. Already owned. Trespassers will be prosecuted.'"
Shane laughed, soft and affectionate. "You can't own people, Ilya."
"I know. But I was here first." It came out more petulant than Ilya intended. "I saw you before you saw yourself, loved you first. And now all these men are showing up, benefiting from everything --"
Ilya paused, "That you worked so hard for. And they just... swoop in. Like they have right to all of this."
Shane kissed him then, slow and thorough, and when he pulled back his eyes were warm.
"You know what's funny?" he said.
"What?"
"I don't even notice it most of the time. The attention. I'm so used to not being looked at that when someone flirts with me, it doesn't even register." Shane smiled. "You notice it way more than I do."
"Of course I notice. I notice everything about you. I've been noticing everything about you since you were twenty-three years old and pretending you didn't know who I was."
"I did know who you were. I was just—"
"Terrified. I know. You were terrified of everything." Ilya touched Shane's face, traced the line of his jaw. "And now you're not. And I am proud. But I'm also—"
"Jealous."
"Yes. Very jealous. Extremely jealous." Ilya pulled him closer. "I don't share. Never. And watching other people see what I've always seen—watching them look at you like you're desirable—"
"Yes," he said. "You are. You're so desirable it makes me insane. And everyone can see it now, and I hate it."
"You don't really hate it."
"I hate it a little bit."
Shane smiled, wrapped his arms around Ilya's waist. "You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think you're jealous because you worked so hard to help me see myself clearly, and now that I do, you're worried someone else might benefit from that work. Someone who doesn't deserve it. Someone who wasn't there for the hard parts."
Ilya was quiet. That was... uncomfortably accurate.
"Maybe," he admitted.
"Well, here's the thing." Shane's voice was gentle but firm. "You're right. You were there first. You saw me before I could see myself. You loved me when I couldn't love myself. You did the work—we did the work together—and that matters."
"But—"
"But," Shane continued, "the whole point of that work was so I could exist in the world as myself. So I could be visible. So I could let people see me without being terrified of what they might find. And that means sometimes people are going to find me attractive. Sometimes they're going to flirt. That's not a threat to us. That's proof that the work succeeded."
Ilya knew Shane was right. He knew it. But knowing it and feeling it were different things.
"I don't like it," he said.
"I know. And I love that about you. Your ridiculous possessiveness is very sexy." Shane kissed him again. "But I'm not going anywhere. I didn't work to figure all this stuff out just to end up with some random barista or grocery store guy. I did it to be a better version of myself. For me. And for us."
"I trust you."
"I know. You just don't trust them."
"They don't deserve trust. They're trying to steal pretty husband."
"They're not trying to steal me. They're just... noticing me. Which is new and weird for both of us, but it's not dangerous. It's just different."
Ilya buried his face in Shane's shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him. "I preferred it when you didn't know you were attractive. When you were mine and didn't realize other people might want you too."
"That's terrible."
"I know. I'm terrible." Ilya pulled back to meet Shane's eyes. "But I'm your terrible, possessive husband who loves you very much and wants everyone to know you're taken."
"Everyone does know I'm taken. I wear a ring. I talk about you constantly. I'm not exactly subtle about being married to you."
"Could be less polite when people flirt with you."
"I'm Canadian. We're polite to everyone."
"Be polite from farther away. With less smiling."
Shane laughed, and Ilya felt some of his jealousy dissolve into something warmer, something that felt more like pride than possession.
"Fine," Shane said. "Next time someone hits on me, I'll tell them I'm married to a very jealous Russian hockey player who will probably challenge them to a duel."
"Good. Yes. This is a good plan."
"I'm joking."
"I'm not. I will duel them. I have excellent dueling skills."
"You can't duel people in a grocery store, Ilya."
"Watch."
Shane was still laughing, and Ilya pulled him into a kiss that was probably too heated for their kitchen but felt necessary anyway. When they broke apart, Shane's eyes were dark, his breath coming faster.
"You know what I think you need?" Shane murmured.
"What?"
"A reminder that I'm yours. That I chose you, and I keep choosing you, and some guy at a coffee shop doesn't change that."
"I could use reminder," Ilya agreed, already steering them toward the stairs. "Very thorough reminder. Possibly multiple reminders."
"The vegetables—"
"Will still be there later. Right now, more important things to do."
"Such as?"
Ilya's smile went sharp. "Such as making sure my husband remembers exactly who he belongs to."
Later
Much later, lying tangled together in the aftermath, Ilya traced lazy patterns on Shane's bare chest.
"I really am proud of you," he said quietly. "Seeing you comfortable —it's the best thing I've ever seen. Better than any goal, maybe better than the Cup."
Shane turned his head, met Ilya's eyes. "I couldn't have gotten here without you. Without someone who kept telling me I was allowed to take up space. That I was beautiful even when I couldn't see it."
"You see it now though."
"Most days. Yeah." Shane smiled. "Took me long enough."
"Worth the wait." Ilya pressed a kiss to his shoulder. "Now I must work on less jealous when other people finally notice what I've known all along."
"Or," Shane suggested, "you could lean into it. Be possessive and territorial and ridiculous. I kind of like it."
"Yes?"
"Yeah. It's..." Shane paused, searching for words. "It makes me feel wanted. Chosen. Like I'm worth fighting for."
Ilya's chest went tight. "You are worth everything."
"Then fight for me. Be jealous. Glare at baristas and tell random men in grocery stores that you're the husband." Shane grinned. "Just maybe don't actually challenge anyone to a duel."
"No promises."
"Ilya."
"Fine. No duels. But I'm keeping the glaring."
"The glaring is acceptable."
They settled into comfortable silence, Ilya's hand still moving over Shane's skin. Outside, the city hummed with life, full of people who might look at Shane and find him attractive, who might notice what Ilya had always known.
And that was okay. Let them look. Let them notice. Shane was beautiful, and he deserved to be seen.
As long as they remembered—as long as Shane remembered—who he was coming home to.
"Hey," Shane said, voice drowsy.
"Hmm?"
"For what it's worth—I was yours long before I knew I was allowed to want you back. You really were here first."
Ilya's arms tightened around him. "I know. Never leaving."
"Good," Shane murmured, already drifting toward sleep. "Because you're stuck with me. A little more confident, lightly sexy, occasionally-hit-on-by-strangers me."
"Always sexy," Ilya said.
Even with the jealousy, even with the territorial instincts, even with the constant low-grade irritation at other people noticing what he'd always seen.
Ilya knew Shane was his. Not in the possessive, ownership way, but in the chosen way. The I see you and you see me and we built this together way.
That was better than being first. That was being forever.
And no barista or grocery store stranger could take that away.