Chapter Text
Montreal, a few weeks later:
An idea suddenly dawns on Shane.
They have a perfect window of time coming up in their schedules for him to do something, something he really ought to do to acknowledge and respond to the ‘Tuna Melt Incident’ as he’s been affectionately referring to it as.
Boston is playing in Ottawa in a few weeks. After that though they have a three day window of reprieve until their game in Montreal.
Most players are opting to stay in Ottawa, and so is Ilya as he tells Shane when he asks about it. But, the thing is, Shane has a shoot for CCM that same day. In Ottawa. Where Boston is playing. In Ottawa.
And he very well could opt to drive himself there. . . and then drive himself back to Montreal. Maybe even with a straggler. . .
Ilya would probably come, too. Gladly.
They’ve since made up and Shane has paid his dues for freaking the fuck out in Boston, but this random blip in their schedule is giving him the unique opportunity to really show Ilya that he’s serious about this.
About them.
About the future they both hint at wanting – dreaming of – but never quite touch on directly.
About how he will really try not to run away the next time Ilya does something new and terrifying, like say ‘hello’ to him in public or something.
Shane needs a plan.
There are three main points Shane needs to artfully extract from his perpetually questioning Russian boo without tipping him off that something is up.
There is, however, one big problem with that: Shane is a tried and true ‘really bad’ liar. He is also similarly ‘really bad’ at being subtle.
Anyway. Three main things he can gather right now and even more he’ll need to talk out of Ilya later:
- What hotel are the Raiders staying at.
- What is their tentative schedule – as the Captain, Ilya will probably be responsible for keeping his boys occupied and therefore will be privy to the travel schedule, like Shane is on Montreal’s road trips.
- In the lulls, where team activities end and personal adventures prevail, what is Ilya planning to do and can Shane talk him out of it without giving the real reason why?
Aside from those, there are a few things he’ll have to gather closer to the date, things that’ll be harder to explain. Things like what Ilya’s room number will be. If he has a roommate for the hotel. If Ilya is planning to stay in for the night or celebrate with his friends.
You know, the usual things Shane would be asking his. . . his Ilya from two hours away. . . yeah. Normal things.
Something to worry about later, then, because his phone is ringing and a closeup of Ilya’s curls overtakes the screen.
Time to sleuth.
- The Holiday Inn right by the Canadian Tire Center – Shane has already marked and favourited the hotel on his map and then noted the time and distance between their hotels.
Ten minutes. Give or take traffic levels. Fifteen minutes max.
- No team schedule to keep. They’re completely free to roam and play after the game and only need to be back for curfew and the buses departure time to Montreal.
The lenience is baffling to Shane – and he makes sure to tell Ilya just that because no practice or even a scheduled optional skate to keep their legs. No even a workout or simply a team meeting. . . something it’s honestly unacceptable – but it’s another lucky break for him, really, because that leaves him plenty of time to get himself in and then both of them out without Ilya having to miss a thing.
- What are Ilyas plans – he is always hunting for companions on his adventures between games. It’s not a stretch to think he has something planned with his teammates for the days after their game. Usually these adventures are to local clubs.
The ambiance, Ilya had said once when Shane asked what the hell is so great about being crammed into a room meant for sixty people – with well over a hundred people in it – always touching and breathing and talking and being in your personal space, the ambiance is always the same, Ilya had said.
The ambiance, no matter who you are, where you are, where you’re from, what you do, who you love; who you are outside of that crammed room, the ambiance is always the exact same. You are always welcomed into the mix.
Every club.
Every city.
Every country.
The ambiance is always the same.
Put like that, going to a club actually doesn’t sound half bad, maybe even fun, but Shane’s been in clubs before. . . well a couple of clubs. . . maybe two clubs, but both experiences had been terrible.
None of this ambiance that Ilya is talking about.
But, even better than hearing about how happy and free and welcomed clubs make Ilya feel is the look on Ilya’s face when he says it; the smile, the general enjoyment of life. He doesn’t ask Shane to come to a club with him, to come and see for himself why Ilya loves them so much, because Ilya knows that Shane doesn’t see it.
Ilya knows that crowds make Shane’s skin crawl and having too many people around him without a clear plan of exit makes him feel trapped.
It makes Shane feel like all of the air is being systematically sucked out of the room and the walls are closing in on him and only on him.
It makes him feel small and terrible and like there’s absolutely nothing he can do to be normal. To be like every other person in that room that seems to be having the time of their lives; the people that see and feel and soak up the ambiance that Ilya is describing.
He doesn’t ask Shane to understand him, and in doing so he is understanding Shane so completely that it makes Shane breathless. It makes that little ball of ‘I miss you’ twinge and pull and squeeze Shane’s lungs until it feel less like he’s breathless and more like he can’t breathe.
Gods, he misses Ilya so fucking much.
Keeping it together, if only so that that smile and that life in Ilya’s eyes doesn’t fade, Shane just continues to take the sight of Ilya in. He will see him soon.
As long as Ilya is happy, Shane can believe that Ilya believes there is ambiance to clubs.
Now he’s stuck staring at Ilya and his beautiful, soft, perfect smile and getting off track with the planning and this phone call.
Ilya is still rambling on about something different than clubs and their supposed ambiance, something about what Marlow had done earlier that was apparently funny as shit because Ilya hasn’t even notices that Shane hasn’t said a word beyond distracted grunts as he writes down his findings; no, Ilya doesn’t currently have any plans, especially now that Shane has promised no less than three strip shows (one for each night Ilya has to stay in (allegedly)), and two other ‘shows’ that Ilya will have full choice and sway over when he finishes his own plans on the matter.
Research has been promised and Shane is really trying not to think about the millions upon millions of possibilities lest his face burst back into flames and his brain stops working again.
“Shane? Любимыйbeloved? Where have you gone?”
Blinking Shane tries to go back in time to a minute ago when he hadn’t been paying any attention at all to Ilya’s wors, when Ilya had, evidently, asked him a question and comes up with absolutely nothing at all, “hmm? Sorry, I didn’t. . . catch what you said.”
Yes. That’s good. Coherent.
Theres’s silence over the line for a moment before Ilya makes an offended, exaggeratedly so, noise, “you are ignoring me, Shane? You don’t want to hear about my day? Is too boring for you, then? СолнышкоLittle sun you wound me. I am hurt. You ask me to call you; you ask me weird questions because you are weird Captain who likes to ask about other teams and then you insult me and say I am lazy Captain and now you are not listening to me?”
“I’m sorry.” He tries to keep his tone and face neutral so that Ilya doesn’t worry.
Ilya just scoffs at the apology.
“Eh? No, no. Is fine.” Shane can picture so clearly the dismissive wave Ilya is giving him right now. He doesn’t even need to look. “Marly does too much weird shit. You would not have found this funny anyway, is better that you did not hear. Means it does not give you chance to say I am bad Captain for letting him do it this way.” Ilya smiles wide and Shane can see that he’s focused elsewhere, like he’s tracing Shane’s face on his phone screen like Shane is doing to Ilya’s.
Fuck Shane just wants to kiss those lips. He settles for tracing them with the tip of his finger. “Still, I’m sorry for ignoring you. What did you ask me?”
Making a full 360 and refocusing on the conversation, Ilya gets right back to business. “You have some young player on roster still, yes? The ones not married yet; still dating around?”
“Uh, Yeah. I guess. Why?” Shane thinks back to the road trip they’d just gotten back from, the one where he’d basically had to ground a rookie and confine him to his room for just not coming back to the hotel one night; he’d been ‘distracted,’ evidently. The coaches had been involved and it’d been a whole thing. Shane nods and leaves it at that.
Fucking rookies.
Ilya nods too, understanding completely, “I have this rookie, like from draft time and not a call up, so young but not an infant. Younger than us for sure-”
It’s a reflex at this point, the response, and he’s talking before he realizes it. “Wow, ok, rude. Asshole.”
Ilya doesn’t miss a beat, “-yes, Hollander, you are so old now that will give even Scott Hunter a run for his money. Now, back to me-” Shane chuckles and the pang of hurt, the pang of ‘I miss you’ that beats each and every moment Ilya isn’t with him eases just the tiniest bit at the sheer familiarity of Ilya. . . and he’s ignoring him again- “ he is young, I know, and a bit of a slut, but I thought this girl would be different for him. It confuses me that they broke up because of this clinginess – and I had to look word up, Shane, and I still see nothing wrong with this. Is this not normal?”
Mind grinding to an abrupt halt Shane can’t help but to get stuck on one glaring, terrifying concept: “They broke up?”
Ilya, again, doesn’t miss a beat, not picking up on the sheer dread coating Shane’s question. “Hmm? Yes. He says she came to too many games and events and spent too much time at his apartment. Was calling him way too much. He says he needed space. All of the space, I guess. Hmm.” And then Ilya moves on from the whole thing with a dismissive noise, having apparently answered his own question or decided it wasn’t really all that important or interesting, and starts talking about a new video game he bought and how stupid it is.
Shane is still stuck on clingy.
Too clingy because she texted him too much. Called him too much. Was there too much.
Maybe something like the three hour phone call he’s forced Ilya into and ignored him for half of it. . .
He calls Ilya all the time, once a day if he can. Texts him even more.
He’s not at every game or event – or any of them, really – but he is currently hunched over his kitchen island with several articles littered about, his laptop opened with several more half read articles open, three pages of rambling notes, and a complete timeline of events to happen from the moment he pulls out of his driveway, a full day before he will even see Ilya.
What the fuck is he doing?
The similarities between their situations are uncanny; him and this girl Ilya doesn’t even know the name of that was going to change his teammate slutty ways. A ‘Good’ girl who meets a hockey slut, thinks they can be something, does too much, and then gets her heart broken because said hockey slut that she’s met and fallen in love with is still a hockey slut that fells trapped now.
It’s like a roadmap of him and Ilya and he’s right about at the end where he’s doing way too fucking much and is on the highroad to getting his heart shattered.
Fuck.
He and Ilya, they’ve been long distance for years. There is absolutely no reason that he cannot wait two extra fucking days for the Raiders to travel here, of their own accord, for their game in Montreal. The same way they’ve been doing it for fucking years.
It works. It would be normal for them.
Three days together would be new; not the norm.
Ilya hasn’t even seemed to think about the possibility of spending the time together now that they will be so close together for a significantly longer period of time than ever before.
Only two hours would separate them. Less if one considers that Shane will be in Ottawa the same night of their game. . . staying the night and leaving the day after; the day Ilya is supposedly free of team obligations.
Or, maybe he has thought about it, maybe he’s been sitting in his own apartment, same as Shane has, planning out something impossible. But, maybe he’s also been thinking that Shane isn’t ready for something impossible because of past. . . reactions.
Shane could barely handle one single afternoon together not too long ago. Maybe it’s too much too fast.
An afternoon is different than three whole days of nothing but each other. . .
Fuck it. He’s not going to do it.
If Ilya mentions the possibility of it any time between now and the miraculous schedule alignment, then maybe, maybe Shane will bring up this plan he’s spent way too much time making up for them.
But a surprise of this magnitude. . . no. No, he really shouldn’t.
It’s not in him. He’d never be able to pull it off.
So. . . he won’t.
The car CCM is sending for him is late.
Shane’s been standing in his doorway in the little crevice that allows him to see through the front window that shows him the front of the building, where the car will pull up, for ten minutes now and he’s seen nothing but the corner of his own car in the distance for the whole wait.
He can’t stop looking at it.
Fifteen minutes have gone by when he finally sees the car pull up, parking right in the sweet spot that hides the top corner of his Jeep from view and making him blink.
The car is something European. Black. Sleek.
The key to normalcy.
Shane can’t get his feet to move.
His phone rings. The driver for sure. They’re already behind schedule after all. Shane can feel the discomfort of the deviation creeping up the back of his neck but still he can’t move.
He can’t move his feet. He can’t move his hand to grab his phone, to answer the call.
Fuck. He can’t stop thinking.
All he has to do is. . . do it.
Fuck it. He’s going. He’s doing it.
Feet finally getting with the program Shane practically runs out of the building, swiping his keys in a rush to lock up.
The driver is already standing up out of the car and Shane picks up his pace, catching him before he gets too far in his spiel.
“Hey man, I’m sorry. I’m going to drive myself there. I’m sorry you had to come all the way out here, but I’m just gonna. . . yeah, get myself there.”
The man looks surprised for all of a second before he catches himself, straightens up again, and plasters on a smile, “yes, sir. Of course. Have a safe drive.”
He stops listening and the man eventually leaves. Shane watches until he can’t see the taillights anymore and then he continues to listen until the only noise around him are the sounds of Montreal existing.
Then he walks to the parking lot, gets in his car, sets the map, and pulls out onto the street.
Holy fuck, he’s doing it.
‘Holiday Inn & Suites’
Looking up at the massive hotel sign, Shane feels like it’s mocking him.
He’s been staring at it for at least ten minutes now and it just seems to be getting bigger and bigger, looming over him more, mocking him in its cheery blues and greens. He hasn’t texted Ilya since last night, after his game and after Shane’s shoot ended.
He didn’t plan to warn him about any of this.
After hours and hours of thinking and planning and writing out about a hundred different versions of the same text Shane had thought, ‘fuck it, I’ll surprise him.’
Now he’s here. For the surprise. And he’s absolutely shitting himself.
He, of course, asked if Ilya would be rooming alone and that he plans to stay in for the day – maybe he even sweetened the deal by promising a ‘face to face’ call that may or may not feature one of his aforementioned ‘shows’ – and Ilya promised he is and he would be.
Just to be certain.
But maybe something has changed.
Ilya’s been mentioning their new rookie the Raiders called up from the minors more and more in their nightly calls. Evidently his coaches want him to take the kid under his wing.
Maybe that means the coaching staff have given him a last minute roommate too?
Maybe he should text again. Just to be sure.
Or. . . maybe not.
Words, soft and accented, float into his brain: “you are brave, котёнокkitten.’
Fuck he misses Ilya so god damn much it hurts. Maybe. . . maybe he should be brave. This time.
What does it matter if a one game fresh NHL rookie is in the room? He is Shane fucking Hollander, he can come up with an excuse.
It’s very likely that he won’t even need one, though. . . he’s been playing in the NHL long enough now and put in the gruelling hours it takes to make all of the young kids just coming in starstruck for a while; maybe just long enough to get Ilya out of the room and into his car.
Yeah. He is Shane fucking Hollander. He can pull off kidnapping the Boston Raider’s Captain without tipping anyone important off.
Yeah.
The bravado is enough to get him in the main door of the hotel, past the reception desk – he was even able to smile back and greet the staff – into the elevator, pushing the button, and up to the 17th floor.
It gets him out of the elevator again, down the (thankfully empty) hallway, and down to an unassuming brown door. Simple. Normal. Just like every other door he’s knocked on over the years. And then he’s frozen again.
On the other side of this door is the man he’s been missing for weeks. Just like one would miss an important limb or an organ. His heart is racing and his palms are sweating and his entire body is buzzing with anticipation.
Then a new wave of panic sets in.
What if Ilya doesn’t want him here?
What if he really does just want to spend the next two days ‘relaxing’ with his team?
What if he opens the door and isn’t happy to see Shane standing there, as much as Shane is practically vibrating with it himself?
On this terrifying line of thought Shane might actually have had a good argument to talk himself out of knocking, walking away, and pretending this situation never happened in the first place.
Maybe he’d get all the way back to Montreal, get home, sit down on his couch or at his kitchen island, and then text Ilya from there like he wasn’t hovering outside of his hotel room door like a lovesick puppy two hours earlier. He could probably have done this and held this secret to his chest until his deathbed.
. . . if only a door down the hall flings open and Shane’s heart nearly fucking stop when he hears Cliff Marlow bark out a laugh and say something to whoever the fuck else is in his room. Another Raider more than likely. He does have a girlfriend now, if Shane remembers correctly, but even Cliff Marlow has the decency not to laugh so loud in the face of a person he wants any chance of sleeping with later.
What the fuck is he doing?
Why the hell is he thinking about Cliff Marlow and his maybe new girlfriend instead of getting himself the fuck out of this hallway? At this rate he’s not even going to have Ilya standing close to him to take the bite off of getting discovered loitering in the hallway of a hotel he should not be in right now.
Jumping into action Shane nearly flings himself into Ilya’s door, knocking rapidly and plastering himself as close to the fake wood as possible so that the hulking forms down the hallway – fucking three of them – don’t see him. Or, at least, they won’t be able to make out exactly who he is before Ilya – who is taking his sweet ass time opening the door – can open the door and finally let him out of this hallway.
The instant the door unlatches Shane is pushing it open and launching himself inside. He barely registers Ilya’s curse and question: “what the fuck? Who are yo- Shane?”
Rather than answering Shane flings himself into the nearest nook, cranny, fucking crack that hides him from the view of the hallway, whisper yelling for Ilya to get it together and shut the door.
“Marlow!”
“What?”
The door is still not fucking shut, Shane could strangle Ilya in this moment, “fucking Mar-” but it’s too late. Marlow’s face pops around the door and Shane flings himself further into. . . a closet. . . ? Maybe?
It’s fucking miniscule either way.
“Roz, my man! Why have you got your door open? Did you hear us coming and get excited?” he sounds so delighted that Shane thinks that maybe there are plans that he’s crashing by showing up here. But, then Marlow continues, “I thought you wanted to stay in and play smoochy face with- . . . who is in your closet, bud?”
Shane fucking freezes. Absolutely stock still. The silence around them reigns loud. Even Ilya, it seems, can be caught without an answer sometimes.
Fuck, is this really how it all gets out?
Someone stutters and then Marlow’s voice rings out again – it’s still a distance away, in the door still, thank fuck – “wait, wait, wait- when you said you had a ‘date with Jane’ tonight, you meant an actual date? Like and actual, in person, date? Fuck, man, I thought she lived in Montreal?” A pause, and then another booming laugh that makes Shane jump a little, but he’s still in the hallway, “still not ready for us to know about her yet? Ok, message received, my man; we’ll get out of your hair.
“We have reservations at the Crazy Horse Stone grill Steakhouse & Saloon in an hour that we have to keep anyway – they were so fucking hard to get – and don’t even start, we’ll be back by curfew.
“And I still want to talk to you about that, by the way, because that doesn’t fucking make any sense; having a curfew tonight when tomorrow is a free day off. We don’t even have a practice or skate! No fucking sense. Anyway-” gods, did Marlow always talk this much? “well, we’ll leave you to it.
“Hi, Jane! So nice to be in your acquaintance. I hope we get to meet soon – we don’t bite, really – don’t listen to a fucking thing Roz says about us. They’re all blatant lies! I swear it!”
Finally the rant seems to end and there’s the sound of a hand connecting with a shoulder – or some other body part – and a stage whispered, “you had your girl drive all the way out here, Roz? Come on man. We’re in Montreal in a couple days. . . you could have gone ahead of us to surprise your girl. We would have all understood, completely.” Another heavy slap, the sound of some mumbling, and then the blessed sound of a door finally shutting.
Taking an extra moment to collect and prepare himself – he doesn’t think Ilya’s ever been this quiet for this long in the entire time Shane has known him and it’s freaking him out a little bit. . . a little bit more than a lot – taking a deep breath before he turns around.
He’s already here and forced his way into the room, there’s no avoiding the conversation now; back to the plan then.
Turning around is like an out of body experience. It’s like he’s watching himself face, for the first time in weeks – he’s not counting earlier, he hadn’t even been able to get enough of a look to take Ilya in before he shoved himself into the closet – this man that he’s been missing like a limb and, as always, he’s so fucking beautiful it takes Shane’s breath away.
Shane knows he has this goofy smile on his face, wide enough to make his cheeks ache and Ilya has one to match, despite the harrowing situation they very nearly didn’t avoid, “Ilya.”
“Shane.” Gods he misses Ilya’s voice.
Phone calls just aren’t the same. Video calls either.
A video call has no hope of catching the unique beauty that is Ilya looking soft in old clothes – Shane’s old clothes to be exact – that hang off of him, The shirt has a hole worn in the collar and Shane wants to bite the tantalizing strip of skin there.
He’s ravenous for it. For Ilya.
But he’s also ravenous for the mere sight of Ilya standing in front of him so he just continues to look, to take Ilya in.
It’s Ilya who steps in, hands coming up to rove over Shane’s arms and shoulders and all the way up to his neck and jaw, “Shane,” gods, the sound of his name on Ilya’s lips is so good. Too good. “мой возлюбленныйMy beloved, you are here.”
That name again. . .
Shane memorizes the sounds of it, the cadence of it, away with the rest of the Russian he’s absorbed over the years. . . one day, one day he will understand it.
The other half of the sentence also catches his attention, though.
Not ‘why are you here?’ just, ‘you are here.’
A statement of fact.
Shane loves him.
Abruptly the thought makes everything in him pause; Shane loves him.
That’s the feeling – the one he’s been pushing away, the one he’s been hiding from for years – Shane loves Ilya.
Shane loves Ilya.
Shane is in love with Ilya.
All of this time. . . fuck. Now is not the time for a revelation and it certainly not the time for this revelation in particular.
It’s here now, though. Sitting plainly at the back of his mind – and the front and the sides and every-fucking-where – where the little box used to exist, now obliterated by this single fact.
“I am,” he says because it’s all the words he can force out of numb lips. Ilya fingers at the raised corners of his mouth and Shane nips at the tips, “I miss you.”
The darkness leeching into Ilya’s eyes morphs into sadness, “I miss you too. So much,” quiet, almost less than a breath, Shane has to strain his ears to hear it, “too much.”
“Too much, eh?” falling into the circle of Ilya’s warm embrace Shane kisses the corner of his jaw, burrowing into the warmth he finds there, “who’s the one who drove two hours because he couldn’t wait two more days?”
Ilya’s fingers slide into his hair, nails dragging along Shane’s scalp and Shane narrowly escapes moaning at the incredible feel of them, “you are here for brand shoot, no? CCM, isn’t it?”
How did Ilya even know about that? Shane doesn’t remember ever mentioning it.
“Yeah, but I could have requested a driver and a car.”
“You did not?” he’s getting distracted, losing the thread of conversation more and more as Ilya’s fingers get deeper and deeper into his hair, but then Marlow’s words flash into his mind: “Maybe your Montreal girl agrees with Marlow; maybe you should go ahead of your team to Montreal to spend time with her. I bet she even misses your hairy ass.”
A booming laugh, one that makes Shane’s heart squeeze, “hairy! ЛюбимыйBeloved you wound me!” it’s said with a beaming smile and a smacking kiss to Shane’s cheek.
As an apology, Shane leans away just far enough to kiss him, deep but short, and then buries his face back in Ilya’s neck. Ilya’s breathing is significantly more uneven and Shane narrowly misses biting at the fluttering pulse under his lips, “let me take you home? We can spend the next two nights at my cottage, the one I just had built, and then head to Montreal after? We’ll still get there well ahead of game time. . . maybe even enough time to spend the day at my apartment. I can show you around?”
“Your apartment? Not the ‘investment property?’” There’s no accusation in his tone but Shane feels his heart drop anyway.
“No. That was a stupid idea and I’m selling it. I’m sorry.”
Ilya smiles and presses a kiss to his temple, “mh. No need. Is nice to know you will buy a building just so we can have sex.”
Cringing at himself even if Ilya’s tone is filled with adoration and humour, Shane resists the urge to find the nearest wall and smack his head into it, “still. I shouldn’t have done it. . . come home with me?”
“Ok.”
They get exactly twenty-seven minutes into the drive before Ilya breaks. He’s been working up to something since smuggling Shane out of the hotel in some of his own clothing and subsequently getting cat-called by Marlow and co. who, evidently, are still waiting for their Uber and taking a smoke break just outside of the little used side door of the hotel.
Funnily enough, Shane doesn’t feel too worried about the near reveal, and he doesn’t mention it again after they made it to the car either.
Of course, Ilya noticed the change and has been fidgeting in his seat ever since.
Feeling a lot calmer about everything that’s transpired in the last hour than he ought to in this odd role reversal, Shane’s had a hand on Ilya’s thigh the entire ride, well aware of how tense the muscles under his palm are.
Warm hands pick his up and a kiss is placed over his knuckles. “Thank you for coming. I was really missing you, солнышкоlittle sun.” Another kiss. Shane smiles, not saying anything, Ilya’s not done yet, “this was not the plan though, мой возлюбленныйmy beloved, you do not do unplanned thing. Is everything ok?”
“No. Well, yes, everything is perfect. And no, I don’t usually, but. . .” shrugging Shane searches for the words. It’s harder than he thought. The decision to just drive out here had been made mostly on the fly – yes, he’d made the plan and planned it to death, but then he’d talked himself out of it and decided it was a bad idea. . . and then the day had come and he’d been about to get in the car the producers sent for him and he just. . . couldn’t do it. He’d hopped into his Jeep and drove all the way to Ottawa, done the shoot, didn’t sleep a wink at his hotel, and then had been outside of Ilya’s hotel before his brain had come back online – but there was intent behind it. It was something he wanted to do; something he’s wanted to do for a long, long time. Something spontaneous and surprising. And that’s it, really, “I wanted to surprise you.”
Humming Ilya places another slow kiss to his knuckles, the smile pulling Ilya’s lips wide is easy to feel, “you did.”
“You liked it, though? It was ok?” (because it never hurst to check).
“Yes. I love it.” The words are tinged wet but Shane says nothing about the tear falling over Ilya’s cheek.
He understands.
“Even if I know your secret now?”
“Secret?”
“That you get scolded by Marlow and he gives you relationship advice?” Marlow was entirely too comfortable telling Ilya off for making his ‘girl’ come to him.
“Marly does not give advice,” and then, more offended, “I do not need relationship advice!”
“Uh huh. Yeah.”
“Is true! Shane!”
Smiling Shane squeezes Ilya’s fingers, pulling the tangle of them over so that he can kiss along each of Ilya’s knuckles. “I didn’t know Marlow is a yapper. He’s always so quiet on the ice.” For some reason his words make Ilya’s lips turn down. Has he said something out of turn somewhere?
Turning the past few minutes over in his head Shane is about to ask when Ilya clucks his tongue looking thoroughly unamused. “Is just with you.”
What?
“Just. . . with me? What? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Shane can see how Ilya’s jaw flexes and it only makes him more confused, more concerned, “you make him nervous, so he does not talk to you. He is yapper always, normally.”
It still makes no fucking sense. Ilya is being purposefully stingy on the details and Shane can’t read his expression clearly if he wants to keep his eyes on the road and them alive and in one piece.
“Ilya, would you just tell me what you mean? How in the hell do I make Marlow nervous? I’ve only ever spoken to him, what, three times in the time I’ve played in the NHL?” To make everything even more confusing Ilya just shakes his head, his mouth a tight little line of disproval and displeasure.
Shane can’t help it, he laughs.
And not just a snort or a huff, but full on raving lunatic type laughter that has him gasping for air as he desperately tries to keep his eyes open and on the empty road ahead of them.
Thank fuck it’s midday on a random Tuesday and there’s not another soul in sight. They haven’t passed or seen another vehicle since crossing over Ottawa’s city limits.
The outburst shakes Ilya out of his stupor though and he’s finally looking up at Shane again, confused and a little bit offended, “Are you laughing at me? I am being vulnerable and reliving a terrible conversation and you’re laughing at me?” Shane doesn’t stop, an undignified snort only making him laugh even harder, “Shanee, моя любовьmy love, no.” The words are drawn out and whiny and a pout pulls at Ilya’s lips.
Trying to swallow his mirth Shane drags a hand – his free hand – over his mouth and uses his knee to support the steering wheel.
What the fuck is this trip becoming?
- Shane does something spontaneous to surprise Ilya.
- They almost get caught by Cliff Marlow. Twice.
- Shane finds out he makes Cliff Marlow nervous and somehow that fact upsets Ilya very much. And,
- He is using very unsafe driving maneuvers because he can’t fucking stop laughing at his boyfriend being jealous of Cliff fucking Marlow being nervous around Shane on the ice for an – apparently – bad reason that he won’t tell Shane about.
It takes Shane a long moment to get himself under control, but he does eventually and asks, “why won’t you just tell me why I make Marlow nervous?”
Ilya still looks a little upset but his hands are still solid around Shane’s. “Because then you will think about it and I don't want you to. You’re mine.” And isn’t that something to fucking think about.
Mine.
His.
Ilya’s.
Fuck that sounds so fucking good.
“Ok. I mean, yes, of course I’m yours, Ilya. Nothing is going to change that.” A little too much truth rings in the words but Shane doesn’t dare even think about taking them back. He will not be afraid of this anymore. He will not be afraid of what he feels for Ilya anymore.
Huffing, Ilya stays stubborn, “but I still do not want you to think about it.”
“Think about what, Ilya?”
“Marlow thinks you are hot.” The words explode out of Ilya with a flurry of movement. His hands fling out – still holding Shane’s hand hostage so that it wrenches his shoulder to the side too – and waves them around like a maniac, “Ok? He thinks you are hot and it makes his tongue tie when he tries to talk to you. He tells me this every time we play Montreal – every time we play you – and I have to bite my tongue and pretend it does not kill me to hear him say it and I cannot explain to him why I suddenly want to kill him.”
Well. . . ok then. . .
“So Marlow is bi?”
“Oh my fucking god, Shane.” Head flopping down as all of the energy suddenly drains from him Ilya collapses against the dashboard, again taking Shane’s hand with him and resting his forehead on it.
It’s fucking uncomfortable but Shane wouldn’t ever move for anything.
“What?”
“I tell you Marly thinks you are so hot he cannot speak when you are near and all you want to know is if he is bisexual?” A single eye peaks up at him and that’s all Shane needs to see the exasperation written all over Ilya’s face.
“Well, I mean, yeah? What else would I want to know about him?”
As an apparent answer to Shane’s utter bafflement Ilya unbuckles, launches himself over the center console, and kisses Shane. The kiss doesn’t last very long and Ilya is pulling back before Shane really has to worry about them running off of the road, but he’s still so fucking confused why that had been such a noteworthy – kiss worthy – first question.
It seems pretty obvious to him.
“Ilya?”
Still looking at him like he’s the first light Ilya’s seen in years, Ilya speaks in a rush of Russian. “блят. Я тебя люблю. Я тебя люблю. я люблю тебя пиздец как сильно мне больноFuck. I love you. I love you. I love you so fucking much it hurts.”
Shane recognizes a sum total of about four syllables – which is four more than he would have before – but he is still so utterly lost in this entire interaction.
“Ilya? I can’t understand you, you know that, right?” Just in case he forgot.
Ilya heaves a heavy sigh, “yes, Shane. I know.”
Rolling his eyes Shane looks back over, “so what did you say?”
“Nothing.” Ilya’s lips purse and he busies himself with kissing all over every spare inch of skin on Shane’s hand in lieu of giving an answer.
“Nothing?”
“Yes. Nothing.”
Shane cocks an eyebrow but doesn’t push it, “ok. Whatever you say.”
Theres maybe more sarcasm in his tone than needed but Ilya is the one being weird here, not him.
“So. . . you don’t think that Marlow is hot?”
What a fucking follow up question.
“Jesus Ilya, what the fuck?”
“That is not an answer.”
No, it wasn’t. “Uh. . . I guess, sure.” A beat, then, “are you fucking pouting right now?”
“No.” Liar.
“Why fucking ask if you didn’t want to know?”
“Well I did. Not think you would be quite so honest about it. I thought maybe you would spare my feelings or some shit, Hollander.”
Hollander? Jesus fuck.
“Ilya.” He laces enough warning into his tone for Ilya’s mouth to snap shut and for him to pout for only another moment before he gets to the point he’s been dancing around for almost twenty minutes, “a hot man thinks you are hot, Hollander. Is not a stretch to think you might like him. . . give him your number. . . fuck him.”
Oh.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
So that’s what it is.
Ilya is fucking jealous. . . of Cliff Marlow.
Doing his absolute best to smother his smile, Shane pushes the issue, “Ilya.”
“What?” Bitchy.
The smile nearly breaks through.
He pushes again, squeezing Ilya’s fingers still somehow tangled through his, “Ilya.”
“Fucking what, Hollander?” less bitchy and more defensive, but still Ilya being jealous.
“I wouldn’t do that to you and you know it; you have to know that by now. You’re mine and I’m yours, right?” Ilya’s mouth is still tight but his fingers squeeze Shane’s back, “Ilya?”
Sighing Ilya finally catches Shane’s eyes for a moment before looking back out at the road, “I think I thought that maybe. . . you would think it is easier to be with Marlow. He is nice. Strong man. Easy to talk to. Easy to look at. Easy. . . easier-”
Ilya falters a moment and Shane tries to get him back on track, “easier?”
“Not a rival player,” he clarifies through gritted teeth.
Oh. “Ah.”
“Yes. Ah.”
Shane doesn’t answer just yet. He thinks for a moment about Marlow and what that might look like.
Maybe it would be easier. But it wouldn’t be what he really wants. It wouldn’t be this.
“Nah.”
“Nah?”
“No. I think I’ll keep what I have.” He squeezes Ilya’s fingers, bringing them over to his lap to play with them.
Ilya lets him with only a small gasp and twitch. “You. . . would?”
“Yes, of course I would. . . It’s not the first time a hot guy has told me I’m hot or propositioned me; and Marlow didn’t even do it himself, you’re the one who told me he like me. Why would this time be any different than the others?”
For a long time there is only silence between them. Enough that Shane thinks they're done, and then Ilya’s voice, cold and murderous, comes from beside him, “who?”
Brows furrowing Shane looks. Ilya’s features are carefully arranged into a calm façade, “who, what?” he asks carefully.
“Who propositioned you?”
Oh- fuck-
“Just some other player.”
“Who?’
Well fuck. There is certainly going to be a funeral to attend in the near future. “Uh. Well, Scott Hunter, actually.” To list only one.
“The dinosaur?” Ilya doesn’t seem to know whether to be angry or offended.
The conversation is familiar and Shane smiles.
“He’s not that old Ilya.”
“Oh, so you’re defending him now?” back to bitchy, then. Good.
“No, I’m not.”
“But you-”
“Ilya.”
“-hmm?”
“I’ve only ever said yes to you.” Theres a moment where neither of them say anything but Shane can feel Ilya’s eyes on him.
Ilya’s hand spasms and then pulls until he’s cradling Shane’s over his chest. When he speaks, Ilya’s voice is quiet. Happy. “Ok.”
If he were looking, Shane might find that Ilya’s eyes are shining again, but he doesn’t say anything as he relaxes back into his seat.
What a fucking ride that was.
With Ilya mollified into stunned silence Shane uses one hand to hold the wheel steady while the other stays warms as it’s clutched against Ilya’s chest on both of his.
The sun moves slowly as the minutes pass, “so. . . Marlow is easy to look at, eh?”
This time the raucous laughter is coming from Ilya.
“Touché, моя любовьmy love, touché.”
“Ah, he speaks French, now.” Lifting his hand so that he’s griping Ilya’s chin Shane gives in to the wild urge to shake him a little bit, then he pulls and Ilya comes easily for a kiss.