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Shane is naked. Cold. He stretches out an arm, seeking Ilya. He hears himself whine, but not even the pathetic sound is embarrassing. Not with Ilya.
“You should go now, Hollander.”
Ilya’s voice has a hard edge to it. Shane looks and doesn’t find him. His eyes flit around the room. A penthouse, equal parts sterile and ostentatious.
“What? Ilya, come on. It’s freezing in here.”
Ilya appears. He doesn’t walk from one place to another, necessarily. He just…appears, suddenly standing there in nothing but well-tailored dress pants.
“I like the cold.” Ilya smirks, a challenge in his hard eyes. “You’re such a good boy for me. You just sit and wait until I’m ready for you.”
Shane’s stomach twists. The words would normally be a turn-on, because Ilya wouldn’t normally say them with this horrible sneer on his face. Or if he did, it would be because Shane specifically asked him to.
Shane turns his head and discovers a mirror. He sees right away that he’s 19 again, which should be his first sign that this is a dream.
He has less muscle definition. A baby face that hasn’t yet hardened into manhood. He’s the total opposite of Ilya, who carries himself with so much confidence it’s like he’s already lived one full life, and this one is just a victory lap.
Shane had almost forgotten this detail about the early years: how he was always sizing himself up against Ilya, desperate to level the playing field and never quite being able to.
“Come hold me.” He says sternly. “I’m not into whatever this is.”
Ilya scoffs.
“I don’t have time for this shit, Hollander. Put your clothes on and go. I have a guest on her way.”
Shane knows now that this must be a dream, but somehow even that knowledge can’t prevent the panic roiling inside him. Even on their worst days, he can’t remember Ilya being quite this callous.
Rage burns in Shane’s chest. At 19-year-old Ilya and his stalwart commitment to keeping every last feeling locked away. At 19-year-old Shane, who craved and restricted and ached as though all that pain could pave the way to something better.
He stares at his husband, who isn’t his husband. At this breathtakingly handsome, frighteningly cold iteration of Ilya.
The dream skews things, as dreams do, blurring the timeline so that teenage Ilya is already wearing his wedding ring. The familiar glint hurts Shane even more, like the two Ilyas have somehow converged into one and now—
Actually. Shane would take being married to any Ilya over marriage to someone else. The one he has now is just considerably easier to talk to.
“I said go.” Ilya snaps.
Shane opens his mouth and shuts it again. He feels just as inept at navigating Ilya’s harshness as he did at 19. He thinks hard, searching for the words that will fix this, but comes up empty.
“Wait, Rozanov. I think we should—”
Shane jolts from the nightmare with a sharp gasp.
He turns his head, slightly frantic to prove that Ilya is 32 in their shared bed instead of 19 in someone else’s. Or, more accurately, 19 and fucking his way across North America.
Ilya’s right here, of course, though not as close as Shane would like him to be. He’s drifted across the bed in his sleep, clinging to the edge. Shane frowns.
On a normal night, it’s getting Ilya off of him that’s the challenge. He’s spent many evenings batting away hands, declining sex in favor of getting a good night’s sleep before a big game or charity event or whatever.
Most of the time, he gives in, and Ilya takes great joy the next morning in teasing him about his weak will.
Shane scoots over, closing the distance between them and wrapping an arm around his shirtless husband’s midsection. The feeling of Ilya, warm and familiar in his arms, soothes some of the anxious fluttering in Shane’s stomach.
Already deeply asleep, Ilya manages to relax even more at Shane’s touch. He hums contentedly. Or Shane’s sleep-addled brain imagines that he does. Either way, Ilya pulls off what Ilya pulls off masterfully most every day: soothing Shane’s worries in a quiet, almost imperceptible way he’d never even considered before.
It goes like this: to the world at large, Ilya is a raging tempest. Endless bark, some bite, and the uncanny ability to fluster everyone he encounters. Shane knows from being on the receiving end of it that Rozanov can build someone up or cut them down to nothing just by throwing out a handful of casual words.
Only in recent years has he learned to rein this in. His cold indifference and truly lacerating remarks are now reserved (mostly) for people who actually deserve it. People like Dallas Kent, or the Troy Barrett knock-off who tried to claim his mantle when the Guardians found themselves suddenly short on domineering bullies.
Still, other players sometimes shrivel their noses in confusion when they see Ilya meet someone’s heartache with solemn compassion or crouch down to speak softly to young, nervous fans.
Shane’s lucky enough to get the gooey version of Ilya all the time. The version that sinks to the floor to lie near Anya’s bed and presses a soft kiss to Shane’s mother’s head every time she makes them dinner. The Ilya who decodes anxious cues Shane doesn’t even know he’s sending, then delivers a subtle lower back touch that makes everything feel steady again.
Ilya sighs in his sleep, and this one is unmistakably real. His shoulders shift with the weight of it, and Shane delights in the unconscious sound only he gets to hear.
In Shane’s arms. Stupid question, is obvious. Ilya once said with a shrug, when a probing party game posed a question about where he felt safest.
Damn it! Hayden had exclaimed. That’s a better answer. I should have said that.
Oh? You also feel safest in my husband’s arms, Pike?
Fuck off. You know that’s not what I meant!
The conversation had devolved into laughter then, but Shane still holds Ilya’s admission close to his heart. Remembers it always while assuming his role as husband with dutiful devotion.
Just like when he first became captain all those years ago, Shane takes pride in his title. Roles like captain, like husband, come with a great deal of responsibility, and being trusted to uphold those responsibilities is an honor. He takes them seriously.
Shane isn’t always sure how to be a good husband, but working hard is second nature to him. If he can give Ilya nothing else, he can definitely give him this. He can think more proactively, observe more closely, and pour more energy into Ilya than anyone else ever could.
In Shane’s arms.
He thinks of the nonchalant comment now, spooning Ilya close. Even recalling the cruel Ilya, the one from his dream, makes Shane surge with raw protectiveness.
Knowing all about the fear that commanded his every action back then, he has no doubt he could tear down Ilya’s walls in any universe. Over and over again, no matter how many times it took.
“I love you.” He says seriously, pressing a firm kiss to his husband’s shoulder.
He must put more strength into it than he means to, because Ilya stirs. He grumbles. Shane feels a little bad, but a sharp sense of relief overshadows his guilt.
“Hi.” He says selfishly, pulling Ilya further from sleep.
“Shane. Please do not tell me it’s time to wake up.” Ilya says, shifting onto his back.
“Nope. Sorry. I’m only up because I had a…nightmare, I guess. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Ilya peels his eyes open.
“Tell me about this nightmare. Did you get traded back to Montreal? Did Canada outlaw Ginger Ale?”
Shane huffs, flopping his head down on Ilya’s chest.
“No, nothing. Nevermind. It’s stupid.”
Ilya works his magic, running a gentle hand over Shane’s knee. It quiets his fears, makes him vaguely horny, and prompts him to spill his guts. Magic. Seriously.
“Tell me, моя любовь.” Ilya says. “Let me help.”
“Fine. Just…don’t be an asshole, okay? We were in a hotel. It was 2012, or…no. 2011? Whatever. It doesn’t matter. We were fucking, like we used to, but it was just sex again. Like it used to be. And I was like…naked and pathetic on the bed, just hoping you would hold me.”
Ilya says nothing, waiting an extra beat in case Shane has more to say. He does.
“And you were mean, Ilya. Meaner than you ever were, but it still felt really real. It made my stomach hurt.”
He exhales, closing his eyes as Ilya strokes his hair. It feels like he’s being rewarded for his honesty, which is the kind of simple math Shane loves. When he does something good, he gets something good in return. Easy.
“Thank you for telling me, моя любовь.” Ilya says. “I’m very sorry I was mean. In the dream and in real life.”
Shane shakes his head.
“Come on, no. We said no more apologies.”
The last time Shane spotted canned tuna at the grocery store and launched into a string of profuse apologies, the two of them decided there was no use letting guilt linger for this long. If they kept apologizing for every time they hurt each other on the road to happiness, it’s all they’d ever do.
“My bad. But not really. The dream is new, Shane! That means it’s something new to apologize for.”
Shane smiles, Ilya’s cold crucifix pressing against his cheek.
“Fine. I forgive you, though. I can’t believe I let myself get so worked up over a dream. And I can’t believe I woke you.”
“Is okay. You tell me about bad dreams, and I fix them. That’s what I’m here for, yes?”
“Sure, yeah. Among other things.”
Shane pulls back to look at Ilya, who waggles his eyebrows with interest.
“Not now. We have practice in the morning!”
“So boring, Hollander.”
“Shut up.”
They fall into a comfortable lull, listening to their whirring fan and to each other’s slow breathing. Shane is drifting off, nearly falling asleep right here on his husband’s chest, when Ilya speaks again.
“я тебя люблю.” He murmurs. “I love you. And…ah, fuck. In French, too. It’s so late, Hollander. Remind me?”
Shane smiles, endeared and supremely satisfied. He’s back to reality now, far from the surreal fuckboy Ilya that only exists in his nightmares.
“Je t'aime.” He says slowly, carefully pronouncing each syllable in case Ilya wants to repeat it.
“That’s the one. See? My husband is so smart. He speaks three languages. Is very sexy. How could I not love him?”
Shane grins, kissing Ilya’s forehead.
“More like two and a half.” He corrects. “My Russian—”
Ilya groans dramatically, throwing an arm across his eyes as though trying to block out the entire waking world.
“Please, Hollander. No more talking. It’s exhausting, being the best player in the league. You would not know. I need my beauty sleep.”
Shane laughs, rolls his eyes, and kisses his husband’s cheek.
“Whatever. Goodnight, asshole. I love you.”
He’s ready to let that be the end of it, but Ilya uncovers his eyes and peers expectantly through the darkness.
“What? Is something wrong?”
Ilya shrugs.
“No. Just…I said it in three languages, so…”
Shane laughs incredulously.
“You said it in two, Ilya. It doesn’t count if I say it for you.”
Ilya waves a dismissive hand in the air.
“It is the thought that counts. Please?”
Shane rolls his eyes again, but there’s no denying he does love indulging his husband. He kisses Ilya’s nose.
“I love you.”
His brow.
“Je t'aime.”
Finally, his lips.
“я тебя люблю. There. Are you happy now?”
“Not sure. How do you say ‘I love you’ in loon?”
“Goodnight, Ilya.”
“Goodnight, Shane. Wake me if you have another bad dream, please.”
Humming in agreement, Shane nuzzles into Ilya’s warm chest. He doesn’t dream again that night.
His mind is a wide expanse of fuzzy, wonderful nothingness.