Work Text:
Ilya has been sipping his beer for a few minutes now, all while mentally taking note of every sign of stress he can identify in Shane’s behavior.
One – he’s pulling his baseball cap down towards his nose for the 100th time (a black cap, so inconspicuous, so bland, not the Montreal Metros one that he had initially grabbed and then switched “so nobody will notice me” as he had said), looking like he’s wishing that cap could swallow his all forehead, then his head, then his whole body and allow him to disappear and fade into black.
Two – he’s pushing his sunglasses (a ridiculous choice to keep while inside) up the bridge of his nose (his perfect, freckled nose, Ilya notes), even though the sunglasses have not slid down at all, like adjusting them is less about comfort, and more about touching them to check that they are still exactly where they are supposed to be, hiding his eyes.
Three – that awkward little cough-like noise that comes out of Shane’s throat, which sounds like a microphone check for his own throat, like he has to make a noise to reassure himself that he’s actually there. It does remind Ilya of when Shane taps on each microphone before an interview begins, so painstakingly careful, making sure all things are in order before he can begin (while Ilya has blabbed answers into not-yet-on microphones more than once, completely ignoring the panicked expressions of the journalists when they realized their mistake and asked him to repeat due to technical issues “You had answer already, I will not repeat, you cannot remember maybe you write down next time, yes? Good night”)
Four - the incessant trembling of Shane’s right leg against the whimsy plastic seats, that are thus also shaking, which means Ilya risks spilling his beer, which would be annoying.
“Hollander”
Hearing his name, Shane jerks his face in his direction immediately, then he realizes he’s acting like a deer in headlights, so he tries to school his expression into a more neutral, cool “did you call me?” kind of vibe, he touches his glasses (again), he smiles like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
“Yeah?”
“You are nervous. Ne goni loshadyei.”
Shane’s brows furrow and Ilya has to guess that expression is a bit too advanced for Shane’s level of Russian. Mister I-speak-perfect-English-and-perfect-French-and-also Russian-now, still has a lot to learn it seems.
“Uhm… that has something to do with horses. Did you just call me your horse?”
He doesn’t sound like he would mind that pet name. Interesting, Ilya notes.
“Ah, no, no, it is expression… uhm, like hold your horses, means relax, calm down”
“Oh-oh, yeah, that makes more sense.”
He pauses for half a second
“But I am not nervous. Why would I be nervous?”
Ilya’s beer, balanced on the plastic seat next to him, is still very much agitated by a series of little tsunamis.
“If your leg could shake any harder than this, I think maybe the screws in this stupid plastic chair would come undone, hell, I am not sure this second-class hockey arena is strong enough to withstand this earthquake. So, sure, not nervous.”
The incriminated leg stops immediately. Guilty.
“Asshole, it’s not that bad”
“Ah, you are still a really bad liar”
That sentence earns him a knowing smile from Shane, which spreads to Ilya. It all started like this, years ago, in a locker room where Shane had said they could forget their embarrassingly hot shower together had ever happened and Ilya had clocked his lie immediately, especially since his boner had given him away beyond a shadow a doubt.
Shane sighs. He lowers his voice, checking that the seats around them are still empty and nobody can hear them.
“I know it’s ridiculous, being this nervous. We don’t play in rival teams anymore. We are actually engaged, and my family knows. The whole friends-for-a-good-cause plan is in motion with the Foundation, and we have agreed to come out before the wedding this summer. We even said we don’t have to be so painfully careful anymore, no need to live in constant fear. It’s just…I’m so” he grabs the air with his fists, like he is struggling to convey his feelings “…I’m so conditioned to think that being seen next to you is nuclear-level threat, that it’s hard to let go”
“Is it because when you see me you cannot help but think about my very hot body, so you afraid you will be hard while sitting here in the middle of a second-tier hockey league arena?”
Shane’s ears immediately become flaming red.
“Ilya, for fuck’s sake, you can’t say this shit in public.”
Shane covers his face with his hands, whimpering softly at his fiancé’s absolute bluntness, before he continues, whispering quietly.
“But yeah, no, I am on edge and part of that is definitely due to the fact that I have to make a really big effort keeping my hands and body in check because when you are this close my body just wants to be pressed against yours, and I am afraid if I don’t focus, I’ll find myself stroking your hair the way I do when we are watching TV on the couch together.”
He’s saying this in a very matter-of-fact tone, like for Shane it is more of a fact than a love confession, and yet the words go straight to Ilya’s heart, making him feel all fuzzy and warm. The last time Ilya had someone in his life that would just mindlessly love him, spontaneously touch him just because closeness was bliss, he was a boy whose mom was still alive. He hasn’t felt this loved, this wanted, since he was twelve. But now he has somebody on whose legs he can rest his weary head after a long day, who will gladly share his body heath and spend hours running soft fingers through his curls (while reading boring books about hockey, ok, but also while comically turning the pages with the tip of his nose so his “free” hand doesn’t have to leave Ilya’s hair). Both he and Hollander have spent years denying that their relationship was anything more than the desire to meet up for a nice fuck, and yet Shane has always felt like “home” somehow, he’s always ignited a fantasy in Ilya’s mind about being domestic, like seeing him fold his clothes during their first hookup he could imagine him doing that for the rest of their life together, while Ilya teased him for it and hugged him if he got defensive about it. It was a whole movie in his mind, even though he hadn’t hoped for a happy ending at first.
And now they are about to get married, and Shane has a bunch of his stuff at Ilya’s and Ilya has his clothes at Shane’s (both the ones he has left there on purpose for when he sleeps over and the ones Shane has blatantly stolen). And sometimes Ilya leaves his dirty clothes on the floor just to see the horrified look in Shane’s eyes when he shows up, dirty socks in his hand, to explain once again to his fiancé that no, the bathroom floor is not a magic portal that will somehow send his socks straight to the washing machine, so throwing them there is not an option.
Ilya did it again just yesterday, a bit our of laziness (he did come back with his legs feeling like jelly after the game against Las Vegas and he threw most of his clothes in the laundry basket like he was supposed to, but then he realized he was still wearing socks when he got to the shower and there was no way he was going back so leaving the socks on the bathroom floor really was the only option at that point). A bit to get under Hollander’s skin because he hadn’t done something to irritate him in a while, and where’s the fun in that.
“What are these?” Hollander had yelled at him when he had gotten out of the shower, dirty socks in one hand, glass wiper thingy in the other. He had probably gotten in the bathroom to wipe the water condensation off the mirror and shower glass, knowing that Ilya always pretended that stupid little tool didn’t exist, even though Shane had literally bought it and hung it off the shower wall.
“These, moi liubov, are called socks, noski” Ilya had pretended not to understand, while sporting his best shit-eating grin.
“Oh, are they really? And here I though they were called bathroom tiles, considering I found them on the bathroom floor”
Ilya had laughed softly, his hand on his mouth to pretend he wasn’t, he had taken the offending socks out of his fiancé’s hands and he had thrown them in the laundry basket, swiftly followed by the towel that had been the only thing he was wearing around his waist. That had not escaped Shane’s eyes. He was left staring, mouth agape, having forgotten the rest of whatever else he was going to say about socks.
“Now, I put both socks and towel in basket, yes? I did well, I deserve reward I think, da?”
As soon as he had gotten close to Shane enough to grab his hand and guide it to his groin, Ilya had been sure that the whole bathroom floor could have been covered in dirty clothes at that moment and he still would have gotten away with it.
Later on, as they were both still panting, spent and blissful, laying on the bed, Shane had started laying kisses on Ilya’s forehead, softly, keeping his eyes closed, while pushing back sweaty curls with his fingers, the way he always did when he was lost in his thoughts.
“What is on your mind, moi nasok?”
“Oh so I am your sock now, am I?
“Is just pet name, like any other”
“Might be one I should learn, considering how many times I yell at your for leaving your dirty socks around, it may just be that I need to start yelling in Russian for you to get it”
“Tsk. I only leave them around so you notice when I do not and I get reward, like today. I have to keep doing it so you will let me fuck you, yes?”
Shane smiled.
“You don’t have to do anything at all, I’m yours no matter what you do”
Ilya’s answer had been a slow, hot kiss, full of all the things he couldn’t put into words, either in English or in Russian.
“No, you are right, you are mine, but I am yours first, moi nasok”
…..
“Ilya, what’s on your mind?”
Ilya realizes he’s been lost in his memories and shakes off the warm feeling that has enveloped him thinking of the previous night. How much I love you is what’s on my mind. Shane’s words about having to actively focus in order not to touch him a few moments earlier have been enough to trigger a whole train of thoughts that was so fucking sweet most people would have thought it nauseating. A train of sugary thoughts that started the first time their lips touched and went straight to marriage plans.
“Your dick is on my mind” he says with a smirk, instead. He hopes that will turn Shane’s ear bright red again, and indeed it does. Shane is also fighting a smile.
It’s nice being out of the house with him, Ilya thinks, sipping beer, bickering, about to watch a hockey game. The previous night, after cuddling, showering (again) and having an excruciatingly healthy dinner, the two men had faced the task of deciding how to spend their Friday, considering neither of them had a game. They had agreed it would be nice to spend the day out in the world, rather than holed up in Ilya’s Ottawa home, it would be another step in their journey from closeted secret lovers to actual couple. They had each vetoed a few options (Ilya’s idea to get drunk in the middle of the day in a gay pub or to make out in the park after skating on the Rideau Canal had not met Shane’s standards, and when Shane had said they could visit the Parliament Library or spent the day at the Canadian Postal Museum Ilya had almost gagged) before agreeing on the option of a hockey game between AHL teams, the league below the MHL. The dad of one of the kids at the Irina Foundation’s camp had some managerial role for the Senators, Ottawa’s AHL team, and he had offered to get them tickets to any of the team’s game multiple times. Maybe he was secretly hoping two hockey legends attending a game would give one the players a chance to step up to the Major League – a not-so-crazy idea considering Shane has no chill and will definitely dissect this game like it is his full-time job even if it is supposed to be a day off.
Ilya is less likely to be noticing anyone’s hockey IQ, considering the game has not yet started and he’s already drinking his second beer and scraping the bottom of the popcorn bucket that he bought while Shane complained about empty calories and whatnot. He’s also deciding whether he wants a hotdog with mustard and onion or a cheese pretzel more.
“God, I can’t even look, you inhaled that popcorn, I really cannot understand how you can look that good when your diet is trash”
Ilya shrugs, lifts the almost empty popcorn bucket above his face and lets a few stray pieces slide down into his mouth, then crumples the whole thing. Time for a hotdog.
“Yes, Shane, surely all these kids playing today have impeccable diet like you, but who beat Las Vegas scoring a hat trick yesterday? Mh?”
He raises his eyebrows, clearly trying to be a dickhead about this, but Shane ignores him and looks elsewhere, like he’s trying to memorize the face of every single person in the audience as the arena fills up.
“Oh, did that lady with a double chin down there score that hat trick? Is that why you stare that way?”
Shane sighs.
“No, you did Ilya. I’m not saying you are in bad shape, I am saying that I cannot fathom how you can eat what you eat and smoke…”
“Barely”
“…and barely smoke, but still smoke, and play as well as you do. But you are an awesome player.”
“The best”
“One of the best”
A popcorn hits Shane’s forehead.
“Hey! And I though you had eaten all of those”
“There was one stuck in my seat. I think. Maybe it was here before I sat, not sure”
“Gross. You are not just throwing greasy food at my face, but dirty greasy food. How wonderful of you.”
Ilya blows him a kiss and winks.
That gets Shane blushing once again, and now he is looking around the arena like he expects everyone to have noticed the kiss. But nobody seems to have. Maybe nobody at this game expects two hockey legends to be sitting there, next to each other, drinking beer and blowing kisses at an AHL game. Someone is likely to sit down near them and recognize who they are soon enough, maybe they’ll ask for a selfie (Ilya is not-so-secretly keeping score of how many people ask Shane for a selfie and how many ask Ilya – Hollander is ahead in this particular scoring race for now, but he has the home advantage in Canada, so Ilya is not giving up, and he’s sure sooner or later he’ll be able to run his victory in his fiancé’s face). If anybody sees them or asks for a selfie, it still won’t be a tragedy, there is nothing too weird about them being there. They are friends as long as the rest of the world knows, they run a foundation together, and they have known each other for years. They also love hockey. What’s so scandalous about the two of them being at a hockey game?
Feeling bold, Shane grabs Ilya’s beer and takes a sip, carefully rotating the plastic cup so that he can put his lips exactly where Ilya’s have been. He winks.
I can’t kiss you, but this is my way of showing you I fucking want to.
Ilya shakes his head, digging a canine into his lower lip. God, he really wishes he could kiss Shane right now.
“Ya hachoo teebya”
I want you. Straightforward and bold, the way he can be, the way Shane has learned to love. As proved by the tension in Shane’s pants right now, barely visible as he adjusts the position of his legs to cover it up. Ilya knows which buttons to push to get a reaction out of him.
“Ilya, for fuck’s sake, there are kids around us.”
He makes a face and grabs his beer back.
“School system in North America not so great that kids will likely speak Russian, you know?”
“Oh, but there is no need to speak Russian to understand your tone…”
It is true, the words had rolled out of his throat in a low, humming growl, pushed out by the sheer desire that ties his stomach in a knot every time his brain reminds him that this man is his, that he wants him, that he wants to marry him, and has agreed to tell the world.
The music around them is getting louder, the arena is almost full of people, and the game is about to start. Ilya gets up, puts his beer in Shane’s hand and heads for the food stands.
“You drink this, Hollander, I buy another”
One skeptical look from Hollander is all the greeting he gets when he comes back with two beers and two hot dogs.
“It was menu deal, I could not say no to great price, could I?”
“Rozanov, you signed with Ottawa for 14 million dollars a year, I think you can live without taking advantage of every two-for-one deal on hotdogs that life throws your way”
Ilya’s answer is simply biting off half of his first hotdog, like he’s saying “problem solved, there will only be one hotdog for you to worry about in a second”
He places a beer in front of his fiancé.
“You are slow, I already had one beer, you need to catch up.”
“I literally am still holding the first beer you just gave me in my hand”
“You have two hands, no? Take.”
Shane scoffs, gently puts the second beer on the side, goes back to sipping the first, while looking slight less on edge. He even takes off his sunglasses, folds them neatly and hangs them on his shirt collar.
Ilya notices his leg also stopped shaking. Whether it is because of their bickering, or the beer, or the fact that the game started and Hockey has always been Shane’s safe place, something has shifted. The awkward tension Ilya had been tracking at the beginning is now gone.
The first 20 minutes of the game are fairly uneventful. The two teams are both pretty fierce, with the local team attempting more goals, but the opponents being really good at blocking them out.
“That goalie is good, look at how he moves”
Ilya scoffs. Shane, as expected, is dissecting every little play like it’s his full-time job.
“If you drink enough beer he moves even more. Even his net moves”
Hollander just shakes his head, laughing, then he looks at Ilya for a second, and his eyes seem to linger on his lips, like he can’t help but stare.
Meanwhile, the Kiss Cam skit has started. The operator is looking for unassuming victims, couples whose face will appear on the big screen surrounded by a ridiculous pink heart-shaped frame, hoping they’ll kiss. The first couple plays along and shares a quick peck on camera. When the second couple comes on screen they evidently cringe as they shake their heads and the girl mouths “brother” while pointing at the boy that is sharing the frame with her. Hard pass. The third couple is an unassuming pair of 70-year-olds who decide that French kissing is definitely the best way to go about this.
Shane is ignoring the screen and still staring at Ilya’s lips.
“Ti hochesh minya potselovat?”
Do you want to kiss me?
Shane tries to swallow the saliva in his mouth, but it seems to have turned into a brick.
Da, he’d like to say. Of course, always.
Instead, he smiles and stretches his fingers until they brush against Ilya’s hand, resting on the plastic chair near his knee.
It’s a quick, stolen moment, like they have done many times, like when their feet touch under the table during interviews. Every time their skin feels like it’s on fire, they get goose bumps and their stomach is tied up in a knot. It’s like there is electricity in the air, and anything would be enough to spark a fire that could consume the world.
Ilya wants more, he gets a hold of Shane’s hand, runs his fingers through Shane’s, while studying his face to understand if this is causing him to panic, getting ready to watch him pull back and leave his hand hanging, cold and lonely. But the warmth continues, Shane lets him stroke his hand, he just stares at the ice in front of them, and fights a smile.
Ilya is in heaven, he cannot stop looking at his future husband, who notices and now fully smiles, the freckles on his nose all scrunched up (those gorgeous freckles), until he schools his face back into a neutral expression. The mascots are now exiting the ice, leaving their spot to the hockey players.
The second period of the game is slightly more interesting. The Senators score a goal, then the other team does, then there’s a short fight between a couple of players that has Ilya saying “these kids don’t know how to fight, no teeth sent flying”, then the Senators get one more goal and are now leading the game.
It is time for the second break. Ilya has to let go of Shane’s hand, after holding on tight for 20 minutes, because two beers are a lot of liquid after all and he really needs to pee.
Obviously when he gets back, he puts the third beer right in front of Shane. He gets a big head shake as a response.
“Really, Rozanov, one would think you have no idea what calories are. Why did we have a perfectly balanced green smoothie for breakfast if you were going to pour 4.000 calories of beer down our throats?”
“Ah, no, that is no problem, Hollander” he replies with a grin “I did not drink your stinky green smoothie, I poured it down the sink and drank chocolate milk”
“You did not!”
Ilya shrugs
“Maybe I did not, maybe I did”
Shane has never been good at understanding sarcasm, so he’s probably still deciding whether Ilya is kidding or actually confessing to the crime of wasting a perfectly good smoothie, when the Russian man decides to shut his brain up by grabbing his hand again and quickly kissing the inside of his wrist, to then hide their intertwined fingers back in the hidden space between their bodies.
A lovely precaution, albeit a completely useless one. Because the arena has gone eerily quiet now, and Ilya’s brain is registering that a second too late. He and Shane are still looking at each other with heart-shaped eyes like two teenagers in love when something clicks in their brains. Everyone is staring. Ilya feels the hair on the back of his neck rise as he turns around and realizes that the Kiss Cam is pointed exactly on them. The most unlikely couple to ever grace the screen. Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov. Hand in hand.
Did they mean to show us on the stupid kiss cam? Did the operator just see two famous players and wanted the arena to notice? How long have we been on this screen? Enough to see that tender hand kiss?
Based on the awkward silence around, the answer to the last question is probably a yes.
“Oh, fuck it”
The words leave Shane’s lips with a smile, exactly when Ilya was expecting him to start crying or panic or, worse, punch him. It is, after all, his fault, for grabbing his hand and kissing it so tenderly, not realizing they were being observed, but Hollander does not seem mad. There is still time to say it’s a joke, to pretend this whole thing was just for the camera, make a disgusted face at the idea of kissing and be done with it, but Shane is still holding on to Ilya’s hand… maybe even pulling him towards him?
Pokhuy. Fuck it, Ilya agrees. And he pulls Shane towards him with a strong tug until their lips find each other. The arena goes from really quiet to really loud really fast. There are people jumping on their seats. Ilya smiles and can feel Shane’s lips curling up in a smile as well. The same all-Canadian golden boy that one hour and two beers ago was hoping his sunglasses could shield him from the world is now opening up the kiss on camera and tilting his head as to give Ilya’s tongue better access, right there, for everyone to see.
It feels like it’s been a second, an hour, a whole year since the kiss started. The commentators that obviously know they are looking at two of the most famous MHL hockey players (and archrivals) making out are so baffled they seem to have lost the ability to form proper sentences. The Ottawa Centaurs captain Rozanov, and Ottawa’s own Hollander. The crowd is roaring, applauding, going feral over this. Sure, the New York arena had the Scott Hunter kiss, but this is something else, this is going down in history. People are obviously recording this, zooming in on the Kiss Cam screen, where in the middle of a hot pink heart-shaped frame, Shane and Ilya are still devouring each other, stopping just to breath, giggle, incredulous and feeling somewhat drunk on this feeling. Ilya’s hands are on his future husband’s face and he is the first to step back for a second when he feels a tear roll down onto his fingers.
“Ti v poryadke?” he asks, in a whisper. Are you good? Is this still ok?
His only thing on his mind is the terrifying thought that Shane may be regretting his fuck-it moment, panicking, getting ready to bolt and never look at Ilya again. But Shane nods, a snort and a half-chocked burst of laughter creeping up his throat, confirming he’s just crying happy tears, overwhelmed by the feeling of liberation and shock.
“I have never been happier in my life. I wish I could tell you what I am feeling in Russian, but honestly I am pretty fucking shook right now and I may fuck it up pretty epically and end up saying something random that translates to, I don’t know, let’s buy a green fridge instead of you are the love of my life, and that would be messed up, so I’ll just…”
His blabbering gets shut up by Ilya’s mouth on his again, a forceful, hungry kiss, all tongue and teeth, meant to tell him something that would go straight to his stomach (his dick too, maybe?) and stop his brain from overworking. Then there’s time for a quick kiss, much softer, on his swollen lips, on his tear-stained cheek.
“I love you”
They say it at the same time, like it was inevitable because it was the only thing going through their brains.
The Kiss Cam guy seems to either have recovered from having fainted or to have finally gathered that it may be time to give this couple some privacy, so the camera moves on to another couple, a boy and a girl a few seats below. They don’t notice the camera on them immediately, as they are still turned around to look at the all-star athletes above them, then someone yells at them, points at the screen, the girl laughs and completely ignores the boy in the frame, pulls up another girl from the seat next to her and kisses her with a grin on her face.
Shane can see the screen above Ilya’s shoulders and he smiles at the scene. There is definitely a voice in the back of his head telling him he needs to be freaking out right now, contacting his manager, drafting a statement, thinking about his sponsorships, but he is completely ignoring it to enjoy this fuzzy feeling a bit longer.
He is in Ilya’s arms, he’s running his fingers in Ilya’s hair, and they are in public. Gosh, he wouldn’t have dreamed of holding his hand a few hours ago, now they are French kissing. This is not the playoff finale, like when Hunter kissed Kip on national television, but Shane is pretty sure the videos are all over the internet already. Getting seen, by people who will criticize them, but also by people like those two girls, who may feel that rush that he felt when he saw Scott’s coming out and Ilya called to say he was coming to the cottage.
It feels like Shane has been holding his breath for the past fifteen years, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but now he can breathe, he can breathe it all in – Ilya’s cologne, his shampoo, a faint hint of buttery popcorn, the familiar smell of a hockey arena – and, he thinks, it’s really like he can finally breathe for the first time in 15 years and, yep, it’s really fucking great.