Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Ilya

Shane Hollander has posted a photo.

It’s mid December. Ilya is sitting on the floor of the Centaurs locker room, his back pressed up against the heater. It’s practically burning him through his sweatshirt, but the line between pain and pleasure hasn’t been crossed yet. He is definitely sitting in the way, but his team mates have yet to work up the nerve to ask him to move and to stop blocking all the heat from reaching the rest of the locker room.

He’s looking at his phone, scrolling through house listings, most of which he’s seen already, when he gets the Instagram notification at the top of his screen. 

Shane Hollander has posted a photo.

His thumb flies up to tap it without a second of hesitation. Ilya doesn’t think he has ever gotten a notification from the official Shane Hollander Instagram account. That must be why he can’t remember ever turning those notifications on. It must have been years ago, when he was still thirsty for third party Hollander crumbs.

Even as the page loads, Ilya thinks it’s probably not Shane’s real account. He must have accidentally followed one of the thousands of Shane Hollander fan accounts that are constantly recommended to him and who he has sworn to Shane he would never follow. Ilya thought it would be pretty funny m if people saw that the only people he followed were other athletes and for some reason also fifteen Shane Hollander fan accounts.

When the page finally loads, Ilya’s eyes practically pop out of his head. His mouth falls open, and a different type of heat spreads through his limbs.

It’s definitely Shane Hollander’s official account. Ilya has never seen this picture before, can’t even remember Shane mentioning a photoshoot like this. Shane Hollander, lying on a bed wearing nothing but a soft yellow sweater and white striped boxers. The sweater is pushed up, showing just enough of his belly for Ilya’s mouth to start watering. Shane is looking right at the camera, eyes slightly hooded, lips red and plump, the way Ilya likes making them look-

There is another picture. White dress shirt, open, the same boxers in dark grey, his face serious, looking off to the side. Both pictures are so clear, so sharp, that Ilya could count every freckle on those cheekbones. He has noticed before, to his great annoyance and indignation, that the freckles usually disappear in these big professional photoshoots. 

The caption reads something about loungewear, but Ilya barely processes any of the words. He opens the comments and without thinking, his fingers fly over the keyboard.

He posted this as suicide prevention. Go to @IrinaFoundation for more info.

Yuna had told them they should try to do more promo for the foundation. He’s sure she didn’t exactly mean posting thirst comments. Ilya might not be a manager (or even technically have one since he moved to Canada), but he knows a thing or two about what gets people talking. Ilya Rozanov commenting on smoking hot Shane Hollander pictures? Yeah.

He taps the picture twice and puts his phone away. He pushes himself off the floor with new found energy after a somewhat boring practice session, and gathers his things.

He waves away any questions about why he’s suddenly leaving in a hurry. He’s down the hallway and in his car in the garage in a matter of minutes. By the time he’s driving out of the garage, the music in his car is interrupted by an incoming call.

“Are you serious?” Shane asks as soon Ilya answers, sounding already defeated.

“Hm?”

“It’s too flirty.”

“Maybe. It’s funny.”

“It is also already attracting a lot of attention.”

Ilya laughs. “And you think that is because of my comment? Not because of your pictures?” 

“Don’t even start. I am embarrassed enough as it is. I didn’t know it would be so…”

“Sexy? You’ve done sexy ads before, no?”

“Not like this. I don’t know. It’s so… soft. It’s not what athletes usually do, is it? At least not the guys in the league.” 

Ilya laughs again. “You think there’s any guy in the league that could even do it if they wanted to? They’re ugly, Shane.”

“Don’t say that,” Shane responds, outrage in his voice completely undone by the chuckle that follows. “And I know at least one guy in the league who’s not ugly and who would kill doing something like this.” 

“Really? Who? Oh, me? Yes, yes, I’d look good. But you know me, I want to fuck the supermodel, not be it.”

“Stop, I’m not a supermodel. Are you on your way home?”

“Hm. Yes, you are. And yes, I’m going home now. Was going to go look at more of those pictures in private. Maybe put them on my TV.”

“I uh, I have an idea. If you’re up for it. If it’s not too much. You don’t have to, if you’re tired or you just don’t feel like it or something-”

“What?” Ilya pushes through.

“There’s a flight from Ottawa to New York at seven tonight. We’re both free tomorrow and the next day. Maybe…I don’t know. I was going to come to you, but maybe you want to come to New York?”

“Now?” Ilya asks and looks at the time on his phone. Three o’clock.

“Yeah. If you’re up for it. I won’t be mad if you don’t want to. But if you do and you really liked those pictures… I think I packed that sweater. It’s even softer than it looks.” 

“I’ll come,” Ilya says. Is he thrilled about spending more time at an airport or on a flight? No. But there is no way in hell he could even imagine saying no to this.

“Really?” Shane asks, and the excitement in his voice grips Ilya around the heart. “I’ll book your flight right now.”

“I can book it when I get home.”

“No, there’s not a lot of seats left. And the flight after this one doesn’t land until after midnight.” 

“Okay, but I want-”

“Business class. Yeah, yeah,” Shane says. “I’ll get us a nicer room, too.”

“Can I ask?”

“Ask what?”

“Why Shane Hollander is being fun and spontaneous?”

“Shut up. The hotel I’m in right now is near that little ice rink we went to last year. It just reminded me of that trip. It was nice.”

“It was. This is a good idea.”

“Good, I’m glad you think so. I’m going to book your flight now and then I’m going to go destroy the Admirals. Text me when you get all the flight info.”

Ilya gets to the hotel just a little before ten that evening. He doesn’t expect anything. Just that he’ll see his boyfriend for the first time in a week and a half. They have gone much longer, really. He’s hungry. Maybe they’ll order something off the room service menu and fall into bed right after. Shane should be in a great mood. The Metros had crushed the Admirals with four to two.

He pushes through the unlocked door to the penthouse suite at the very top floor of the building and it’s not just a nice hotel room. It might be the nicest room in the whole city. 

“What the hell, Hollander,” he starts as he’s taking off his jacket and kicking off his shoes. “You’re going to make me think you’re rich-”

Shane appears in the hall and has Ilya stop dead in his tracks. Like a fantasy come to life, he’s wearing the pale yellow sweater, and the white striped boxers. Calf length sports socks. “You said something about fucking the model,” Shane says.

Ilya finally moves. He steps forward and grabs Shane right under his ass, and lifts him up. Shane goes up easily, strong arms wrapping around Ilya’s shoulders and strong legs wrapping around Ilya’s waist before their lips finally meet, both smiling into the kiss.

He pushes Shane up against the nearest wall. “You’re going to drive me fucking crazy,” Ilya tells him. Growls it, maybe.

Shane reaches up to the back of Ilya’s head and threads his fingers through the curls there. “Yeah? What are you going to do about it?” He speaks every word with his eyes on Ilya’s lips, so Ilya gives him what he wants. Deeper this time, open mouthed and purposeful.

He considers for a moment to just do it right there, spit in his hand and fuck Shane right up against the wall. As hot as it would be, it seems kind of… rude, maybe, after all the effort Shane went through to get them here tonight. Knowing Shane, he might actually like it.

Ilya tightens his grip and lifts Shane away from the wall. Shane nods towards the left, where an open door leads to a bedroom with floor to ceiling windows looking out over the skyline of New York City. The first thing Shane does when Ilya lets Shane down onto the bed, is reach for the remote on the night stand to bring down the blinds. 

“Really?” Ilya asks. 

“I can see what they’re watching on TV across the street,” Shane says, pointedly. “So I’m sure they’d have no trouble seeing us.”

“Hm, and you don’t want to be seen?” Ilya hums into the skin of Shane’s neck as the blinds come down with a low buzz. “You don’t want the world to see how good I’m about to fuck you?”

Shane gently moves Ilya’s face to look at him. “No,” he says seriously. “Why would I care about anyone out there when you’re fucking me?”

“Very good answer. But with those new pictures… you know how many people are going to jerk off to those?”

“Don’t.”

“It’s true. All of them, dying to know what Shane Hollander has under here,” Ilya says, reaching his hand up the leg of Shane’s boxers, pressing his thumb into the crease of his hip. He pushes the sweater up with his other hand and leans down, planting a kiss right above Shane’s belly button and then another one right on top of it. Shane’s hand doesn’t leave his hair for even a second. “What would they do, huh?” Ilya asks, peering up. “If they knew I had you here like this?”

“If they could see you like this, they’d understand. Why it’s you,” Shane says, eyes as soft as they have ever been. “And no one else.” 

Ilya can’t help himself, he grins at that. Then he refocuses and finally mouths at the front of Shane’s boxers. Shane spreads his legs wider as a response and when Ilya glances up he has his head rolled back into the pillows, eyes closed and brows furrowed. Perfect. Ilya keeps going, tonguing Shane’s quickly hardening cock through the soft fabric of the loose boxers. 

“Fuck…” Shane sighs and tugs on Ilya’s hair lightly before moving his hands down and pulling at Ilya’s shirt. Ilya sits up on his knees and while he takes the shirt off completely, Shane’s hands are on the strings of Ilya’s track pants. And he’s not as coy about it. He yanks Ilya’s pants and underwear down to his thighs and takes Ilya’s half hard cock into his mouth, without using his hands. 

“Oh my fucking god,” Ilya mouths, practically up to the ceiling. He then watches intently, watches reddened lips stretched around his cock, tongue hot and skilled, eyes darting up to meet Ilya’s. 

He has to muster all of his willpower after a few moments to nudge Shane off with a gentle hand on his cheek. 

“Come on,” Shane says, using his hand instead, his mouth still close enough that Ilya can feel his hot breath on his aching cock. “We have all night.” 

Ilya can’t really object to that. Shane takes him back into his mouth. One hand stroking Ilya’s shaft as he moves his mouth up and down his cock, the other hand on Ilya’s ass, strong fingers kneading the soft flesh there.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya lets out as a warning of sorts. 

Shane’s eyes flutter up to look at him. He lets the cock slip out of his mouth and asks. “On my face?” It’s the type of brazenness that only comes out of him when he’s drunk with lust, his own cock aching. 

Ilya grabs him by the chin and leans down for a wet, sloppy kiss before straightening himself out again and covering the hand that Shane has wrapped around Ilya’s cock. It only takes a few more seconds after that, until white streaks cover Shane’s freckled cheek and lips. Ilya can only stare and pant as Shane darts his tongue out to lick off his lips and then the tip of Ilya’s cock. Ilya takes a moment to just watch. Watch how Shane pushes a hand into his own boxers, jerking himself off as he swipes his fingers over the cum on his cheek and brings them to his mouth. Ilya then finally moves. He takes his pants off all the way, just because it’s a tripping hazard, and then manhandles Shane further onto the bed and onto his back. He pushes Shane’s knees apart and yanks the boxers down just enough to give him access, to take Shane’s cock into his mouth.

Shane curses more than once, and Ilya reaches a hand up, which Shane grabs eagerly, leading two of Ilya’s fingers into his mouth. He considers swallowing the whole load when Shane cums, but decides to let the last drops rest on his tongue. 

He moves up, over Shane’s spent body, and kisses him, wet and dirty, tasting like each other, mixed together.

Ilya then lies down next to him, on his side, bodies still pressed up against each other, Legs tangled and fingers intertwined. Ilya buries their linked hands under Shane’s soft sweater, on his stomach and leaves them there. He then reaches for his own t-shirt, strewn just within reach on the bed. He brings it up to Shane’s face and gently wipes away what’s left of the glistening streaks on his cheek. Shane snorts with his eyes closed. 

“Should have taken a picture first,” Ilya says.

“Hm. The day we do that is the day our phones get hacked or stolen, I just know it,” Shane says. “And we should probably stop sending each other those other pictures, too.”

“Oh, should we?”

“Yes. I mean no, but we should. You don’t even hide your face most of the time.”

“I thought you liked my face?”

“Shut up.”

“Just maybe not as much as I like yours,” Ilya says and presses a soft kiss to Shane’s freckled cheekbone.

“You really don’t think that photoshoot was, like, too soft?”

“And why is soft so bad, huh?”

“You know why,” Shane sighs. “And I felt weird looking at them. I don’t know. Maybe some stuff is just for us.” 

“Like what?”

“Soft stuff. Like when you cried for the full ninety minutes when we watched Coco.” 

“You cried, too.”

“Right. But that’s just for us.”

“Okay,” Ilya chuckles. “And what else?” 

“Not the sweatshirt anymore. I don’t want to wear the Celtics sweatshirt anymore,” Shane says, looking away, miffed.

“What? Because of those stupid posts again?”

“Yes, it’s ruined,” Shane says, furrowing his brows further in annoyance. “That was just for us. It doesn’t feel the same when people start speculating.”

Ilya sighs and presses his foreheads to Shane’s temple. It was a rough one. Shane had worn the Celtics hoodie out of the house exactly once on his way to a practice session. He had stopped to answer a couple of questions from reporters as he’s done so many times. That same afternoon some Rozanov fan account had posted a still of Shane in the hoodie next to pictures of Ilya wearing it on different occasions, going back five years, with and without a jacket over it, pointing out where the Celtics logo is faded in the exact same place on both. Most people were calling the account fully delusional. A lot were… unnecessarily mean. Some were pretty funny. 

-I just saw my English teacher wearing this same sweatshirt. Should I ask him if he’s fucking Ilya Rozanov too? 

-Some of you need to start taking medication asap.

-I know Hollander is probably gay fr but I want to know whats worse: Hollander fucking that communist demon or Hollander repping the Celtics like a fake fan bc his evil crush played in Boston once upon a time. Vote in the comments.

-you people are so fucking annoying I’m sick of hearing about Rozanov everytime I open a Hollander thread I DONT CARE ABOUT ROZANOV keep him out of my Metros interviews or istg. he’s WASHED UP in Ottawa and Hollander shouldn’t even be friends with him in the first place 

-idk i share clothes with my friends all the time. some of you just dont know what real friendship is. some of you probably dont have any friends at all.

-Hollander must have lost a bet cus who just decides to give a shit about the fucking Celtics bro lmao

“Even if people knew about us,” Shane then continues, “I don’t think I’d ever want to make a statement or anything. People are so fucking awful just to be awful.”

Ilya is suprised that Shane is suddenly even considering the possibility of people knowing about them and how to react to it. “Are you still mad I commented on your picture today?” he asks.

“I mean, yes, it was definitely too flirty. But it was good to mention the foundation.”

“If people knew about us, I would tell everyone that I get to fuck you, under every picture of you.”

“What about telling everyone that you love me?”

“No, that’s just for us, remember?”

“Tell me then,” Shane says. 

“Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“I love you, too.” 

“Come on, try it.” 

Shane sighs dramatically and then says: “Ya tebya bezumno lyublyu.”

Ilya smiles, unable to even come up with a way to tease him. Too enamoured in that moment with how this gorgeous man just told him he is madly in love with him. Shane kisses him, deep and with intent, and Ilya can feel it in the way Shane holds his face that maybe he didn’t think Ilya would come to him that night.

Ilya enters the bathroom later, ready for his last shower of the day. There is the floor to ceiling window again, but this one is frosted for the most part, leaving a sliver at the top to show the night sky. 

It’s the massive free standing bathtub in the middle of the bathroom that catches his attention. A bath? That’s kind of dumb, right? He hasn’t taken an actual bath bath in years. The coach and physical therapist in Boston would make him take ice baths every week for some kind of ‘recovery’ but he hadn’t done it since he got to Ottawa. 

He starts running the bath as he studies the big bottles of soaps and oils on the shelf by the counter. “Hollander. Do you like a honey milk bath or a lavender bath?” he calls out, turning the amber colored bottle in his hand. 

Just a moment later Shane pokes his head through the open bathroom door. “You’re taking a bath?”

“You and me.”

“Oh. Then honey. Why are we doing this?”

“For romance,” Ilya says, wriggling his eyebrows at his boyfriend as he takes the cap off the soap. Maybe it would be more convincing if Ilya wasn’t still fully naked as he said it.

Shane rolls his eyes at him, but moves forward and dips his hand into the water. The water filling the tub is starting to steam up. Ilya pours about half the bottle into it, the sweet, but warm scent filling the room instantly. 

“This thing is massive,” Shane says. “It’s going to take a while to fill up.”

“Is it too hot? Not hot enough?” Ilya asks. 

“How hot do you want it?” 

“Burning.”

“Then it’s not hot enough,” Shane says and moves up to the faucet to twist the knobs. “I don’t think I’ve taken a real bath since I was a kid.”

“We should have candles,” Ilya says. “You think they’ll send us some?”

“Definitely not. I don’t think they want random guests to be burning candles in their hotel rooms.”

“Not even Shane Hollander?”

“Not even him and he’s not going to try,” Shane says. He walks to the automatic light switch by the door and the next thing Ilya knows, the lights dim around him.

“What about… strawberries and chocolate?” Ilya says.

“You want me to ask them if they have strawberries and chocolate? Ilya, that is so embarrassing.”

“I see. You flew me to your New York penthouse suite to fuck me and then let me starve?” 

“Shut the fuck up. I can order food. But I can tell you right now strawberries and chocolate are not a menu item.” 

“When you rent a room like this, everything is on the menu.” 

“You really want me to ask them-”

“Yes, Shane. I have never wanted something so much in my life.” 

Shane lets out an annoyed huff and practically stomps his feet out of the bathroom. Ilya smiles to himself, silently wondering if it will ever not be funny.

The strawberries arrive just fifteen minutes later, right as the tub fills up. “This is so embarrassing," Shane says again, showing Ilya the bottle of champagne delivered with it, complete with ice bucket and two glasses. 

“You are so romantic, Shane Hollander. How did you know?” Ilya teases and grabs the bottle from him. There is a dark wooden side table tucked under the sink, which Shane pulls out and slides next to the tub. He puts the pretty plate of strawberries, the ice bucket and the two glasses on there. 

“Don’t say I’ve never done anything for you,” Shane says.

Ilya replies by putting the bottle down and helping Shane take his sweater off. He watches as he folds it neatly and places it on the small bench near the overhead shower. Shane takes off his socks, too, and rolls them up. Ilya decides to be helpful again and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Shane’s low hanging boxers from behind. He presses a kiss to the soft skin on the back of Shane’s neck and then pulls the boxers down to his thighs, until they fall down to the floor themselves. Ilya bends down to pick them up and puts them with the rest of Shane’s clothes. 

He then puts his hands on Shane’s hips and inches him forward. “Get in.” 

Shane steps into the bath and sits down with a pleasant groan. “It’s really hot,” he lets Ilya know. He reaches a hand out, which Ilya takes as he steps into the bath himself. It’s certainly wide enough for the both of them, but when Ilya sits in between Shane’s legs, with his back against Shane’s chest, Ilya has to bend his knees just a little. 

It’s definitely worth it, Ilya thinks, even just for that short moment where he feels his back muscles relax as he’s engulfed by the steaming hot and soapy water.

“Feels good, right?” Shane asks softly, just beside his ear. Ilya opens his eyes, unaware he had even closed them. He hums in agreement and scoots down a little so that his shoulders are submerged as well. 

He can see thick and heavy snow flakes falling through the sliver of unfrosted glass. It makes him all the more grateful that they are right where they are currently. Not out there trudging snow. Not at an airport, not in traffic, not hundreds of miles apart.

He doesn’t always feel it. Grateful. He does always feel horrible for how ungrateful he can be. For weeks now, he has been waking up in a horrible mood most days. Not even depressed, just… annoyed. Pissed, even. At everything and fucking nothing.

He almost has it all. A career most people would kill for. More money than he needs. Peace and quiet, for the most part. Friends. And most importantly, a love so overwhelming and all consuming he can’t even imagine a life without it anymore. Without him. 

The idea that he could be ungrateful disgusts him, truly. It’s so petty and selfish, so… disconnected. And still, if he has all of that, why the fuck is he still waking up alone, day after day?

His therapist tries to assure him that feeling that way isn’t good or bad, it’s just a feeling. Self flagulating for not having a bad enough life doesn’t help anyone.

But even she fell silent when Ilya brought up Russia in their last conversation. People fight back, don’t they? They have nothing else. Just their principles. What do I have? Everything. Except for that. 

It had taken her a moment to process before going back to his circumstances and the pressure. She doesn’t have all the answers, he knows that and he doesn’t expect that of her. At the very least, in these frustrating moments, she was simply someone who he could say these things out loud to, and it was still an improvement to these thoughts and feelings being stuck in his throat like a cinder block, for months on end. Years, even.

And even so, he still hasn’t told her everything, still hasn’t been able to give voice to the glaring reason his brother hates him and why iIlya, for a long time, felt like he deserved every bit of that vitriol. Still often feels that way. Ilya never told anyone. Not Svetlana, not Shane. Svetlana would forgive him, he thinks. She had been around him when he was making all sorts of stupid decisions and fucking all sorts of people he shouldn’t.

But Shane? The ever faithful, ever loyal. He might look at Ilya differently.

But here, in this moment, he feels grateful down to his bones that he is one of the lucky ones, with a life so comfortable and filled with obscene luxuries like taking honey milk baths with the most beautiful boy in the world. 

It’s not everything, but it’s the farthest thing from nothing. You can talk to me about anything, Ilya, Shane assures him so often. Ilya is getting pretty close to believing that.

They end up back in bed, in fluffy hotel robes with the rest of the strawberries. Ilya had poured them a glass of champagne each. Shane didn’t touch his champagne or the chocolate covered strawberries. There were regular strawberries, too, which he did eat all of and when Ilya dipped one of those in his champagne and held it up for Shane to bite into, he did. 

Shane was stricter about alcohol and sweets than he was previously. He wasn’t bulking anymore, and Ilya thinks he might have even lost a few of the pounds he had gained over the summer.  Reaching the finals and then losing last season had definitely made Shane far stricter as soon as this current season began. 

Shane puts on a pretty boring basketball game between the Raptors and the Bucks, but it has Ilya’s attention well into the second quarter. Shane is leaning against him, head on Ilya’s shoulder, with a warm, heavy hand on Ilya’s chest. Ilya thinks maybe Shane has fallen asleep already, but just moments later Shane’s hand moves. His fingers curl over the collar of Ilya’s robe, carefully inching down to right above the knot in the robe’s belt. He grazes his fingers over the bare skin on Ilya’s stomach, and then back up to his chest. He does this for a while and Ilya enjoys the gentle caress for what it is, until Shane lifts his head up and presses a warm kiss against Ilya’s collarbone. He’s hovering just short of taking initiative. He could get in Ilya’s lap, could just grab his cock, could kiss him, the way he has done plenty of times before.

Ilya knows that it’s not hesitation or shyness. He puts a finger under Shane’s chin and lifts his head. He wants to kiss him, wants to devour him, envelop him, be everything he could ever need. 

“Sit here,” Ilya says, spreading his legs. Shane moves immediately to get into Ilya’s lap. “No. Turn around.” 

Shane quirks an eyebrow, but sits in between Ilya’s legs, leaning back against Ilya’s chest, the way they had just been sitting in the tub, places switched. Ilya reaches around him, puts a hand on each of Shane’s bent knees and pushes them apart. He then grabs the belt of Shane’s robe and undoes it. He presses his lips against Shane’s ear. “Get yourself ready for me.” 

Without a word, Shane reaches up and puts two fingers into his own mouth. He takes them out again, slick with spit, and reaches between his legs. He lets out a sigh as he touches himself. 

Ilya feels the heat rising, just watching him over his shoulder. Feeling Shane tense against his chest for just a second, feeling him adjust himself to get comfortable, is so hot he has to mentally restrain himself from just shoving Shane down on the bed and grinding up against him like a dog. And Shane would like it, too. 

He watches Shane’s soft cock twitch, waking up among a tuft of soft dark hair. Ilya lets his hand roam over Shane’s chest, grabbing a shameless handful first and then reaching down to stroke Shane’s cock. He presses his lips back up against Shane’s ear, kisses it, mouths at it and pulls the first real, open mouthed moan out of him.

They take their time. They were blowing each other just two hours ago, and as hot as it would be to fuck fast and rough now, Ilya directs Shane to lean back against the pillows. He then pushes Shane’s knees up to his chest and eats him out until the hand in his hair becomes desperate. 

There’s a tiny bottle of lube in Shane’s toiletry bag on the bedside table, no label and could easily be mistaken for hand sanitizer. Ilya coats his cock with it, eyes on Shane’s face who is fully fixated in Ilya’s cock. 

He presses his cock up to Shane’s hole and leans down for a kiss. Ilya can feel Shane’s knees grip at his hips and pull him in closer. He can only tease so much until he’s teasing himself more than Shane, really.

Shane lets out a beautifully familiar groan into Ilya’s mouth when Ilya presses into him. Ilya responds with his own, overwhelmed by the heat, by the tightness around his cock, by how easily he is welcomed in, despite that. By the way Shane can relax so fully when Ilya has him like this.

A long time ago, Ilya used to tell himself some really stupid things. Just sex. Over and over and over again. You can get sex anywhere, it’s not a big deal, he’s just one guy, it doesn’t need to be him, why do you always want it to be him? Get over it. He doesn’t want you. Why would he want you? He just doesn’t want to risk it with anyone else. You’re convenient. Don’t let it get to your fucking head. 

That was a lifetime ago. The rest of their relationship could probably be considered the opposite of convenient. Just bending over backwards to spend every last spare second together. And every last one of those seconds has been worth it. 

And Ilya did really believe that sex itself was just a physical thing at one point. He believed in love, sure, but as a separate thing. These days, and for quite a while now, all his lust and love seemed to have converged in one massive, glowing, smoldering hot arrow, pointed directly at Shane Hollander. 

“Ilya,” Shane pants and reaches for Ilya’s hand. “Fuck, Ilya.” He guides Ilya’s hand up to his chest and Ilya knows what he wants, what he’s been liking lately. Ilya slides the hand up and Shane bares his neck for him immediately, tilting his head back. Ilya curls hand around his throat gently, but snugly, as he fucks into him. He presses down gently, holds him like that and watches Shane’s beautiful face contort in pleasure.

Ilya wakes up with Shane’s head resting on his chest. The room is still dark and his phone is just out of reach to check what time it is. Shane stirrs when Ilya tries reaching for it. “Morning,” Shane says. 

“Morning,” Ilya responds, accompanied with a kiss to the top of Shane’s head.

“It’s still early,” Shane says, returning the kiss on Ilya’s chest. “You can go back to sleep, if you want.”

Ilya doesn’t go to sleep, but he doesn’t feel the need to move either. It’s warm under the covers, skin to skin. 

“Did the last house have a sauna?” Shane asks after a little while. 

“Yes. Not very big, but nice.” 

“You really liked that house.”

“You would have liked it, too.”

It was perfect. Shane would have love the surroundings. The house was covered by trees, the next home being about fifty yards away. Close to a running trail. There was a firepit in the yard, even. 

It was fairly new, too. The family that owns it was still living there when Ilya viewed it. Clearly very wealthy. They hadn’t even listed the house anywhere. Ilya’s realtor had called him personally to tell him that she knew a family who was maybe thinking of selling their home. He got a private viewing while no one was home. It was clear it was a longshot. But when he saw how nice it actually was, he couldn’t help but get his hopes up. 

This was definitely a house that Shane Hollander would want to live in.

But before he even got to talking about putting in an offer, the owners let the realtor know they decided not to sell after all. Ilya had considered just making an offer anyway. Maybe it would be an offer they couldn’t refuse. He didn’t know how rich these people were exactly. 

But he had seen children’s hockey gear stacked in the mudroom, tiny skates and sticks, dog bowls and he had walked past what was clearly a young girl’s room. It seemed kind of awful to just offer a bag of money and tell this family to fuck off out of their home, because he wants these five bedrooms to himself to impress his gay boyfriend with. His gay boyfriend who just so happened to be a big fan of modern architecture and all natural materials. 

He had shown Shane some pictures. He didn’t take many, just a couple of the outside spaces. There were still people living there after all. In the end, it was probably better that way. He was disappointed enough on his own. He would have hated for Shane to get excited and be disappointed, too.

Even so, Shane said he loved the location and the privacy that came with it. Maybe a little big was his only point of criticism, which meant that it was probably perfect. Ilya could still see himself and Shane sitting near that firepit so clearly. Having a little bit of the privacy the cottage provided, but  in their everyday life in the city. 

“Maybe we’ll find something in that neighborhood,” Ilya suggests. 

“You want that one, though. I know you said you don’t want to put in an offer, but I don’t know. You can ask the realtor to float a number. Just a little over what he thinks it’s worth.” 

“I can’t buy a house you haven’t even seen.”

“It’s the one you want,” Shane says. “You were nowhere near as excited for any of the other ones.”

“Much more expensive than the others, too.”

“It’s a better investment than a Lamborghini.”

“Hm. Fuck you.”

“Just think about it. If you loved it, it’s worth a try,” Shane says, pressing another kiss on Ilya’s chest before pushing himself up. He doesn’t get out of bed, just sits up against the headboard and grabs his phone off the bedside table with one hand. He buries the other one in Ilya’s hair. 

“There’s a coffee machine in the suite, but the room service can bring better coffee,” Shane then says. “They have a bacon, egg and cheese bagel. You want it? Or yoghurt with fruit and oatmeal for the both of us?”

“You know what I want,” Ilya says, suddenly starving. He really didn’t even get to having dinner last night. “But extra fruit is good.”

“Okay, should be here soon,” Shane says and finally gets out of bed. “I’m going to clean this sticky fucking mess off me. We took a bath and a shower last night, just to still wake up with your cum all over me.” He says most of it as he’s already out of the room.

“It’s your own cum, too,” Ilya calls after him. He turns on the light on the bedside table and finds his own phone. 

It’s worth a try, Shane had said, so he might as well try. He texts his realtor with the idea of floating an offer after all and proceeds to ignore every other incoming text. His team mates love to ask him what he’s doing on his days off. He’s sure he is missing something they had planned, not sure what, because he had declined the invite to whatever it was without even hearing the specifics. If Ilya hadn’t come to New York, Shane would have come to Ottawa. There just aren’t enough hours in their days together for Ilya to also schedule team events somewhere in there. He has been feeling worse and worse about it. He was still just getting to know the team last season, but they seem to have… grown attached to him. Especially the younger ones go nuts if he shows his face for even twenty minutes at a get-together. And maybe he’s grown attached to them as well.

When Shane comes back just ten minutes later, he points at the bedroom door. “There’s a Peloton and a weight rack in the other room. Or we can go for a run outside after breakfast if you want. And if the weather is good enough.”

“What if I don’t want either?”

“Then I would have to do it alone. And I wouldn’t like that.”

Ilya makes a show of groaning dramatically and throwing the bed covers off of himself. He gets out of bed, grabs Shane’s face and presses a loud and hard kiss onto his cheek, squeezing his face for good measure. Shane pretends to fight him, but the arms that snake around Ilya’s waist are more telling. 

Ilya still takes a full shower. He doesn’t mind showering both before and after a workout, in fact he prefers it. Before and after workouts, before and after games, before and after sex. Getting ready and winding down. On his worst days, he might be in there four times a day, naively trying to wash away the heaviness, hoping he’ll feel normal, lighter somehow, after this one. Or the next one. 

He’s just finishing up brushing his teeth when Shane pushes into the bathroom. He grabs his Apple watch off the counter and puts it on his wrist. He then wordlessly sidles up behind Ilya and wraps his arms around his torso which he lazily dried with the towel that is now wrapped around his waist.

The mirror above the counter is too foggy for Ilya to see Shane’s expression fully.

“Sorry,” Shane then says, letting go of him and taking a step back. “I can’t keep my hands off you for some reason.”

“For some reason?” Ilya asks and turns around.

Shane looks at him, almost shyly. “I promise that’s not the only reason I asked you to come here.”

Ilya leans back against the counter. “And you think I wouldn’t like it, if you asked me to come here and we stayed in this room and fucked for two days?” 

“I think it would be rude of me to assume.” Shane reaches over and drags his fingers over where the towel is tucked against Ilya’s hip. 

“Then ask,” Ilya says. 

Shane bites his lip and asks: “Can I suck you off?”

By the time they get to their food, the coffees are lukewarm. Shane has put on track pants and heavy sweatshirt, very inconspicuous in all black, which tells Ilya that he has already decided for them that they are going out for a run. 

“Mom just texted,” Shane says when Ilya sits down next to him. "Apparently your comment on my post got like fifty thousand likes.”

“Famous,” Ilya says before biting into his bagel. “Is she mad?” 

“No. Apparently the foundation’s account got a bunch of followers from it.”

“You don’t look happy about it,” Ilya notes, looking at slumped shoulders.

“It’s not that. There’s just a bunch of other comments under yours now.”

“Don’t read them.”

“It’s too late for that,” Shane sighs and puts his phone down on the table.

“Want me to delete it?” Ilya offers, putting his hand on Shane’s thigh. It had been a spur of the moment joke. He couldn’t be in those comments supporting his hot boyfriend going out on a limb with a photoshoot like that. But at least as a colleague he could show it every now and then. He never meant for it to cause more stress.

Shane shakes his head. He leans forward and grabs his yoghurt bowl off the table. “We’re going to do six miles in Central Park.”

“As my punishment, or what?”

“You liked it last year. After that we can go out, do lunch somewhere. Maybe you can ask your friend Scott Hunter if he knows anywhere good that’s a bit more private.”

“Scott Hunter does not know good restaurants,” Ilya snorts. “Why don’t you ask him?”

“Because I beat him two to four last night. He doesn’t want to hear from me,” Shane says frankly. “But now that I think about it, he’ll probably have questions about what you’re doing in New York if you ask him.”

“Getting sucked off by the man who beat him, what else,” Ilya chuckles and it gets a laugh out of Shane, too. “But you really want to go out? Last time you hated it.”

“I didn’t hate it,” Shane says. “Just like… a little bit. But it’s different now. People have seen us together a lot, they know we’re friends. And you like it, right?”

“Not if it stresses you out.”

“Okay, well, everything stresses me out. If we were to go by that, we would never do anything or go anywhere. I can get over myself,” Shane says decisively.

It’s not snowing anymore and most of what fell the night before seems to have thawed overnight, leaving just mounds of icy snow along the roads and walkpaths here and there. Every now and then even the sun breaks through grey clouds.

It’s just past nine a.m on a Saturday morning when they start their run. The park is a lot busier than it was the last time they were there. Couples out on walks, families out with strollers, people out with their dogs.

Ilya loves it. It’s six miles, a good distance for anyone, but he feels like he could do twenty with Shane by his side at a steady pace, with the sounds of all these other people around them just living their lives. And the harder his body works, the less time he needs to spend thinking about anything. The louder his heart pounds in his chest, the softer the unrelenting voice in his head becomes that just loves to ask what the fuck is the point of anything?

He also likes to push it far enough to the point where Shane can only barely keep up with him. Shane can act annoyed by it all he wants, but everytime Ilya picks up the pace there is a smile there, the drive reignited, ready to be challenged, ready to play. Shane is faster on the ice. Most of the time. That is where Ilya is playing catch up. Most of the time. It’s the only place where it actually matters.

Back at the hotel, they skip the weights and instead get right back into the shower. It just happens, really. And Ilya can admit that it’s probably a bit much to already be all over each other again, as he becomes mesmerized by how Shane’s long, pretty eyelashes stick together under the shower stream. He has the self control to wait for Shane to be done washing his hair and scrubbing himself down before he crowds him up against the wall, just to kiss him a little bit. Shane kisses him back, warm and sweet and comforting, pulling their bodies flush together. Shane pulls away and presses their foreheads together. “I swear this isn’t why I asked you to come here,” he says, dragging his fingers over Ilya’s back.

“Hm?”

“I didn’t ask you to come all the way to New York just so we can fuck the entire time.”

“You keep saying this. What could be a better reason?”

Shane shakes his head, small smile on his lips. “We’re supposed to go out, have fun.”

“You don’t have fun going out in New York.”

“But you do. And last time we were here you said…” Shane cuts himself off, dropping his head on Ilya’s shoulder when Ilya slides both his hands down Shane’s back and his ass, spreading him open and pressing one gentle finger against his hole.

“What did I say?”

Shane gives Ilya’s shoulder a playful bite, both hands gripping at Ilya’s waist and then looks at him. “After this, we’re going out.”

There is the small problem of not really wanting to get out of bed after they fuck. They order lunch to the room and get back in bed again, which Ilya has absolutely no complaints about whatsoever. And then Shane says: “I have an idea, but it might be a bad one.”

“Hm?” Ilya asks. Shane has his head on Ilta’s chest and Ilya has been playing with Shane’s ear with one hand and lazily scrolling on his phone with the other. He puts his phone down.

“The Knicks are playing the Celtics tonight,” Shane says. “You would like that.”

“You want to watch?”

“No. I mean, we could… go,” Shane says.

“You want to go to a game with me? Together?” Ilya asks, honestly confused.

Shane stills for a moment and then shakes his head. “No. You’re right, it’s stupid.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, it is. I’m sorry,” Shane says. He shifts away from Ilya to lie down next to him, turning onto his side to look at Ilya. 

“This was your idea?” Ilya asks, still pretty confused.

“No. I mean, I was thinking maybe we could go, wear the Irina Foundation sweatshirt. But I only brought one, so it’s stupid.”

“You want to go to the game and you want to promote the foundation there? So we’re sitting courtside?”

“You’re right. It’s dumb.”

“I did not say that,” Ilya says emphatically. “I will go if you want to go.”

“I just thought you’d like it. I don’t even know if there are any tickets left.” 

“I can get tickets. Lots of friends at the Celtics. Will you really go? If I get them?”

Shane exhales. “Yes.” 

“You don’t want to ask your mom first?”

Shane rolls his eyes at that. “No. It’s fine. If I treat it like a promotional thing, I won’t even have a panic attack while we’re there.”

Ilya expects Shane to change his mind every step of the way. 

Getting the seats is easy. The problem is that they’re maybe a little too good. There is also still the issue of Shane having beat the Admirals the day before, but the boos are halfhearted when the cameras find them for the first time and probably mostly directed at Ilya who is wearing a bright green Celtics jacket he got off one of the players after chatting with them for a little bit before the game. Even Shane rolled his eyes at him when he put it on.

Ilya introduces his very famous and good friend Shane Hollander to the players and while Ilya continuous to fuck around with old friends before the game, Shane puts on his very professional interview smile and talks to the sideline reporters for a little bit.

“We know Ilya Rozanov used to live in Boston, but what makes Shane Hollander a Celtics fan?” she asks. Ilya looks over her shoulder at Shane’s face who is just shaking his head.

“You know, I’ve liked the Celtics since I was a kid,” Shane lies. “I’m a big fan of sports’ history and the Celtics have been a force for decades. And before I was drafted to the Metros, there was a good chance I’d end up in Boston, too.”

“Hm. No there wasn’t,” Ilya blurts, peering at Shane over the cameraman’s shoulder. Shane catches his gaze, stern warning in those pretty brown eyes. Ilya dares a wink and dodges the cameraman who tries to turn around to get him in view.The reporter and the cameraman both seem more amused by his antics than Shane is.

The reporter continues: “Well, I think the guys on the Celtics will be thrilled to hear that they have the support of the best player in the MLH-”

And it’s clearly bait. She says half of it, while looking over her shoulder at Ilya who just shakes his head and backs away while scoffing loudly and annoyingly. It takes every ounce of self control not to remind everyone who won MVP last year. He steps back and catches just enough of the rest of the short interview to hear Shane mention the foundation and explain what it entails in his nicest Canadian boy voice. 

“I can’t believe I have to be a Celtics fan now,” Shane mutters when they finally sit down for the game to start.

A Celtics staffer shows up with a tray of snacks and drinks and Ilya thinks it’s one of those nights that proved it can actually be pretty fucking fun to be semi-famous.

But Ilya can’t help himself. Shane seems to be having a perfectly good time, but Ilya turns to him at least four times during the game to ask him if he’s still okay being there. The last thing he wants is for him to be sitting there overwhelmed and regretting the entire thing with camera’s pointed at them. The stadium is packed and loud. Shane is used to a crowd, but Ilya knows from experience that when you’re the one at the centre, you get very good at drowning out the noise to focus on the task at hand.

“I’m good, I promise,” Shane assures him after the fourth time. “It’s more fun than watching on TV.”

“We can go when you want to go,” Ilya assures him.

“It’s a close game. As a Celtics fan, I’m very invested in the result,” Shane says with a small smile, and then more seriously: “I’ll let you know when I want to leave.”

They take a few pictures with fans at the end of the game and right as Shane signals at Ilya with just his eyes that it’s time to leave, a security guard, about a head taller than the both of them, comes up behind them. “I can call a car for you guys. Or two cars?”

“One is fine, thank you,” Shane responds. 

Ilya waves goodbye to the last few fans and follows Shane and the security guard down into the player’s exit. There is a black car waiting for them outside already, near the Celtics player’s bus.

The car ride is only ten minutes long, ten quiet minutes in which Shane, who is already wearing a pair of sunglasses, pulls the hood of his sweatshirt up. Ilya wants to pull him against his chest, wants to grab his hand and let him know it’s done, the night has ended, they’re almost alone together again.

Instead, the best he can do is ask the driver if he minds turning the music down.

It’s not until the door closes behind them in the hotel room that Shane says: “I think that part with the fans drained all the life out of me.”

“They were happy to see you,” Ilya says. He grabs Shane’s arm, gently, and turns him around so that they’re facing each other. He pushes Shane’s jacket off his shoulders. “And you did very good.”

“When it’s so many of them, it just becomes too much to focus on. Don’t you get overwhelmed?” 

“Sometimes. They must like you a lot, for them to be so nice after you destroyed the Admirals one day before.”

“They were nice,” Shane admits. “But I get so tired after things like this.”

“Shoes off. We’re going to lie down,” Ilya assures him.

While Ilya gets changed, Shane comes out of the bathroom with his toothbrush in his mouth to remind Ilya to take his meds. His alarm went off over an hour ago while they were out and Ilya had already forgotten about it. 

He waits for Shane to get into bed first, before joining him. He lets Shane decide how much he wants to be touched and Ilya is silently pleased when Shane scoots closer to him and latches onto him with all of his limbs, putting his head on Ilya’s shoulder. 

“Did you have fun?” Shane then asks. 

“Me? Of course,” Ilya says.

“Really?”

“Really. Talked to old friends, talked to fans, watched the game, had pizza and popcorn. My boyfriend was there complaining about how everything was too loud and too bright and too salty and too greasy…”

“I didn’t complain about it being too bright.”

“You were thinking it, but it’s okay. It was a very good time.”

“Really?” Shane asks again, softly.

“Yes, really.”

“Good. I’m glad. I just wanted you to have a good time this weekend.” 

Ilya buries his nose in Shane’s hair and the last thing he thinks before he falls asleep is that his therapist would probably be proud of him for not questioning why his boyfriend would care so much.

Their flights leave around six in the evening the next day, and that morning Shane doesn’t seem pressed at all to do anything or go out. They take turns on the Peloton in the suite, Shane first and Ilya second, beating Shane’s mileage by almost half a mile per hour.

“Fuck off,” Shane says when Ilya gloats about it. “I didn’t even know we were competing.”

“Okay. Some of us always put in our best effort and some of us pick and choose when to perform,” Ilya says, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the towel draped around his neck.

“Is this how you talk to your team mates as a captain, too? Just bitchy?” Shane asks. 

“No, no, no. If they slacked off like you did just now, I would set their skates on fire. I was very nice to you.”

When Ilya returns after his shower, Shane is back in bed, lying on top of the covers with his phone in hand. He says: “I think Hayden is pissed.”

"Nice. Why?” Ilya says, pulling a pair of grey sweats out of his bag. 

Shane is scrolling through texts, little frown knitting his eyebrows together. “Apparently he watched the game last night and he saw we were there. He has been asking me to go to a Raptors game with him forever and I always tell him I don’t like basketball.”

Ilya snorts, and then laughs with his whole chest.

“And they showed us a lot, apparently. They even put the foundation’s socials in the lower third. That kind of advertisement usually costs tens of thousands of dollars. That’s actually pretty cool.”

“Did your mom see it?”

“Yeah. She was surprised, but she said we looked cute,” Shane says and scrunches his nose up at that. “Maybe she’s pissed, after all. I don't know. Usually if I’m doing an appearance somewhere, it goes through her.”

“When she’s pissed, she tells you, no?”

“Yeah, but… I don’t know. I feel bad sometimes. For years the only time I was in the news was for hockey. The last couple of years have been so weird. For everyone.”

“Hm. Did we look good?” Ilya looks around the room until he sees something yellow peeking out of Shane’s bag at the other side of the bed. He moves to grab it.

“People seem to think so. And they’re not calling me a fake Celtics fan anymore.”

“But you are.”

“No, I’ve decided to be a real fan.”

“Oh, you really want Hayden to kill himself,” Ilya snorts again and pulls Shane’s soft yellow sweater over his head. “Does this color look good on me?”

Shane glances up at him once and then pointedly looks back at his phone. “No, you’re very ugly, actually.”

“Hm. What if I post a picture in this sweater, huh? You think there will be more rumors about us fucking each other?”

“If you do that, there will be no more of us fucking each other,” Shane tells him and then turns his phone for Ilya to look at a close up picture of the two of them, shoulder to shoulder, faces neutral, focused on the court. The first comment under it is: I can’t choose, ya’ll think they’d double team?  

“I assume that’s sexual,” Shane says.

“Yes, very. My hair looks messy.”

“No, it looks good,” Shane says, a hint of outrage in his voice as he pulls the phone back, completely forgetting he was doing a mean bit just now. “I like it like that. It looks so soft.” 

“You know, they were very happy to meet you,” Ilya tells him. He plops down on the side of the bed he had been sleeping on. Close enough to look at Shane’s screen. “The players. From the Knicks, too.”

“They were just being nice,” Shane says. 

Ilya grabs his own phone off the nightstand and shows Shane just one of the texts he received last night and that morning.

Nice to see you again man. Warn us next time before showing up with a legend. Got my knees shaking while taking shots. 

“That’s nice,” Shane says. “And it was fun, I’ll admit it. Talking to other athletes outside of hockey. But I was also so fucking tired when we got back last night, you’d think I ran a fucking marathon instead of just sitting there and watching a basketball game, pretending you and I didn’t spend the last twenfy-four hours just sucking and fucking.” 

“Was that what you were thinking?”

“Yes. Weren’t you?”

“No, I was watching the game, you little pervert.” Ilya looks over Shane’s shoulders to see more pictures and clips of them at the game. “We look very good together.” 

“Yeah…”

“What?” Ilya asks, bumping his shoulder. “You regret going?” 

“No. No, that’s not it. I just… we just went, you know. I knew there would be some news about it here and there, but even the official NBA channels are showing us. It’s definitely more attention than I expected. I got messages from Metro's management, too. Nothing crazy,  just that they saw. They’re reposting the clips, too.” 

“Oh, really? Did they blur my face?” 

“No… they just zoomed in on mine really tight. Look, your shoulder is in this one,” Shane says as he passes a picture of himself looking off to the side, to where Ilya is sitting. And indeed only his shoulder is visible.

Ilya rolls his eyes at the crop. “You look very pretty there. And you can see the name of the  foundation, so that’s good,” Ilya tries to put it into perspective. “It was a good idea, using the charity as a cover up for our date.”

“Don’t say we’re using our charity as a cover up. That sounds really, really bad.”

“No, it’s a very smart scam you came up with so that no one suspects that we are fucking and sucking.”

“And please don’t ever call the charity a scam. I’m actually begging you.”

“Okay.”

Shane puts his phone away and looks at Ilya, a bit more serious. “Did you really have fun last night? This weekend?”

“Yes, of course. Why do you keep asking me this?” 

“I don’t know. It was so last minute and I didn’t really plan anything. We just got lucky with the basketball game. I should have at least googled a nice restaurant or something. You came all this way. I wanted you to have fun with your boring boyfriend for once.”

“I had fun with my boring boyfriend. You did good. Very good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Did you have fun?” 

“Yes. The part with the fans stressed me out a little bit, but the game was fun. Meeting the guys, too.”

“Do you think you’ll wear the Celtics sweatshirt again now that you are a real Celtics fan?” 

“Maybe.”

“Will you promise me one thing?” 

“What?”

“If you love me, you will never ever go to a basketball game with Hayden.”

“I’m not promising that.”

“So you don’t love me?” 

“Not when you’re acting like a baby.”

“I’m acting like a baby? Not you, complaining about too much honey in your yoghurt?” 

“It was just saying it was way more than yesterday. You order something from the same place, you expect it to be consistent.”

“Should we call them and tell them? Next time please measure your honey for Shane Hollander’s yoghurt, or he will talk about it for thirty minutes, please.”

“You think I’m that annoying?”

“No, they should always do it perfect for you, Shane Hollander, superstar athlete and supermodel.”

“Can I ask you a serious question?” Shane then asks, and doesn’t wait for Ilya to answer: “Do you think it’s weird I get overwhelmed so fast at events like last night? It’s always like that. Everyone else seems to be fine, but halfway through a night like that I feel like I need to go home or I’m going to explode.”

“You should tell me earlier. Don’t wait till it's that bad. We can just leave when you want to leave.”

“People would call me an asshole.”

“Yeah, fuck ‘em,” Ilya shrugs.

“But you never feel like that?” Shane asks. 

“Not exactly. I have… different problems. Makes me not want to go anywhere at all sometimes. You know.”

Shane nods. “I’m still glad we went.” He reaches for Ilya’s hand which Ilya pulls away. 

“Remember when you called me ugly?”

“No, I would never,” Shane says, chasing Ilya’s hand until he moves his whole body, straddling  Ilya on the bed and leaning down. Ilya feels his weight on his hip, his warmth everywhere and he patiently watches plump pink lips get closer and closer. 

Shane

Shane is flying to Montreal. Ilya is flying to Ottawa. Their gates happen to be right next to each other and their departure times are only ten minutes apart.

Shane peers at Ilya from across the table that holds their coffees, phones and Shane’s glasses. The private lounge isn’t very busy, but there has been at least one double take of someone passing their table. Ilya had refused to take off the yellow sweater. It only just peeks out from under his jacket, and maybe it’s because Shane has been so thoroughly and repeatedly fucked by this man in the last day and a half, that he can barely bring himself to care at this point.

Shane had opted for what he thought was a more subtle look. Baseball cap, hoodie, glasses. Practically invisible, Ilya had teased him before they left the hotel.

Shane is torn, somewhat, between wanting to be back home in his quiet Montreal apartment after this quite frankly overstimulating trip, and never wanting this weekend to end. Even now, all he can really think about is how good Ilya looks and how good he has been looking all weekend. 

Ilya is sitting across from him, brow furrowed, one airpod in as he scrolls, pauzes and starts scrolling again.

Shane gave up trying to keep his hands to himself in the hotel room. The basketball game was a hit in the sense that Ilya had fun. It was a disaster in the sense that Shane had initially hoped that no one would even know that they were in New York together at all. But it was his own fault. He had invited Ilya over and hadn’t planned anything for them to do. There just wasn’t much Shane wanted to do other than be with his boyfriend so that they could fuck and talk face to face rather than through another fucking screen. But Shane knows that they’re different in that way. Ilya likes going out, likes being around people, talking to people, having fun. 

Shane had seen the advertisement for the basketball game the day before, when he was playing against the Admirals in that exact stadium. He suggested it after the fourth time they had sex in the span of about twelve hours, hoping it made up for the lack of planning on his part. He really didn’t want Ilya to feel like Shane had made him get on a plane just so that they could stay holed up in a hotel room for two days. 

So yeah, people knew they were in New York together. A lot of people knew. They pit it on the fucking news. He got more texts from people seeing him sitting at the sideline of a random basketball game than he has gotten for actually being a star player in a hockey game.

Rose’s text had humbled him immediately:

Look at you looking like a superstar! Killed it in the interview too! Question: how fat is that man's cock for you to be doing all of this?

And she got him there. He’s stumped himself, really. Less than a year ago, Shane had practically had a panic attack over them being seen together during All Star weekend, of all things. They had fought about it, intensely. 

And now he’s voluntarily going to massive public events with Ilya for fun. He still had waves of anxiety about it, but somewhere along the way, being in the real world together started feeling normal. The only thing that didn’t feel normal was how severely conscious Shane always was of exactly where his hands were when they were out together. He has caught himself so often reaching to rest a hand on Ilya’s lower back, or around his waist, like he’d do if they were maybe alone in the kitchen together at Ilya’s apartment. He really shouldn’t be doing that while they’re waiting in line to get a coffee at the airport. And he didn’t. But he almost did. And Shane thinks that if they were actually smart people, they wouldn’t even be waiting in line for coffee together at all. Ilya wasn’t even wearing a hat, for god’s sake. 

It worries Shane slightly, how he doesn’t feel the sense of danger in the same way anymore when they are together in public like this. He’s getting complacent. He's getting comfortable. The nearly unbearable stress he felt during the summer camp past summer was a distant memory. He survived that. And there are plenty of annoying fans and flatout psycho’s, but something Shane hadn’t expected at all was how many people actually liked seeing the two of them appear together. Fans of the both of them and fans of the sport in general, were seemingly just excited that they were interacting at all. Good sportsmanship was apparently a pretty popular concept. Maybe not as popular as the concept of a career long rivalry, but still.

At the end of the day, Shane doesn’t want to be the reason that Ilya feels like he did after last year’s All Stars ever again.

Maybe it’s foolishly optimistic and maybe he is getting his priorities mixed up in a way that he can’t really catch up to yet. And maybe if he doesn’t get it sorted out soon, they’ll catch up to him instead. 

These are all things he has been meaning to sort out, meaning to talk about. Just a long list of things that they should probably discuss at some point. 

They had spent that day pretty much entirely in bed, and it flew by. Shane had wanted to talk to Ilya more. Had wanted to look right into his eyes to ask him how he was doing, really. He hadn’t even done that.

Ilya had seemed… stressed, maybe, for the last month or so. He didn’t seem to be depressed, necessarily, at least not as far as Shane could tell or as far as Ilya was willing to admit. He was just frustrated. With a lot of things. Looking for a house, getting the Centaurs motivated again. And they were also right back in the middle of the worst time to travel for games. Flights were getting delayed or cancelled due to weather conditions, which meant games were getting delayed, which meant that when they would see each other again was often unsure.

So this weekend, Shane just wanted Ilya, wanted them to have a good time and do something that Ilya would like.

So they did not do much talking.

“What are you getting pissed at on that phone?” Shane asks. The frown on Ilya’s face has only gotten deeper.

Ilya glances up at him, shaking his head. “Some people online are not just assholes. They need to die, I think,” he says plainly.

“Okay, let’s not say that too loudly at the airport,” Shane says. “When did you start getting bothered by comments? I thought that was my thing. What are they saying?” 

Ilya shakes his head again, locks his phone and puts it on the table with screen facing down. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be looking at it. Ruining a perfect weekend right at the end,” he huffs and then smiles at Shane. 

Speaking of ruining a perfect weekend. Shane had been holding on to something since Friday. Since he booked Ilya’s flight. Shane had Ilya’s passport information in a locked note on his phone and it had been a while since he had needed to look at it at all. When he opened the note that afternoon to book his flight, he noticed the expiration date. June 1st of next year. Shane has been meaning to ask, what was the process going to be? Could he do the whole thing online? Would he have to go to the Russian consulate? Would he have to go all the way back to Russia?

He bit his tongue about it all weekend, not wanting to ruin a perfect weekend, right at the end. 

Shane decides that he’s going to ask Ilya when they are back home. 

When Shane gets off the plane in Montreal around nine that evening and checks his phone, he has a couple of missed calls and a few texts which he decides to get to when he’s home. When he is finally home, he takes a shower, orders food, plops on the couch and then looks at whatever random twitter drama he has apparently been missing out on while waiting for his food to arrive. J.J.’s text is most recent, just a screenshot of a tweet followed by a LMFAO. 

“Oh, what the fuck,” Shane groans out loud when he realises the drama is not that random after all. The first thing he reads is:

IlyaRozanov

only scrolled two times and found this guys fetish in his likes. since its public and you got opinions, please @SkateMog let all your followers know if its only white womens piss you drink

There are hundreds and hundreds of comments, thousands of retweets and tens of thousands of likes. Shane is frozen for a moment, wondering how he should go about putting this into context. He can’t remember Ilya ever tweeting anything other than obligatory game schedules. What could possibly have provoked a reply like this?

From there it takes barely thirty seconds to figure out what Ilya was replying to. The tweet with the original clip has been deleted at this point, but Shane finds a reposted clip of two white guys sitting at a desk with microphones, just thirty seconds long. The type of clip Shane would never normally click on. One of them is wearing an Admirals hat.

“Yeah, I can’t wait for Scott Hunter to retire. Like, it’s over. Go be fucking gay on your own time.” 

“Hollander fucking annihilated him, but you know what they say about him, right?”

“Hollander is overrated, too. Did you see him prancing around at the Knicks game? Why am I suddenly seeing him everywhere? Used to be we’d only see players on the ice, where it fucking matters. Not on every gay ass billboard.”

“You know what? I miss when the league wasn’t overrun with homosexuals and fucking Asians. Can we go back to that?”

Shane goes back to Ilya’s tweet and notices the timestamp on it. Just a few hours ago. When they were still sitting together in the airport. 

He sighs and rubs at his eyes. His thumb hovers over the like button on Ilya’s tweet. There is no universe where Metros management would let it slide if he gave it a like.

Instead, he exits the app and calls Ilya. He should be back home by now, too. Ilya answers on the third ring. “Yes, I’m here,” he says and Shane watches him lean the phone against the backsplash in his kitchen.

“Why are you calling some guy a piss drinker on twitter?” Shane asks and he can’t hide the exhaustion in his voice. 

“What do you mean why? It is clear why.”

“I thought we agreed to ignore the really nasty stuff?”

“Is easy to ignore when they are nobodies. Millions of people watch these assholes. What am I supposed to do? Hear them talk about you like that and ignore it?”

“Ilya.” 

“What?”

“I’m not mad. But I don’t know if it’s worth the mess.” 

“What mess?”

“You know everyone is talking about it. I just don’t want you to get in trouble because of this.”

“In trouble from who?” Ilya snorts. “If you’re not mad, then there is no trouble.”

“I don’t think the league is going to be happy with one of their top players attacking random podcasters on twitter. They give fines for stuff like that.”

“Would be nice if the league cared about one of their top players being attacked by these assholes.”

Shane sighs again. “What would they even do about it? These people are going to say whatever they’re going to say-”

“Yes, and I said some stuff, too.” 

“It’s just a lot of attention. On you specifically. I just get worried, you know.”

“Worried about what?”

“Well, you know. We’ve been going out in public a lot recently. And as fun as it has been, it’s also very risky.”

“Hm.” 

Shane lets out his deepest sigh yet. “Your passport is expiring in June. I was reading up on the application process and it said you’re going to have to go to the Russian consulate here in Canada.” 

“Yeah? So what? I’ve been there before when I moved here. I’ve been to the Russian consulate in America, too. It’s not a big deal.” 

“Okay, but that was before. There are so many rumors about us now and we have been going out in public together a lot more. You’re not exactly beating the gay allegations by defending me online. Or Scott Hunter, by the way. And he’s confirmed gay. Isn’t that like… propaganda or something.”

“You have gay allegations,” Ilya says and starts unwrapping a cheeseburger.

“Where did you get that?” Shane asks.

“Got it on the way home. You want some?”

“Shut up. I ordered a bowl. Should be here in ten minutes,” Shane says, though the cheeseburger does look good, even through the screen. “Can you at least promise me you’ll get the passport stuff sorted as soon as possible? Otherwise I’m going to just be worried about it all the time.”

“Yes, that’s easy.”

“Okay. Why aren’t you eating your burger?”

“I can wait ten minutes,” Ilya shrugs. “What did you get?”

“Quinoa with spiced salmon.”

“Extra salmon?”

“I mean, yeah.” 

“Hm. Can’t wait to watch you eat it.”

Shane shakes his head and rolls his eyes in one go. “You’re a fucking weirdo.”

-rozanov is funny as hell for this

-They deleted EVERYTHING??

-I hated these guys from the beginning. Good riddance. Hope everybody in their family brings his piss fetish up at Christmas.

-Does no one think it’s kind of crazy that Rozanov just ruined a guy’s life like that? Could even have ruined his marriage.

-I’m not saying we shouldn’t care about racism or homophobia, but it’s a bit much to be kinkshaming a guy in public like that. 

-everybody who cares about these guys feelings after all that should probably kill themselves. you’re holding everybody back with that weak shit.

Shane doesn’t see Ilya again until Christmas eve. Shane’s grandparents have been in Japan since October and they probably won’t be back until the spring. Shane’s parents decided to visit them there, so Shane spends his very first Christmas without his parents or grandparents with Ilya in Montreal. Hayden had invited him over as soon as he heard Shane’s parents wouldn’t be in town. And Shane would have gone, too, if it was just Hayden, Jackie and the kids. But it was Hayden, Jackie, the kids, Jackie’s brothers, their kids and Jackie’s parents. It was clear that Ilya was not invited. 

So instead they decide to stay at home in Shane’s apartment and try to cook the braised beef Shane’s dad made last year on Christmas day. David wrote the whole recipe out for them and Shane goes grocery shopping the morning of Christmas eve, which is apparently way too late. He is standing in line at the butcher’s shop for about an hour, too embarrassed to take anyone who recognised him up on the offer to skip the line. 

In the end, grocery shopping takes him all morning, and by the time Ilya arrives that afternoon, Shane is already exhausted. Ilya lets himself into the apartment where he finds Shane sprawled out on the couch. He can hear him shed his jacket and shoes at the door, so Shane sticks his arm up to greet him. 

“Just lying here in silence again,” Ilya says, voice getting closer and closer until he pokes his head over the back of the couch, right above Shane’s head.

Shane touches his face. “You’re late.”

“And you’re cranky.”

“Hm.” 

“No?”

“There’s just too many people everywhere.”

Ilya smiles at that and finally leans down to press a much needed kiss to Shane’s lips. It’s just a peck, really, before Ilya wrestles himself over the back of the couch and covers Shane’s entire body with his own.

“Hello,” Shane breathes out. “Merry Christmas.”

“Did you miss me again this time?” Ilya asks, brushing a few strands of hair out of Shane’s eyes. 

“I’ve been missing everyone this week. You, my parents. Grandparents. I didn’t know it would feel like this, not being with family for the holidays.”

“Yes, it’s not fun.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t complain.”

“Why? Because your family is not dead?”

“Shut up. Yes, I’m very grateful that my family is not dead.”

“You can still be sad they’re not here,” Ilya says. “But not too sad, because I’ll think I’m not enough for you.”

“You know, my mom gave me a whole box of decorations before they left, to decorate the apartment.”

“Oh? You want to-”

“No,” Shane cuts him off. “I was going to, before you got here, but I opened the box this morning and all I saw was glitter. I don’t want to be finding glitter all over my apartment for the next year. I didn’t even take any of it out of the box and I still had glitter on my hands. I had to take another shower after that.”

“You’ve had such a hard day already,” Ilya teases. “Do you think you will recover?”

“Shut up.”

“Should I give you some good news then?” 

“Oh?”

“The realtor called me yesterday.”

“Ilya.”

“It’s nothing official yet. I want you to see it first. And if we still like it after that, we would not be able to move in until June.”

“Ilya, that’s great,” Shane says, and wraps his arms around Ilya’s waist tightly. He feels his mood lift instantly, face breaking into a smile. “Did your offer change their mind?”

“Not exactly. There is bad news, too. They said they just wanted to wait with selling the house until the summer, so that the kids could finish the school year there. Alone with the mom.”

“Oh my god, the dad died?”

“No, divorced. Like two years ago. You are so dramatic.”

“You said it like the mom was the only one left.”

“No. Just time to sell the house, split the money.”

“That’s a lot of money to split. At least now you know those kids aren’t going to be homeless because you bought their house.”

“I didn’t think that.”

“Don’t pretend now. You were acting like you were kicking those kids out onto the street by putting an offer in,” Shane chuckles. “It would have been more frustrating if it wasn’t kind of cute.”

“Do you really hate my apartment that much? You’re happier about this than me.”

“I don’t hate the apartment,” Shane says earnestly and now it’s his turn to play with Ilya’s hair. “I don’t know, I just feel like you belong in a big, beautiful house.” He doesn’t say that, compared to Ilya’s home in Boston, the two bedroom apartment in Ottawa just feels very temporary. He hadn’t even furnished the guestroom until he was already a year into living there. He didn’t hire any help to make it feel like a home. It was just a place he was staying, because he needed a place to stay. Just enough furniture, nice things, for it not to feel empty. There were plenty of reasons for it. Lack of time, priorities, depressive episodes. But it still made Shane uneasy when he thought about it, sad even, that Ilya didn’t really feel like he was at home in Ottawa. In Canada.

“And what about you?” Ilya then asks, voice soft and eyes even softer. “Do you belong in that beautiful house, too? With me?”

For a moment all Shane can do is nod, a wave of emotion washing over him, any attempt at a full sentence stuck in his throat. He pushes through. “Of course,” he says. “Where else?”

Ilya gently wipes his thumb over the outside corner of Shane’s eye where one stubborn tear made it out despite his best efforts. “And if it happens,” Ilya continuous, “it will be our home? You won’t just come visit, you will not be my guest. It will be our home together. Do you want that?” 

“Yes,” Shane answers, voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, I want that with you.”

Shane’s mom facetimes him that evening, around eight p.m in Montreal and nine a.m on Christmas morning in Kyoto. 

“I told them not to come without you,” his grandma says, appearing on screen first, before Yuna pops up behind her. “What kind of people leave my grandson behind alone?”

“I’m not alone, grandma,” Shane chuckles, glancing back at where Ilya is in the kitchen scooping up a bowls of ice cream. 

“Is your friend with you?” 

“He’s here.” 

“And he takes care of you?”

“Grandma, he doesn’t need to take care of me-”

“Of course I take care of him,” Ilya interrupts, rushing over to look at the screen over Shane’s shoulder. “I always do. And he takes care of me.”

“Good, good. That’s good. Do you have enough to eat? You know, stores close during the holidays.”

“More than enough,” Ilya says.

“Are you bringing Shane to your family this year?”

“No, my family is also very far away.”

“Ah. It’s good that you are together, then.” 

“Yes, but Shane misses you very much. He told me this morning.”

“You two should just come,” she states matter-of-factly.

“If we had more time, we would be there,” Shane finally speaks up. “I’m really sorry I couldn’t be with you guys this year.”

“It’s because you work too hard. You need to relax sometimes.”

“He likes working hard, so what can you do?” Ilya chimes in again.

“He’s like his mother. She can’t sit still. Even here she is doing emails, phone calls. Shane will be in this magazine, he will do this interview, this photoshoot."

“Mom,” Shane says. She’s not in frame, but he knows she can’t be far.

“It’s nothing,” her voice floats in. “She’s exaggerating. You know her.”

“I told you, you shouldn’t be working at all while you’re there,” Shane says. 

“Don’t worry about me, honey. Grandma sent a care package your way. Should be there before New Year’s,” his mom says. “It has those ginger candies in it that you like.”

They spend a little longer on the phone. Shane asks his dad a few questions about the braised beef recipe (how much exactly is a pinch of cinnamon in this context’) and goes over the current scores in the league with his grandpa (‘the Centaurs really have their work cut out for them’). 

“Do you think we should have told them about the house?” Shane asks after he hangs up.

“No, no,” Ilya says and shakes his head for good measure. "Not until it’s official. You haven’t even seen it yet.”

“Then why have we been watching home gym equipment reviews for the last two hours?”

“You started doing that, so if you get disappointed, it’s your own fault. No need to disappoint the whole family.”

“I have a feeling we’re not going to be disappointed,” Shane says

And they’re not disappointed. Not about this.

At the end of January, Shane does a private walkthrough of what is probably the most beautiful home he has ever been inside of, and Ilya closes on the house the next day.

But at the beginning of February, Ilya learns that he has to go to Moscow to finish the process of his passport renewel. Something about the Russian consulate in New York, which he went to when he lived in Boston, not being able or willing to press a button on a keyboard to confirm Ilya’s entire existence as a Russian citizen working abroad. It apparently doesn’t matter that he is probably one of the most famous Russian athletes in North America and all the proof they need can be found by a Google search.

“I’m cursed, I have to be,” Ilya huffs dramatically. “Every single time something good happens to me, some fucking bullshit happens, too.”  

“Like what?” Shane asks, because he has no clue in what other way to be supportive.

“I got scouted and then my mother died. Same year.” 

“Jesus Christ.” 

“You told me you liked me and then my dad died. Also same year.” 

“I’m part of this curse?” 

“It works the other way, too. Losing at the Olympics. Bad. Winning the Cup. Good. Same year.” 

“Okay, but you won MVP last year and nothing bad happened,” Shane says.

“Hm. The depression that came before that was pretty bad.” 

“Okay, enough. This is not the time to list every horrible thing that ever happened to you. You know there’s another option.”

Ilya turns away from him like he didn’t even hear him. It’s true. Ilya technically has two options.  He can go to Moscow and get their parents’ birth certificates himself. Or he can ask his brother Alexei to do it for him and mail them over. Ilya seems to have made up his mind about it pretty quickly. “It’s only four days. I will be back before All-Stars is even over.”

“You’re the only Centaur invited to All-Stars. They need you to do promotion,” Shane argues. 

“Too bad. I don’t have a choice.” 

“Well, you do,” Shane says.

“No, I don’t.” 

“You’re the one who said that maybe you wanted to-”

“Not like this,” Ilya cuts him off. “Not now, right when I need something from him.”

“It’s a pretty important thing. Ilya, let’s be real. It’s the least he could do for you.”

“I don’t want it, okay? I don’t want to owe him anything and I don’t want him to owe me anything.”

He had talked to his immigration lawyers, just to see if there was anything else they could try. Starting any new processes now would put him at risk of his passport lapsing into the last three months of the expiration date, which would make it impossible for Ilya to even travel to the U.S for his actual job. And Shane knows there is that same danger if Ilya asks Alexei for help. There is no guarantee he’d even do it.

It still feels surreal to see Ilya packing a bag right now. Yesterday they were both getting ready to fly out to L.A for All-Stars, still riding the high of closing on their dream home. They were finally going to go to Shane’s favorite sushi restaurant in L.A together. They have both been there separately, they have ordered from the restaurant to their hotel room together after the finals last year, and this time they were going to go out to the restaurant together. 

Shane feels the childish urge to empty the bag Ilya is packing onto the floor. Instead, he leaves the bedroom, feeling anger and frustration rise with nowhere for him to put it. He shouldn’t be getting this emotional about it. It’s four days. Ilya will be on a flight for two of those days. He has nothing to worry about. Except for god knows how pictures are now on the internet of them barely inches away from making out in public. Except for the rumors. Except for all of Ilya’s annoying supportive posts and appearances with Scott Hunter, the only openly gay player in the league. Shane hates himself for thinking it was all a bad idea. 

For Ilya specifically. And Ilya knows better than anyone what even just the implications are of one of the most famous Russian athletes in North America doing something like that, whether they know about his own sexuality or not. And he did it anyway. Does it anyway.

Ilya had said once, or maybe he even twice that he never wanted to go back to Russia. He was angry then, and so so hurt by how he left things with his brother. His tone had changed in the last few months. Shane thinks he must talk about it more with his therapist than with him, but the last time Ilya’s brother came up at all Ilya said he hoped he was at least sober now. That he felt weird, having a charity that is all about bringing awareness to mental health issues, while he left his own brother behind, addicted to drugs and tied into knots about their father’s death and all the misery that came before it. 

It’s the type of intense stuff that Shane just can’t even imagine coming to terms with. He can only hope to offer some comfort, and be thankful that Ilya has a therapist who could offer some actual advice. 

But Shane hates it nonetheless. He hates that Ilya has to walk around with all of this. He hates that he can’t make it any easier for him.  

He goes downstairs and cracks open the door to the balcony without stepping outside. He just needs some fresh air, he needs to calm down, to cool down, before he says something he’ll regret.

He is still leaning against the frame of the sliding door to the balcony when he feels warm arms wrap around his waist from behind. Ilya locks his fingers together over Shane’s stomach, pulling Shane in flush against him. It’s warm and comforting, and Shane can smell the pleasant citrussy smell of his own shampoo in Ilya’s hair. Shane closes his eyes and lets the warmth wash over him.

“Don’t be mad at me,” Ilya says. “I’ll be back on Tuesday. Four days is nothing.”

“I’m not mad at you,” Shane says. “I’m just mad.”

“There is no curse, okay? This is not that bad. There are no rumors about me on Russian social media or anything like that. Nothing to be worried about.”

“And you’re not worried?”

“No,” Ilya says, and he sounds sure. “I know how to be when I’m there.”

“I know you’ve been thinking about it,” Shane says, looking for the right words. “Are you kind of… excited about going?” 

Ilya doesn’t immediately answer. He hooks his chin over Shane’s shoulder. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”

“But you’ve been wanting to?”

“I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Look, it’s okay. I’m sorry about getting mad earlier. I don’t want to make this more stressful than it needs to be,” Shane says and covers Ilya’s hands with his own. 

“There is no stress. I’m ready to go.”

“Fans are going to be disappointed. Last year’s MVP, skipping out on All-Stars like this,” Shane says. “You’re not even going to be there, and you’re still going to be all everyone is talking about.”

“Come inside. It’s too cold,” Ilya then says, gently pulling Shane away from the doorway and using one hand to slide the balcony door closed. 

They go back upstairs, finish the last preparations for their respective trips and then get ready for bed. It’s still too early for either of them to actually be tired, but Ilya’s flight leaves at six in the morning, which means he needs to be at the airport at four, at the latest.

When they’re settled in bed, lights off, and facing each other with Ilya’s arm resting on Shane’s waist, Shane says: “Border security can search phones these days. American security does it, too. They look through socials and stuff.”

Ilya is quiet for a long moment. Shane knows the implications of what he’s saying. He even knows that Ilya most likely won’t do it. He knows most of all that if he doesn’t consider everything he can do to keep Ilya safe, he won’t forgive himself.

“If they take me away for wishing Scott Hunter a happy birthday, then I deserve it,” Ilya finally answers.

“If anything actually happens to you-”

“You think they’ll say taking pictures with Scott Hunter is gay propaganda?” Ilya snorts. 

“It literally is.” Shane knows that if Ilya can’t joke about stuff like this, there is a bigger chance of him not talking about it at all, than him switching to taking it seriously. So Shane bites his tongue, fighting the urge to tell him to stop joking.

“I don’t know anything,” Ilya says with a dramatic sigh. “I didn’t even know he was gay. I hate the Admirals and I turned the TV off as soon as they won the Cup that year. And if he is gay, then that’s bad and he should stop doing that.” He lifts his hand and places it under Shane’s chin. “And so should Shane Hollander.”

“The Shane Hollander thing is just a rumor.”

“Hm. I think it’s true,” Ilya says and he mumbles the last word against Shane’s lips.

As predicted, the only thing anyone is talking about is the MVP’s absence. Shane’s parents have traveled with him this year, so he should have plenty to distract him. Still, he is practically glued to his phone the entire day, tracking Ilya's flight in his hotel room, until Ilya finally facetimes him in the evening. 

“Hey, how was your flight?” Shane asks. 

And Ilya looks good, looks barely tired. “Was okay. The flight attendants knew me.”

“Did you feel famous?” Shane teases. 

“They were very nice.” 

“How nice?” 

“Hollander, it’s only been twelve hours. You can’t be jealous already,” Ilya chuckles. 

“Apparently I can,” Shane argues, and then he asks: “How are you feeling?” 

Ilya shrugs, and looks around what looks like a nice hotel room. “It’s weird to be in my own city, and I don’t have a home here. Not my apartment. Not my father’s house. I don’t know.” 

“You feel sad about it,” Shane says, it’s not a question. He sees it in the perfectly tender eyes and downturned brow.

Ilya reaches a hand up and runs it through his hair, still not looking at the screen. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry.” 

“Tell me who you saw today,” Ilya changes the subject. “Did my good friend Scott Hunter make it?”

“Yes, he made it. Asked about you,” Shane forces out. 

“He asked you about me?” Ilya asks, sly smile on his lips. “And what did you do, kill him?” 

“I asked him why he thought I would know anything about you,” Shane says. 

“Yes, why would you?" Ilya chuckles. “It’s still early there, no? Will you go out tonight?”

“I don’t know. There’s a bunch of stuff going on that just sounds like too much.”

“You have to go out to eat with your team, at least.” 

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, the captain has to go,” Ilya says resolutely.  “I am going to try to sleep now. Appointment for documents is in a few hours already.”

“Okay. Keep me updated on that, please. My parents have like a million question about it every time we talk.” 

“Okay. I love you.”

“I love you, too. And…”

“Hm?” 

“I just… I know you feel sad right now, and I know it’s not the same, but maybe it can help you feel better… to remember that you and I will also have a home together now.”

Ilya’s smile becomes soft, so soft that Shane stupidly wishes he could reach to the screen and touch his face, so soft that really it’s horrible that Shane can’t fully have him in his arms in that moment. “Yes, that does make me feel better,” Ilya then says. “And I think about it all the time.”

With the ten hour time difference and Shane’s busy schedule, there is no good time for another phone call between them. Shane does a few interviews and while he’s been asked about Ilya before, he definitely feels like Ilya is being brought up a lot more, with every reporter and interviewer trying to circle back to Ilya Rozanov’s absence. Last year’s MVP. Has your friendship changed in the last year, now that you’re working together on a charity? How close have you really gotten? How does it feel to be here without him? Who do you think is your greatest competition in his absence? Any comment on Rozanov’s twitter controversy? Should he have been fined for that? 

It’s silly, it’s annoying, it’s exhausting. The saving grace is him doing well in the actual skill events. He does great, even. But the entire time he is still wishing for them to be over sooner, so that he can get back to his phone again.

Not that there is any point. By the time he has a moment to himself again, it’s three a.m in Moscow. He can’t call him, not yet, but he is happy to see that Ilya sent him a picture. Shane steps away from the communal lunch table. He doesn’t go far, just hovers at the drink fridge in the L.A Kings cafeteria to actually open the message.

A wave of relief washes over him at the sight of Ilya holding up a crisp, bright red passport next to his gorgeous face. The caption reads:

Famous enough for special treatment. They were embarrassed that I missed All-Stars for this, so they gave me expedited passport. 

“What are you smiling at?” 

Shane practically jumps out of his skin when Scott Hunter appears beside him. 

“Nothing,” Shane says, locking his screen and stepping away from where he is blocking the fridge. Scott Hunter reaches in and grabs a coke. 

“Hey, Rozanov’s is good, right?”

“What do you mean?” Shane asks, feeling like he’s having deja vu. He’s pretty sure Hunter asked him the exact same thing yesterday. 

“I tried texting him to see how he’s doing. He’s not answering.”

“He’s fine,” Shane says, without thinking. And then: “I mean, I’m sure he is. Last I checked.”

“And when was that?”

“Recently,” Shane says, annoyance creeping up on him. Shane doesn’t dislike Scott Hunter, but his interest in Ilya has Shane, well, irked.

“Recently like when?” 

“Hey, are you still seeing that one guy?” Shane blurts.

“Yeah, why do you ask?” 

“No reason. Rozanov is fine. If he wanted to reply to your message, he would have.” 

“Jesus Christ, man. I’m not trying to take him from you.”

“Then what are you trying to do? You used to tell me you hated him.” 

Scott Hunter looks at him, suprised or maybe even shocked by Shane’s aggressive tone, by Shane not denying the implication, by Shane not backing down, not budging an inch.

Rationally, Shane knows that none of this is Scoff Hunter’s fault. Ilya is a grown man, probably smarter and more empathetic than most men. His support for Scott Hunter has always been a fully conscious and active decision. But even just the possibility of something happening to Ilya because of it…

Shane can feel himself taking his frustration out on the wrong person, but here they are.

“You can relax, alright? He’s been cool through this whole thing. He’s the only reason I’m here this year. Didn’t think he’d have attack dogs ready for me,” Scott Hunter says. “This thing between you and him-”

“Yeah, I’m not doing this,” Shane cuts him off. “Definitely not here, with half the fucking league around to hear it. And there is no thing between me and him,” he adds. He knows it’s pretty futile, though he feels better having at least made an attempt at plausible deniabiliy on the off chance anyone else is listening.

“Sure. Again, the attack dog bit is not helping your case,” Scott Hunter says, before going back to the table.

Shane turns back to his phone, opening Ilya’s message again. Thank god. I’m glad that’s over with. Did you meet up with anyone today?

He walks back to the table, not expecting a reply until hours later, but a message pops up on his screen right as he is about to sit down. Can I call you? 

Shane walks away again, out of the cafeteria this time, out into a hallway where mostly staff is walking up and down. He asks the first person he sees if there is anywhere he can make a private call and she leads him to a small, empty security office.

Shane thanks her and closes the door behind him. He calls Ilya first.

“You should be asleep,” Shane says as soon as he hears the click of Ilya picking up. 

“Jetlag,” Ilya says. “How did you do in your events today?”

“Good. I won my events.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“Guess it’s easy for you when I’m not there.”

“Fuck off,” Shane snorts, leaning back against the door. “What about you? How was your day?”

“Was okay. I thought I was going to have to wait forever for processing this and that. But they were, you know, starstruck.” 

“And they couldn’t be starstruck while you were still in Canada?” Shane complains. 

“Is okay, I’m flying back tomorrow.” 

“No, the day after.”

“No, I’m coming back early.”

“Didn’t you… I thought you were going to try and meet up with your brother and your niece?” 

“I tried. He didn’t answer my texts or calls.” 

“Ilya.”

“It’s okay. I’ll be in L.A by tomorrow morning, your time.”

“Wait, you’re flying into L.A?”

“Long story. The league wants me to come for promos. I told Centaurs management I got the passport, they told the league, now they want me to come for the last day.”

“How are you going to do that if you still have jetlag from when you got to Moscow?”

“We’ll see.”

“Doesn’t seem fair. Not competing, but still having to do all the promo for it? They’re paying you for it, right?”

“Yes, a lot.”

“I just got into a pretty bad argument with Scott Hunter,” Shane then admits. 

Ilya responds with beautiful, genuine laughter. “About what?”

“I don’t even know. He keeps asking me about you and I’m like… fuck off.” 

“Why are you mean to old people like that? He just wants to know what the kids are doing.”

“Well, he didn’t like you before you started helping him out.”

“You didn’t like me before I made you cum, so.”

“That doesn’t count. We talked like three times before you made me cum,” Shane says. “And I was just pretending before. Maybe Scott Hunter was just pretending, too.”

“I don’t think so,” Ilya chuckles. “I was very, very mean to him. I still am, most of the time.”

“Ilya,” Shane then starts, a bit more seriously, because Ilya said something at the beginning of this conversation that Shane can’t ignore. “Your brother…”

“I don’t want to talk about that right now.”

“Can we talk about it when you get here?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. I’m trying not to think about it.”

“I’m sorry. You don’t deserve this,” Shane feels the need to remind him.

“I’m going to try to sleep now,” Ilya then says around a sigh. “I will see you soon, okay?” 

“Okay. I’ll be waiting.” 

“And if you’re going to fight Scott Hunter, please let someone film it so that he can be famous.”

“Shut the fuck up. If he asks me about you again I’m actually beating his ass.”

“Yes, yes, yes. I would love to see it,” Ilya laughs.

Shane watched Ilya’s first interview live in his hotel room, before he has even seen Ilya at all. As handsome as he looks, Shane can tell he’s tired. They ask him about the season until then, about his plans and strategies for the rest of the season, and naturally Shane comes up.

“Can you tell us a little bit about your friendship with Shane Hollander?”

“Shane Hollander? Yes, I can tell you everything about him.”

“Can you tell us how you became such good friends?” 

“Me and Hollander? I’ve known him for a very long time. But when I moved, he was the only person I knew who was from Ottawa. So he showed me around and I met his family. He takes me hiking, we go to the gym. We became very good friends. You know, they say Canadians are nice, but I think Shane Hollander and his family are the nicest ones.”

“So you’re saying you work out together?” 

“Off the ice, yes, we have.”

“Hollander won his events in the skills matches. Do you think you could have done better?”

“I haven’t seen it yet, but yes, probably. He could do better, too. No broken records this year.”

“I see the rivalry is still alive and well.”

“He will always try to be better than me, you know. It’s tough for him.”

“In his interview he said that you were one of his best friends.”

“Did he?” 

“He did. Apart from the Irina foundation, are there any other projects you are working on together, now or in the future?” 

“The Irina foundation is very important to us. We put a lot of time into it. Yuna Hollander works very hard on it, too. For now we are busy enough with it, but who knows. Hollander is good to work with.”

When Ilya’s voice floods the stadium that afternoon as he takes his place in the commentator’s booth, the crowd erupts into the loudest cheers anyone has heard all weekend. Ilya’s plane landed too late for them to see each other before the event. The booth is too high up for Shane to really see him, but an intense flood of relief washes over him at the mere fact that they are currently in the same building, and no longer six thousand miles apart. 

Shane doesn’t get to kiss him until hours later, when he slips into Ilya’s hotel room while everyone else is getting ready to go out. 

“I almost fell asleep,” Ilya tells him, pulling Shane towards the bed with him.

“You didn’t get any sleep on the plane?”

“No. Flight attendant gave me a sleeping pill, but I didn’t take it. Because, you know.”

“I know. I don’t think you should be accepting drugs from flight attendants regardless. Or anyone else,” Shane says. 

“Ah, you should give that advice to the kids tomorrow,” Ilya says, leaning in to press a kiss right under Shane’s jaw. “So smart and responsible…” 

“Maybe you should just go to sleep, then,” Shane sighs, tilting head up, his body already hot with it. “Tomorrow is another busy day and you’ve been traveling so much…”

Shane can feel one of Ilya’s hands on his ass, the other one reaching up to grab Shane’s face. They don’t really talk much for the rest of the night. 

But the morning is different. They went to bed early, and Ilya is still very deeply asleep when Shane wakes up, but he doesn’t get past his regular eight hours either. Shane showers first and comes back to bed. He quietly reads up on the next events, until Ilya starts stirring. Maybe it’s better not to disturb him, maybe he can get an hour or two of extra sleep before they are expected to be anywhere, but Shane selfishly reaches out and buries his hand in Ilya’s curls. Ilya responds with a massive stretch, before he wordlessly puts his head in Shane’s lap and pulls the covers back up over his bare shoulder.

“Are you cold?” Shane asks. 

Ilya shakes his head. “What time is it?”

“Six thirty.”

“‘S too early.”

“You can go back to sleep. I’ll wake you up.” 

Shane can feel Ilya’s next exhale through his entire body. He turns onto his back, head still in Shane’s lap and looks up at him. “Good morning.” 

“Good morning,” Shane smiles back at him, brushing his thumb over Ilya’s cheek. “How was your trip?”

Shane watches Ilya’s eyes dance around for a moment, before they settle on Shane’s face again. "Very short. Was in the hotel or at appointments the whole time.”

“You said your brother didn’t want to meet up with you. Did he say why?” 

Ilya shakes his head and hoists himself out of Shane’s lap to lean up against the headboard. It’s enough to let Shane know he still doesn’t really want to talk about it, but Shane doesn’t want to let it go just yet. 

“He’s an asshole for that. You know that, right?”

“To him I’m the asshole,” Ilya says and gets out of bed.

“For what? Not depositing your entire net worth into his bank account? If anything, he should be reaching out to you, to apologize,” Shane says.

“I’m the one who told him to never contact me again.”

“What about his wife? You said Svetlana had contact with her, right? You didn’t ask her if you could talk to your niece or something?”

“If I talked to his wife, he would probably kill me,” Ilya says, half under his breath.

“Why?”

Ilya doesn’t respond. He grabs a dry towel off his night stand and gets out of bed.

“Ilya.”

No response. 

“Are you actually fucking ignoring me?” Shane asks, annoyed.

“Enough, okay? I know it’s bad. I know all of it. Can you please shut the fuck up and let me go shower now?”

Shane bites his tongue. He wouldn’t really know what to say without snapping back, even if Ilya did want to talk.

The first event of the day is a skating clinic for local youth hockey players. They’re all girls netween twelve and fifteen and they’re all, as it turns out, massive Shane Hollander fans. Apparently he left an impression after last year’s Stanley Cup final, despite losing to L.A. He’s surprised, to say the least, but also relieved that their excitement is very much expressed in asking very specific hockey related questions which he has no problem engaging with. 

Ilya is there, and he immediately profiles himself as the villain of the event by asking why anyone in California would even consider ice hockey at all. Shane doesn’t get involved in the intense debate that follows between his boyfriend and twenty-five teenagers, even though he thinks Ilya is definitely right on all accounts.

“You think maybe All-Stars is cursed for us, too?” 

“Why would it be cursed?” Shane looks at Ilya who is leaning against the boards, watching the girls take penalties under Carter Vaughn’s supervision.

“Second year in a row we’re fighting.”

“We’re not fighting,” Shane says.

“You didn’t talk to me all morning.”

“No, I tried talking to you and you told me to shut the fuck up. So I’m shutting up.” 

“Forever?”

“Fuck you.”

Ilya skates up closer to him, too close, probably, but Shane doesn’t budge.

“I’m sorry I said that. I was an asshole," Ilya says.

“What else is new.” 

“Shane.”

“Why are you trying to do this right now with all these people around? And while we’re in the middle of something? When I tried talking to you this morning, in private, with hours of free time, you didn’t want to hear it.”

“Are we still not fighting, or is the fight starting now?”

“You can actually fuck off. I have been nothing but worried sick about you for the last week. No, for the last two years, even. And when I try to talk to you, you snap at me for giving a shit. No, I’m not doing this right now,” he says when Ilya opens his mouth to respond, even though Shane is in the middle of doing this right now. “I think you should go help that girl with her backhand before she hits someone in the face,” Shane then adds, nodding at one the girl who is taking a very ambitious swing a couple of yards away. 

Ilya pushes himself off the boards and skates away from Shane, backwards, practically pouting.

Maybe All-Stars is cursed for them after all. 

There is a red carpet event that evening, followed by the Dunkin’ Donuts Gala to close out the weekend. Ilya disappears after the hockey clinic. Well, he doesn’t disappear. He sends Shane a text telling him he’s going to look for something to wear since he didn’t bring anything, again. Shane ignores the text, because he’s still annoyed and he already knows Ilya is going to look way too good to ignore later on in the night, so he might as well play hard to get now.

“You think he’s going to show up with his tits out again?” J.J. asks, while they’re waiting for their pick up in the hotel lobby.

“Probably,” Shane says.

“At least it’s hot. Outside, I mean. It’s crazy they made him come all the way out here just for this promo bullshit after two twelve hour flights back to back. I would lose my fucking mind,” J.J. snorts.

“Yeah, well, he’s last year’s MVP. People expect  to see him here.”

“So what? MVP’s don’t sleep? He’s got like three games lined up next week. He’s got to do all that after all this?”

“Why are you of all people showing sympathy for him all of a sudden?” Shane asks, annoyed by the guilt that settles in his stomach.

“Do you want me to be nice to him or not? Make up your fucking mind, man,” J.J. says.

“I do, but you’re picking a really annoying time to start.”

“Is he going to be picked up with us, or no?” J.J. then asks, looking at his phone. “Car is ready for us outside.”

“Are you talking about Rozanov?” Scott Hunter interjects, siddling up beside them in his boring grey suit and blue tie. “He’s already outside, smoking.”

Shane has half a mind to ask him why the hell he’s keeping track of Ilya’s whereabouts like that, but the smoking part trips Shane up more. It feels like months since he saw Ilya smoke a cigarette. Maybe even since Svetlana’s visit. 

Before Shane can decide to go find him outside, he watches Ilya come through the revolving door and enter the lobby. He meets Shane’s eye immediately, a small smile on his lips and Shane reciprocates on autopilot before remembering he’s supposed to be pissed.

Of course he looks amazing again, in all black with wide black dress pants that make his legs look miles long, a skin tight black tank top covered by a loosely flowing and expensive looking black dress shirt that is practically sheer.

“I have to put this in my room,” Ilya tells him. Or maybe he tells all of them. There are other people there, Shane remembers. “You can go. I’ll follow.”

“I’ll wait,” Shane decides and doesn’t wait for anyone’s reaction as he follows Ilya to the elevators. When the elevator doors open up, a gaggle of hockey players in a mismatch of formal wear bursts out of it, hooting and hollaring. Only a few of them even notice Shane and Ilya standing there, and Shane watches Ilya expertly dodge multiple Raider hands reaching out to mess up his professionally styled curls.

They get in the elevator and as soon as the doors close, Ilya reaches out and gently tugs on Shane’s grey tie. “You don’t need this,” he says. He doesn’t step closer or even touch him beyond that. Elevators are off limits, they decided a long time ago. 

“It’s what I brought,” Shane says. “You didn’t exactly invite me to go shopping.”

“Would you have come with me?”

“You don’t smell like cigarettes,” Shane then changes the subject, because he just remembers Scott Hunter’s annoying comment. 

“Why would I?”

“Scott Hunter said you were smoking outside.”

“No, I asked the doorman for a cigarette. He gave me one. I didn’t smoke it yet,” Ilya says, reaching up to his ear to grab the cigarette that Shane somehow had failed to notice was tucked behind it. “After all I do for Scott Hunter, he would do this to me?”

“You shouldn’t smoke it,” Shane says.

“Hm. And what if I do?”

“I wouldn’t like it.”

“But what if I really, really want to?” Ilya drawls and puts the unlit cigarette between his lips, right as the elevator doors open on his floor.

His room is right at the beginning of the hallway. As soon as the door falls into its lock behind them, Shane pushes Ilya up against the it with just enough force to make Ilya’s lips curl up in excitement. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and pockets it. “You think we have time for this, Hollander?”

“I think you know how to get me off fast,” Shane responds.

Ilya smirks into the kiss that follows, warm tongue deft and purposeful. He inches Shane backwards towards the bed. His hands slide under Shane’s jacket, squeezing his sides and then his ass.

When he lets go, he tugs on Shane’s tie again and starts undoing it.

“This is not part of the fast way,” Shane reminds him, but doesn’t stop him. 

“I want to see you,” Ilya says, pressing their foreheads together as he starts undoing the buttons of Shane’s dress shirt and then swiftly moves on to Shane’s zipper. He pushes Shane to sit on the bed, gets onto his knees and pushes Shane’s legs further apart. 

“Don’t touch my hair,” Ilya tells him.

“I’ll try,” Shane says. 

“I’m serious,” Ilya says. 

“Okay, well, don’t get anything on my clothes,” Shane says. “Jesus, this is such a bad idea. They’re going to be waiting for us.”

Ilya slides his hand into Shane’s boxers and pulls out his cock, stroking it slowly. “I know what you really want,” Ilya says. “If you got it your way, I’d fuck you so hard right now you’d feel me all night, no?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Shane sighs. “Can’t always have what I want.” He leans back onto the bed, on his elbow, settling into the feeling of Ilya’s hand on him. Ilya reaches up with his other hand and drags it over Shane’s bare chest and abs.

“So you don’t want it?” he asks. “You don’t want to feel me while you walk that red carpet, with all those people there to see you?”

“Jesus, I don’t think we have…” Shane loses his train of thought when Ilya parts his lips and takes the tip of his cock into his mouth, tongue craddling the base. Shane’s hand moves down instinctively, ready to grab a handful of blonde curls. Ilya first swats it away, and then grabs onto it, interlocking their fingers as he blows him. Shane doesn’t last long, he never does when Ilya has made up his mind like this, when they have somewhere to be, when someone is waiting, when someone is knocking, when someone is calling.

Ilya swallows almost all of it, but does this thing that Shane should maybe be grossed out by but instead thinks is one of the hottest things in the world. He gets onto his feet, yanks Shane up with him and then kisses him, wet and slick and salty. Tasting himself in Ilya’s mouth is almost enough to get him going again.

Shane reaches down and cups Ilya’s bulge, fat and pronounced in his dress pants.

Ilya moans into the kiss. “After,” he tells him, pushing his hand away. “I’m going to fucking ruin you, after.”

“Oh? You’re going to get on the red carpet with a fat fucking hard-on?”

“Why not? Give the fans something to talk about,” Ilya smirks. He straightens Shane’s collar and starts buttoning up Shane’s shirt. 

“They’ll have you arrested,” Shane says.

“For what? Having a fat cock?” Ilya leaves the top three buttons of Shane’s shirt undone and when Shane goes to button them he swats his hands away. “You look good like this. More like you.” 

“More like you, you mean,” Shane says, turning to look at himself in the full length mirror on the closet door. He sighs at how much of a mess he actually looks like noe. Shirt frumpled and untucked. His face and lips look red and while they made sure Ilya’s hair stayed untouched, Shane had rolled his head on the bed enough for him to look like he just rolled out of it.

He straightens himself out the best he can while Ilya digs something out of his suitcase. Shane watches through the mirror as Ilya puts the gold watch around his wrist. 

“You took that to Russia with you?” he asks.

“Yes. Why?”

“Just loose in your suitcase like that?” 

“It’s mine. I can do whatever I want with it, Hollander.”

Shane rolls his eyes, but then remembers something. He looks at his nightstand. Two of the girls at the hockey clinic had given him colorful beaded bracelets as a gift. Shane grabs it and slides it around his wrist.

Ilya looks surprised. “Really?”

“It was a gifts from fans. It’s a little girly, maybe. But not that crazy, right?” He asks, rolling a few orange, white and pink beads with his fingers. 

“It’s very cute,” Ilya says and then: “It is also lesbian flag colors.”

“What? Why would they give me a bracelet with lesbian flag colors of all things? Those girls were like fifteen.”

Ilya raises his eyebrows at him. “Sometimes fifteen year olds are lesbians.”

“Fuck off,” Shane sighs and slides the bracelet off again. “You think it’s going to be a thing if I wear it?” 

“I’ll wear it if you don’t want to,” Ilya offers. 

“No, fuck you. They hated you and it would literally be the definition of gay propaganda if you wore it,” Shane says and slides it back around his wrist. 

“Fine then,” Ilya says. “Is our big star ready to do more smiling and waving at the fans?”

“Not really,” Shane admits. “But we’re already late.”

They do the red carpet one after the other and unfortunately they are the last two to show up, so every bit of attention is on them. Ilya walks ahead of him, quickly veering towards the crowd of fans holding up jerseys, pictures and pamphlets to sign. He takes long enough for Shane to catch up to him, chatting with a few young kids and taking a picture with them. 

Shane vaguely hears his own name being called out, but it barely registers. 

He sees it happen, barely a foot in front of him. A hand grabbing onto the back of Ilya’s shirt, pulling him back right as he is about to walk away, and then grabbing at his arm and shoulders. Ilya turns around, annoyed at the grown man who has wrestled himself to the front.

Shane’s arm snaps up in an instant, not a thought in his head, just hot rage shooting through him. He grabs the man’s wrist tightly and yanks his hand away. The man lets go in shock, though Shane sees him try to grab onto Ilya again. He pushes the hand away again, barely containing his annoyance, if he manages to contain it at all.

Instinctively Shane’s other hand lands on the small of Ilya’s back, leading him away from the crowd, right as security heads their way.

Ilya turns to look at Shane, eyebrows up at his hairline, and Shane snaps out of it. He pulls his hand away from Ilya’s waist. “Sorry,” Shane mutters. “You can keep moving. Just be careful.”

“Didn’t know you were doing private security for me,” Ilya smirks at him. 

“Shut up, please,” Shane exhales. He can already feel his face heating up. 

“You think they got that on camera?” Ilya chuckles.

Not only was all of it caught on camera, but it was caught on camera from every angle imaginable. Hayden texts him the first clip while they’re still at the party.

Yuna pulls up the thread on her own phone. Shane, his parents and Ilya are huddled over it by a standing table and Shane watches himself do a lot of things, but the most flagrant thing that jumps out to him is how he puts his hand on Ilya’s waist, on his hip really and lead him down the red carpet in the most intimate way anyone could ever do it.

“At least no one can say you were out of line,” Yuna says casually. “He deserved that and more. Ilya, did he scratch you?”

“No, your son saved my life,” Ilya says dramatically.

“Security should have been on that,” Shane says.

“You want the man to be arrested for touching me?” Ilya snorts. “What should they do with you then, hm?” 

“Dad, don’t laugh at that,” Shane sighs when David lets out a chuckle.

“Come on,” his dad says.

“Honey, it’s fine,” Yuna says. “All these comments are calling you a knight in shining armor. This is great, actually. But what is this I’m reading about you wearing a lesbian bracelet? What is that even supposed to be?” 

This time Ilya laughs, loud and surprised. 

“Fans gave me this,” Shane says, pulling up his sleeve to show the bracelet.

“Two small lesbian fans, I think,” Ilya laughs.

“I should have let that psycho take you away.”

“Shane,” his dad says. 

“He’s being annoying on purpose, dad,” Shane defends himself. 

“Still, don’t wish for the psycho to take him away,” David says.

“I’m the victim, here,” Ilya says and pokes his tongue out at Shane when his parents aren’t looking.

Shane rolls his eyes and turns to his mother. “Mom, be honest. Is this bad?”

“No. I mean, it shouldn’t be. Technically, it could be considered a political statement, which the league is not a fan of-” 

“It’s a bracelet from a fan,” Ilya says.

“And Ilya’s twitter moment was worse than this,” Yuna continues pointedly. “But that blew over pretty quickly. Honey, I really wouldn’t worry about it. Enjoy your night. Have a drink. You’re going to be back in the rat race tomorrow.” She puts a gentle hand on Shane’s arm.

Shane tries and he succeeds almost. He sips on a ginger ale and listens to Ilya tell his parents about his trip to Russia. More than he told Shane. They seem to know better than him what questions to ask, how to keep it light, how to roll their eyes at bureaucracy and wait times and show sympathy for rough travel times. They congratulate Ilya on the house, which - of course they do. It’s been just a little over a week since he closed on the house, but with everything that happened between then and now, it feels like a million years ago. They haven’t had any time to actually celebrate it.

Shane is grateful for his parents, for the easy and light conversation, and he is also envious. He wonders if he’ll ever know exactly what questions to ask to make Ilya open up to him without upsetting him in the process. He also knows it’s not entirely the same. His parents don’t know all of it, it’s not their job to understand all of it. But it is Shane’s job. And if there is anything Shane takes pride in, it’s being good at his job.

“You want one more?” Ilya asks when Shane puts his empty glass down, after his parents excuse themselves to talk to some connections. 

“No, I’m good,” Shabe says.

“Water, maybe?” Ilya asks. 

“Nope.”

“You’re still mad,” Ilya concludes. “The blowjob wasn’t good enough, or what?” 

Shane shoots him a look. There are too many people around to be joking like this, and Ilya knows it.

“Can you stop trying to have this conversation in a room full of people where everyone is looking at us?” 

“We were alone in the hotel before this. You did not exactly want to talk then.” 

People started flocking in their direction as soon as Yuna and David moved on. So the last thing Shane lets out is: “Later, okay?” before Carter Vaughn, Scott Hunter and J.J. join them at the standing table. Shane is distracted by Carter’s cheerful greeting for just a second, before he realises Ilya walked away from the table. He catches a glimpse of him at bar, at the other side of space, before his view is blocked by more and more people. 

“Is he okay?” Carter then asks him, pointing a thumb into Ilya's vague direction. “We saw that video. Looked like that guy wanted to put him in his basement.”

“Yeah, no, I think he’s okay,” Shane says. 

“Out of all of us, I’m pretty sure he spends the most time catering to fans, just for some bullshit like that to happen,” Scott Hunter says.

“I’m going to get a refill,” Shane then says and heads for the bar. Ilya is still waiting, leaning onto the counter with his elbows. Shane stands next to him.

“You should not follow me around if you don’t want more attention,” Ilya says.

“I think these days people have more shit to say if we’re not seen together,” Shane says. “‘Did Rozanov and Hollander have a falling out?’ ‘From rivals to friends to enemies?’”

“Who’s saying that?”

“People, after our last game. Apparently you were boardchecking me a lot.”

“Hm.”

“I’m just trying to say that you don’t have to walk away from me if friends come up to us.”

“I didn’t feel like talking to them.”

“Why not?”

Ilya turns to look at him then, serious. “I should not talk to you like that, like this morning. I was a fucking asshole.” 

“Okay. Okay, we can let that go. You were upset. It happens.” Shane has to actively keep his hands to his sides, keep himself from reaching out, from touching Ilya’s face, from actually assuring him the way Shane knows he likes to be assured.

Ilya gets served his drink, something dark and probably bitter. Ilya adds a ginger ale to the order and they watch the bartender pour it into a glass.

“Do you still want to get sushi after this?” Shane then asks.

“After this? Tonight?" Ilya asks, a bit incredulous. “Me and you? Did you get drunk when I wasn’t looking?” 

“What’s the big deal? Two best friends can’t go out for dinner after the Cheetos and Dunkin’ Donuts sports gala?”

“What about your parents?”

“What about them?”

“They came here for you.”

“They’ve been to a million of these. If anything, it’s a networking thing for my mom. They won’t mind if we go to dinner without them. Look, if you don’t want to go-”

“We’re going,” Ilya says.

They go. And because All-Stars is now cursed for them, the restaurant is closed when they get there. Ilya then does something that Shane would never even consider doing for a multitude of reasons, social anxiety being the main one. He asks the Uber driver to take them to whatever he thinks is a good restaurant in the area. The driver seems to feel for them and makes a point to take them to be the best restaurant he knows.

It’s a change of plans that makes Shane uncomfortable, but he decides that this needs to be another get-over-it moment. He can’t just tell Ilya he would rather go back to the hotel than be taken to a mystery restaurant somewhere in this city, after all of this. 

They get out of the car just a few block away from their first destination and Shane has to admit, the large covered patio with colorful seats and strings of lights looks very cute and inviting. 

Far more casual than the sushi restaurant, mostly families, not deserted but not fully booked, as is to be expected on a Wednesday evening.

Shane forgets to be annoyed at the unexpected and sudden change of plans when Ilya excitedly points at the chalk board sign that reads Specials: Fresh Ceviche & Shrimp taco’s.  

It’s warm enough for them to sit outside, despite it being the middle of Februari. The contrast with back home is the only reason Shane lets himself be convinced to do it. Obviously they’d be better off inside, away from passersby who might peek through the hedges separating the patio from the street. Realistically, L.A is not a place where Shane would get recognised much. There are far more famous people roaming the streets here, athletes or otherwise. 

They sit at the table the furthest away from any other patrons, far enough that Shane thinks no one should be able to overhear them. 

Ilya must notice his nerves because before they even order he says: “We can leave whenever you want.” 

“I like ceviche. I don’t have it much back home at all, but it’s very healthy, you know,” is how Shane responds.

“Hm.”

“So, should we talk about it?”

“About what?” Ilya asks, pointedly holding a plastic menu up between them, pretending to study it. 

“About how you said in an interview that you thought you would have done better than me in the skills events this weekend.”

Ilya smiles at that and looks back up at him. “What more do you want me to say about it?”

“This is why my grandpa doesn’t like you, you know.”

“I think I said nice things, too.”

“The stuff you said about my mom was really nice.”

“Should we also talk about how you said in your interview that I am your best friend?" Ilya then asks. 

“Let’s not. Hayden hasn’t stopped texting me about it.”

A server comes to take their order and when he leaves again, Shane asks: “Did you really ask the league to replace you with Scott Hunter this weekend?”

“Who told you that?”

“He did.”

“He should not be telling people. Bad look.”

“So you did do it?”

“I mean, yes.”

“Why?”

“He was not invited.”

“Yeah, I get that, but… lots of players would have killed for a chance to be here. If you got to pick, you could have picked a Centaur. Boodram would have been great.”

“I thought about it. It’s not like I just got to pick. They wanted me to do this whole promo thing all the way to the playoffs. I asked for one favor.”

“So why him?”

Ilya pulls up one shoulder. “I like doing gay propaganda.”

“He has to retire eventually. You can’t personally try to keep him in the league forever just because he’s the only openly gay player.”

“No, not forever. Just until a much younger, much better and much more handsome gay player takes over.”

“You think I’m more handsome?”

Ilya smirks at him. “Maybe I was talking about myself.”

Shane can’t help but smile back. “You’re claiming gay now?” 

“You and him are both older than me, but yes, you are much more handsome.”

“I don’t know about much more…”

“You used to like Scott Hunter, no?” Ilya then asks.

“I don’t dislike him now. I just don’t know where this sudden friendship between you two came from,” Shane says honestly. “I know you’re not, like, into him, or anything. But he might be into you.”

“That would be funny, but I don’t think it’s true,” Ilya says. “Don’t you think he would have tried to fuck me by now?” 

“Well, technically he doesn’t know that you’re bisexual.”

“Technically, no. But realistically...”

The server returns with their drinks, a lemonade that looks ice cold for Ilya and Shane’s sparkling water. Shane was a little suprised that Ilya didn’t order a beer, but then remembered that he had had two drinks already earlier that night. His limit is two these days, as per the advice of his psychiatrist to avoid anything affecting his medication. Ilya had played fast and loose with that advice for a while. Either not drinking at all (Shane felt that was the obvious choice) or going out and not counting the drinks at all (pissed Shane off immensely). He also puts a basket of tortilla chips and salsa on the table. 

“Realistically, he’s gay and he probably wants to fuck you,” Shane says when the server leaves. 

“They are warm,” Ilya says, grabbing a chip, and then: “What about his smoothie boy? You think Scott Hunter is a cheater like that?” 

“Maybe they both want you, I don’t know.”

Ilya laughs at that, despite Shane being pretty serious. “Maybe. If he tries something with me, I’ll tell you and you can fight him, kill him, whatever you want. Okay?”

“Okay,” Shane says. 

“I know you’re hungry. This is good,” Ilya reminds him.

Shane ignores him. “To be honest, I’m mostly annoyed Scott Hunter got to be the captain of the opposing team this weekend. I like being on the ice with you. I had been looking forward to it, but… but Russian bureaucracy ruined that, I guess.”

“Should I move to a team in the Western conference next?” Ilya jokes. “Make your dream of facing me in the Stanley cup finals come true?”

“As fun as that would be, Ottawa is already too far away. Besides, if we’re dreaming big, the ultimate dream is winning the cup with you on my team.”

“Or you on my team.”

“Sure, whatever. It’s never going to happen.”

“Definitely not on the Metros.”

“Not anywhere,” Shane shrugs.

Ilya tilts his head like he wants to argue that, but seems to change his mind at the last second and takes a sip of his lemonade instead. 

“What?” Shane asks. 

“Nothing.”

“Ilya.”

“It’s nothing. I’m surprised, maybe. You have this big dream, but you think it’s so impossible. It’s like you forget that you have already done so many impossible things. Us sitting here like this was impossible just one year ago.”

“Okay, well, the Metros are not picking you up anytime soon. They think this friendship of ours is inappropriate as it is. From management all the way down.”

“What, they don’t like me?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Even if they did, I don’t see you jumping to join the team.”

“Well, the Centaurs would love to have you.”

“Oh, I’m sure. They better start saving up now, then,” Shane snorts. 

Ilya holds up a chip with some salsa on it for Shane to take. “It’s very good. Menu said it’s homemade. I know you didn’t drink or eat anything good all week.” 

Shane rolls his eyes and takes the chip.

The rest of their food comes out not long after that. Shane always thinks the meals he shares with Ilya are some of the best meals he’s ever had, but mostly because of the company. This time it’s actually some of the best food he’s ever had.

At the end of the night, while they’re waiting for their Uber back to the hotel and Shane has his eyes on the street, he hears a clicking sound coming from from his left where Ilya is standing. He turns his head to see Ilya successfully light a cigarette. 

“You’re actually the most annoying guy I’ve ever met,” Shane says. 

“Fuck you,” he mumbles around the bud and takes a drag. 

“You’re going to make some poor guy’s Uber smell like an ashtray,” Shane says. 

Ilya takes the cigarette out from between his lips “I will say sorry with the tip. I saved this for the perfect moment.” 

“How is this the perfect moment?” Shane asks, confused. 

Ilya reaches out with his free hand and brushes a gentle thumb over Shane’s cheekbone. “You don’t think it’s perfect?” 

And he’s got Shane there, really.

When they get back to the hotel, Shane doesn’t take out his phone. He doesn’t want to know. Not tonight.

He also doesn’t try to talk to Ilya about Moscow or his brother again, despite desperately wanting to. They’ll figure it out another time.