Chapter Text
Shane and Ian ended up swapping numbers and texting. It felt good talking to another man in a gay marriage who didn’t have anything to do with hockey. He and Ilya had talked about needing more queer friends anyways, and Shane saw this as a perfect opportunity seeing as Ilya and Mickey seemed to have a lot in common.
Ilya was only jealous of Ian for three whole days (record breaking time, usually he’s jealous for up to a week and even by then he still hasn’t fully let go). It takes some convincing to get him to agree to a double date the next time they were in Chicago.
“We need to go on more double dates, we need to make more queer friends! You said it yourself” Shane argued.
“I take it back. We have plenty of queer friends. Hunter and his Kip, Harris, Troy, Bennett, Fabian, Price. The list goes on, Hollander!” Ilya countered.
“First of all, I am totally telling Scott Hunter that you consider him a friend” Shane begins. “I want more gay friends who have nothing to do with hockey” he protested, crossing his arms across his chest. “Sorry if I want a break every once in awhile”
Ilya laughs. “You? A break from hockey? Please”
Shane frowns and flashes his best eyes. He takes a step closer to Ilya, pulling at the sleeve of his Centaurs sweatshirt. “Please, for me? Give them a try, I think you’ll have fun”
Ilya stares down at him heavily for a moment before he sighs and gives in. “Fine. One stupid double date”
Shane grins, pushing up on his tip toes and pecking his cheek. “I’ll go text Ian”
That’s how they end up in one of the better looking dive bars Ilya has ever seen in Chicago.
The dive bar smells like stale beer and old wood polish, but it’s decorated nicely with a variety of framed pictures scattered around the bar. A neon sign that says beer buzzes on the wall by the pool table. Mickey walks a circle around the table.
“It’s crooked” He proclaims, squinting at him. “I’m not losing on a crooked table”
“You say this before even touching cue” Ilya replies, already rolling his sleeves up like he’s about to enter a playoff game, not a bar tournament with Mickey Milkovich.
Behind them, Ian heads for the bar while Shane awkwardly reorganizes the chalk cubes into a neat little square on the rail of the table.
“Why are you alphabetizing the chalk?” Mickey asks, pointing it out.
“I’m not. I’m just… optimizing” Shane defends.
Ilya looks at Shane like he invented oxygen. He loves Shane’s little quirks. “He is efficient,” he says, proudly.
Ian returns and slides three beers across the table, keeping one for himself. “Okay. Teams?”
“Me and Red” Mickey calls out instantly, jerking his thumb towards Ian. “We don’t lose”
Ilya scoffs. “You are an emotional liability”
“Yeah? You’re a dramatic liability”
Shane raises a hand. “Maybe we draw–”
“No” Mickey and Ilya say at the exact same time.
Shane nods like he’s being drafted into something serious.
Ilya breaks. The crack echoes throughout the bar, balls scattering clean and sharp. Two sink immediately, and Shane smirks over at his husband proudly.
“Okay, Gretzky” Mickey whistles.
Ilya smirks at him. “I do not play games to lose”
Shane lines up his shot next, and in typical Shane fashion, is very careful with it. Too careful. He squints, then adjusts, and then readjusts.
“Babe,” Ilya says, saddling up next to him. “It is not the Stanley Cup”
“I know,” Shane says, defensively. “I–Just the angle–”
Shane finally takes it, and sinks the ball. Clean. Ilya beams like he did it himself.
Mickey looks to Ian, and then back to Ilya, glaring. “Oh, so you’re one of those couples”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Ilya demands.
“Where one of you does something, and the other one acts like he personally trained him” Mickey replies, bite in his tone.
Ilya shrugs in reply. “I did”
Ian bursts out laughing at Mickey’s expression and Shane’s face which was now burning red.
Their second round starts more aggressive than the first one. Mickey hits the balls and watches as they scatter, dropping into the pockets, clacking decisively. He smiles, cocky and proud.
“That’s how you do it” Mickey cheers, satisfied.
Ilya rolls his eyes. “You hit table like you’re mad at it”
“I am mad at it. It’s fucking crooked, I told you!” Mickey exclaims, crossing his arms over his chest.
Shane laughs to himself, before leaning over to mutter to Ian. “Is he always like this?”
“Yup” Ian replies with no hesitation, with a smirk.
Mickey bends over the table, fingers tangled around the pool stick again. He focuses for a second, the world slowing around him. He lines up the shot, inhales then exhales and sinks it clean.
He turns slowly towards Ilya. “Scoreboard”
Ilya narrows his eyes in response, and Shane sees a familiar look in his eye. He sees his competitive edge sliding into place like armor. It’s the one he gets before a big game, or before Shane kicks his ass in MLH 16 on the console at the cottage.
“Oh no” Shane mumbles.
“What?” Ilya asks him, leaning over the table, preparing to take his shot.
“You’re doing the thing” Shane points out.
“I am not” Ilya replies, looking over his shoulder with a pout. Shane wants to kiss it right off of his face.
“You absolutely are”
Mickey glances between them, clearly put off. “What the fuck is the thing?”
Shane just shrugs simply. “He’s calibrating”
Ilya is still for what feels like centuries. It’s just when Shane is about to ask him if he’s okay that he hits the ball perfectly. Ilya lets out a breath that he didn’t even know he was holding. The ball ricochets, side rail, corner kiss. And it drops.
Mickey slams his stick on the ground angrily. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me!”
Ilya straightens slowly, a smile gracing his face, one that was rather hot to Shane. Ilya’s eyes lock on Mickey. “Natural talent”
Ian is smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. It’s nice seeing Mickey like this, interacting with other people that weren’t related to him. His anger wasn’t even out of control like it was usually, it was more playful banter which is something Ian rarely saw from him.
He snakes an arm around Mickey’s waist and plants a kiss against his cheek. Feeling Mickey soften underneath his touch was always his favourite part of having him like this. He physically feels Mickey letting his guard down.
“Come on, you love this” Ian teases.
Mickey exhales sharply, but leans into the touch anyways. “I hate losing”
“You’re tied”
“I hate almost losing”
The game ends with Shane and Ilya winning, because of course they did (“They’re star fucking athletes! Of course they won” Mickey complained).
Eventually, the night thins out and the two couples begin to part ways, Shane and Ian paying their tab at the bar, leaving Ilya and Mickey alone. Ilya knew deep down this was Shane’s plan all along, a plan to get him out of the house and to make new friends.
The two lean against the brick wall outside of the bar, staring at each other with caution before Mickey decides ‘fuck it’ and pats his pockets down for his smokes. He pulls out a carton, shaking out two cigarettes, offering one to Ilya.
Ilya looks down at the cigarette in Mickey’s hand before snatching it up gratefully. Mickey lights his own cigarette before tossing the lighter over to Ilya who does the same. He hands back the lighter and takes a deep drag, blowing smoke out into the night in front of him.
“They set us up,” Mickey says, finally after what seemed like a neverending silence.
“Yes,” Ilya replies, simply.
“You knew?” Mickey asks, lifting his cigarette up to his lips.
“Yes”
Mickey glances at him sideways. “And you came anyway”
“Shane thought it would be good for us. I think he really meant good for me, making friends and all that” Ilya explains, talking with his hands like he always does. “I am not fragile. He worries”
“I know, Ian does that too” Mickey nods.
They stand there in the warmth of a shared understanding, two men built sharp around the edges, softened only in very specific places.
Mickey flicks ash onto the pavement below. “You’re not bad” he mutters, like it physically pains him to say it, to open up.
Ilya considers that. “The feeling is mutual. You are extremely confrontational, though”
“Yeah”
“But loyal”
Mickey snorts. “Don’t get sentimental on me now”
“I do not ‘get sentimental’”
“You kind of are. Very different from what they show on T.V”
Ilya looks mildly offended. “I am intense”
“That is just sentimental with anger issues”
That earns a real laugh out of Ilya, one out of his stomach, low, unguarded and surprised.
The door to the bar creaks open, Ian’s voice carrying out first, warm and bright. Shane’s softer one follows.
Mickey straightens slightly, the demeanour slipping back on, cigarette nearly done. “You coming back next week?” He asks, casual, like it doesn’t matter.
Ilya flicks his ash, eyes forward. “If the table is not crooked”
Mickey smirks.
“Same time next week”