Chapter Text
Shane is drunk. He doesn’t normally drink much at all, and never during the season, so he’s not used to it. But Ilya had sent him a couple of drinks, thinking he was being so smooth and subtle from across the bar.
And the way he had looked at Shane was so much, it made Shane feel crazy. He wanted to jump Ilya right there in the middle of the bar, but he wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t know that was a terrible idea.
They could barely be seen together in public – especially around all these hockey people – unless it was to be chirping each other.
Shane doesn’t want to chirp Ilya. Not when he looks so damn good in that tux, his beautiful curls perfectly and deliberately disheveled in that way that made him look like he had just tumbled out of bed.
Shane shifts awkwardly in his seat, eyeing the latest shot glass that’s been placed in front of him.
“This one’s called a Bear Fucker,” the bartender says.
Shane laughs. Of course it is.
His glossy eyes seek out Ilya’s from across the bar, and he isn’t disappointed to find Ilya’s gaze locked in on him.
Shane wraps his lips all the way around the outside of the shot glass. He’s not sure he can take the shot like this, but he’s trying to be flirty and suggestive, and he’s quickly approaching too drunk to care or to consider the consequences of how utterly unattractive it will be if he chokes on the shot.
Before he can second guess anything, he throws his head back. The shot stings a bit as it goes down, but thankfully he swallows it without coughing or sputtering, and when he catches Ilya’s face again, he looks horny as hell. Good.
Ilya looks away from Shane, as though he might give it all away if he keeps watching.
He probably would. Shane looks around, trying to gauge if anyone may have seen him do that. Seen them.
He’s satisfied that no one has, though he’s not exactly at his sharpest.
The bartender comes over with a water this time, and a napkin with a scribbled note that just says “check your phone”.
Shane drinks the water down quickly, and asks the bartender to close his tab. It’s being charged to his room, so he takes his phone out and starts looking for the exit.
Lily: meet me outside. Back entrance
Shane giggles at “back entrance” a little too much, but he heads outside the hotel as nonchalantly as he can.
The night is warm and a little hazy, so he just hooks his jacket on his index finger and throws it over his shoulder.
He tries to look casual as he walks around the hotel, looking for the back entrance where Ilya is waiting for him.
He doesn’t have to look too hard. Ilya is there, smoking a cigarette and staring intently at his phone like it either holds the secrets of the universe or it’s going to explode.
“Back entrance?” Shane giggles, a little slurred. Shit, maybe he’s drunker than he thought.
Ilya rolls his eyes, but Shane can see the affection behind it.
“Are you this much of a slut for your other lovers?” Ilya asks, but he’s smiling and Shane knows he only said it to rile him up. It works.
“Excuse me, I am a perfect gentleman,” Shane says.
“Perfect? Yes. Gentleman, I am not so sure.”
Shane gasps with fake outrage.
“If I ask you to suck my cock in this alley, you will do it, no? So not much of a gentleman, I think.”
“I would never,” Shane says, though they both know that he probably would. It’s secluded enough, and he knows how to get Ilya off quickly… Damn him, Shane is considering it.
But Ilya doesn’t ask.
“Alley is not good for your knees, anyway. Could be broken glass,” Ilya says instead.
“So considerate for my knees,” Shane says. “But what about my honor?”
Ilya snorts. “Is honor to suck my dick.”
“Buy me dinner first, at least.”
“I buy you nice drinks all night, this is close enough.”
“You’re terrible.”
“Mm, no, I am not. Or maybe I am, but you like my terrible.”
“For some reason, yeah, I do,” Shane says bashfully. “But you still need to make me an honest man before I suck you off in an alley.”
Something crosses Ilya’s face, but Shane can’t quite figure out what it is.
“I will call for a car, and we can go somewhere better. Better than alley.”
Shane isn’t sure why they don’t just go upstairs to one of their hotel rooms, but he’s just happy to be with Ilya so he smiles loopily and agrees to stay put until the car arrives.
A few minutes later, a sleek black limo pulls up.
“Get in,” Ilya says, holding the door open.
“I shouldn’t be driving,” Shane says.
“Then is good thing you are not. Come on, in.”
They get in the car together, and Shane sees that the partition is rolled up. He can’t see the driver, and hopes that means the driver can’t see him either.
He’s with it enough to keep his distance in the car, at least. Instead, he watches Ilya, a little bewitched by the way the streetlights flash across his cheekbones and make his light eyes seem bright even in the relative darkness.
“Where are we going?” he asks after about 15 minutes.
“Almost there,” Ilya responds in lieu of a real response.
The car stops in front of a small shop with a glowing neon sign that Shane can’t quite make out. Ilya grabs his hand and tugs Shane inside.
It’s a jewelry shop, that much is clear. There are rows and row of neon-lit glass cases. Most of the displays seem to be rings, though there’s a few necklaces and bracelets.
Ilya guides Shane up to the counter and Shane is vaguely aware that someone is measuring his finger, but he’s mostly just happy to let Ilya talk to the nice man behind the counter and stares at him dopily.
Ilya didn’t seem as drunk as Shane felt, but he could tell he certainly wasn’t sober by the way his English had gotten worse.
Shane watches Ilya hand the man his credit card, and then Ilya turns back to Shane and tugs him gently out of the jewelry store onto the sidewalk.
It’s late – after midnight now – and no one else seems to be outside, but they both take a glance around, habit so ingrained that even through the alcohol haze they have to check.
“You want to be honest man, I buy you ring, see? Now we are honest,” Ilya says softly, pulling the ring from the box and sliding it onto Shane’s finger.
Shane gasps, as if he hadn’t just had various rings placed on his hand during the rest of the visit.
“Ilya?” he searches for his eyes, wanting to hold eye contact as if it would clear some of the fog and confusion and giddy, eager excitement.
“Don’t worry, I have one too. See?” Ilya holds up his hand, showing a matching ring. “They are not my favorite, but only ones that match that they have in both our sizes.”
Shane marvels for a moment at the rings on both of their fingers. “Yours is on your index finger?”
“This is tradition in Russia,” Ilya says. “It would feel strange to me, otherwise. Not really wedding ring.”
The word wedding sends a shiver down Shane’s spine.
“Not a wedding ring,” he corrects. “Not married yet, so it has to be an engagement ring first.”
“Well we are in Las Vegas, we can make that happen,” Ilya laughs.
Shane goes quiet, considering. In another world, another life, he could have this. Could get married to Ilya, could be with him wherever and whenever, no one caring about them both being men, or being rivals. It feels too tempting, to have this for just a tiny moment.
“Yeah, right,” Shane says.
“You do not believe me? I buy you ring at 12:15am, I can marry you too. Come on,” Ilya says, and he pulls out his phone and starts googling for the nearest wedding chapel.
Somehow, he finds one only a few blocks over that promises to be quick, discrete, and romantic. Shane isn’t sure how discrete and romantic go together, but Ilya looks so determined and beautiful that he doesn’t bother to protest.
Maybe they could have this, if only for a moment.
They enter the little shop. It’s a simple storefront with two mannequins in the front window, both wearing cheap-looking wedding outfits: one in a tacky, poofy white dress and one in a tuxedo with a crooked bow tie.
Ilya asks the lady behind the counter how to get married, and she only balks a moment when she asks where the women are and Ilya simply indicates Shane.
She leads them to the back, asking them if they want to rent an outfit, before realizing that what they’re wearing from the party is already much nicer than anything she could offer them.
She gives them both a few forms to fill out and sign, and they both giggle as they realize what they’re doing, but not enough to stop themselves.
“Hayden’s gonna be pissed he doesn’t get to be my best man,” Shane laughs.
“Do not mention Pike on my wedding day,” Ilya says, but he’s laughing too.
They ask the front desk person to be their witness, since they obviously don’t have another person with them to do the honors. It doesn’t occur to them to ask her to not say anything, and they didn’t really pay attention to the papers they were signing earlier. She doesn’t seem to recognize them, so they’re probably fine.
The ceremony is a bit of a blur for Shane, because all he can do is stare dopily at Ilya.
Ilya, who looks so beautiful. Who fucks him so well, who knows exactly how to touch him and kiss him and make him feel so good. Ilya, who is so exhilarating to play against on the ice, to battle and fight with for the top honors every time, who is one of the only players out there who can meet him where he is, and even beat him. Shane hates to admit that Ilya can outplay him, but it’s still so rewarding and delicious when they both give it their all, he can accept defeat sometimes. (But never without swearing he’ll win the next time.)
Ilya, who always seems to know what to say to help him relax, even though sometimes he doesn’t have all the right English words. Ilya, who can push Shane to be better, to do better, who can pull him out of himself and his own head to bring out the best in both of them.
They say their ‘I Dos’ and kiss, wet and sloppy and deep. Shane forgets to be embarrassed or worried about their witnesses: the officiant, the front desk person. They don’t even bat an eyelash; this must be such a routine occurrence for them.
Shane lets himself get a little lost in it, until Ilya lifts him off his feet and announces they are going to go have honeymoon sex so filthy that “even dirt will want a bath after.”
Shane doesn’t know what that means, but he can’t wait to find out.