Work Text:
Their love was an exercise in restraint.
For everyone who had seem them play for a decade, it was easy to mistake their competitiveness and chirping for true enmity. It had always been Shane Hollander vs. Ilya Rozanov, right from their rookie season, and it went on during their tenure of captains of their own team. They had done nothing to curtail those implications. Why would they, when it made such a nice cover?
But for those who knew them, who loved them, every aborted gesture, every half-spoken word was a declaration of a love so deep, it made even the most stoic blush.
After their rather terribly public outing, it had taken them some time to adjust their behavior. Every ‘fuck you’ could be met with a cheeky ‘maybe later’, nobody questioned why they would want to head home instead of celebrating with their team. Now, they were met with knowing glances and occasional wolf-whistles.
In public, on most days, they were the epitome of good behavior. They held hands like shy newly-weds, swinging them between them. Ever so often, Ilya would brush a thumb across Shane’s knuckles and they would share a small smile. On one memorable occasion, Ilya brought up their swinging hands to press a kiss to Shane’s wrist, soft and promising.
On other days, it would be thumb wrestling and bitten off insults. Shane had little patience for Ilya’s needling, and every sly comment made him squirm uncomfortably. Ilya would take great delight in the squirming. When it got too far, Shane would angrily demand a thumb war to take out his frustrations on Ilya’s ever willing hands.
Only one of them took these thumb-wars seriously. But both of them kept their hands clasped much longer than the fight entailed.
Sometimes, it was less about a declaration of love and more one of intent. A possessive hand around the shoulders, a sly pinch to the waist, a stark bite mark on someone’s jaw. They each found the other more beautiful than the rest, but would not stand for the world to appreciate them so.
And now, they were allowed.
When words would not silence the overzealous, their hands did all the talking. Ilya had a great propensity for violence, both on and off the ice, and never more so than when defending Shane. He hit fast and accurate, felling those of a much greater strength than himself. There was something beautifully mercenary about his fighting style, economic moves that did not leave room for showboating. It often took only one hit for people to stay away, but on occasion he went at it a little more, enjoying how Shane’s eyes went from worried to incredibly turned on.
(Yes, sometimes he showed off for his husband. There was no violence to be had in the bedroom, but more often than not, the adrenaline after a fight or a game came pretty handy.)
Shane though. Shane had a different way of staking his claim, now that he could.
He would boldly comb his hands through Ilya’s riotous curls, worry at his lower lip if anyone was watching, and curl his hand around Ilya’s waist possessively. He was a consummate clinger, in public and in private, and had no shame about it. For every person who looked their way, he would have a raised eyebrow and disapproving head shake in response. For every busybody who sought to proposition his husband, he would have propriety kisses and bruises that would last on Ilya’s pale skin for days.
Their love was an exercise in restraint, but only for those who did not notice.
But people did, eventually. When the neck kisses became a part of their routine, instead of headline news. When Ilya tied Shane’s laces in the middle of a game when they had come undone. When Shane threw himself at Ilya, the third time they won the Stanley cup, trusting his husband to catch him, hockey gear and all.
For those who had watched them grow, every outspoken gesture of affection was thrilling. Because what was love, if not someone’s heart wrenched out and served on a silver platter? What was love, if not tiny gestures that seared into people’s hearts and minds?
What was love, if not for the quietly loud way Ilya and Shane cared for each other?