Work Text:
It hits him when he’s sliding his hand into the slot of the vending machine to collect his Coke. Maybe hit isn’t the right word—he stops in his tracks, maybe stops breathing for a moment, his hand spasming around the cold can as the memories settle into his mind like they’ve always been there. And they have, really, because just a minute ago he was hugging his husband, but also just a minute ago he was showering after practice.
Ilya blinks, retrieves his Coke, and lets the world realign around him.
He might be crazy. Maybe he’s sick, like his father was. But—oh, but if he’s not sick, if his body is telling the truth when it tells him that he is younger and smaller, then his father is alive, isn’t he? And Alexei is still begging him for money.
Ilya sighs. He doesn’t want to think about that. He aches for a cigarette, but he’d been trying to quit, because Shane doesn’t like the smell, and if he keeps smoking it will negatively impact his body and possibly cause damage that would prevent him from playing.
Shane.
Is Shane here with him? Or is he alone?
He hopes Shane is here. He should be showing up within a few moments, actually, now that Ilya is thinking back to how their first meeting went.
Shane was endearing, young and innocent and trying to reach out to the man the media had painted as his rival. If Shane remembers—but if he doesn’t—god, if he doesn’t, if Ilya is actually alone—
He doesn’t feel thirty.
He feels seventeen with the memories of being thirty, like the memories of being sixteen and fifteen, or maybe like he watched a movie, except the emotions were real and he felt them. It was real. It has to have been real, because if it wasn’t, it might actually destroy Ilya.
He slips his soda into the pocket of his Team Russia parka and takes out a cigarette. He doesn’t light it, because it’s better to start breaking the habit now, but the familiarity of the shape helps. It helps, also, when he hears footsteps; when he hears a voice that he knows by heart, saying the words that are tattooed onto his soul, that he holds so closely. How could he not? Those were the first words his husband ever said to him. How could Ilya not treasure them?
“You’re not supposed to smoke here.”
“I’m not smoking,” Ilya replies, finally raising his head to look at his rival. Shane is, as always, beautiful, hunched into a coat, breath fogging in front of his face. His freckles are stark in the cold air, and Ilya wants to map them with his tongue, wants to say, I’ve drawn stars around your freckles and they shone as bright to me as the sun in midday.
“Oh,” Shane says, lamely, and Ilya wants to laugh, just a little. He doesn’t, because he’s an asshole but he’s not mean, and meets Shane’s eyes.
He almost falls over when he sees—the affection, the fondness, the love and the longing, because Shane is here, praying for Ilya as much as Ilya prays for Shane. He leans against the wall and puts the unlit cigarette back in his pocket, and Shane steps closer, close enough for Ilya to count his eyelashes.
“Hollander,” Ilya says, and then, “Shane.”
“Ilya,” Shane says, crowding him up against the wall. He’s smiling, a bashful thing that makes him look so, so endearing. “You too?”
“Yes,” Ilya says, because he doesn’t know how to say yes, me too, I am here, you are not alone.
“I was scared,” Shane confides, “that I would be alone.”
“Never,” Ilya vows. He catches Shane’s hand, draws it out of his pocket, brings it up to his lips and kisses Shane’s knuckles. Shane’s breath hitches, and Ilya tries to memorize the sound, like he’s tried to memorize every sound Shane has ever made.
“People could see us,” Shane says, not moving away.
“Do you care?” Ilya asks. Does it matter? Are we going to do this the same way?
Shane doesn’t answer for a moment, but then he says, “No,” and leans in and kisses Ilya.
No, we’re not going to hide. We’re going to figure something out and maybe we won’t come out but we won’t have to sneak around, not like we did last time.
Ilya kisses back; he wraps his arms around Shane and holds him close and places a hand on Shane's jaw to tip his head up for a better angle, and Shane lets out a little noise that Ilya eagerly swallows up.
“I love you,” Ilya says when they break away, because unfortunately they are human and do need to breathe. Shane laughs, bashful and shy and cute.
“I love you too.”
“What about—your parents,” Ilya asks, and he thinks about Yuna buying him Coke, and he thinks about doing a puzzle with David, and watching Shane’s games together on the couch under that blanket that Ilya had bought them for Christmas that was decorated with Ilya’s face. He thinks about the fact that they don’t know him anymore, except as the rookie who is always paired up against their son, the rookie whose team beat Shane’s.
Shane visibly hesitates, biting the inside of his cheek. Ilya cups his jaw and caresses his cheek, pressing his forehead to Shane’s.
“I can introduce you,” Shane says, “as—as my boyfriend.”
Ilya frowns. “Future husband.”
Shane laughs. It comes out slightly hysterical. “I can’t—”
“Shh. We will figure this out. Like we did last time, yes? But different.”
“Different,” Shane agrees. “I should—they’re waiting for me.”
“Wait,” Ilya says, and reaches into Shane’s pocket. He enters his number quickly, and while he’s going to miss texting ‘Jane’, he knows it will be so much better being able to text Shane. “Here.”
Shane takes his phone back and smiles. “I’ll call you on Christmas, I promise.”
“Good.”
They share one last kiss before, reluctantly, parting.
Shane tells his parents that he met Ilya Rozanov when he gets into the car.
“What’s he like?” his mother asks.
“Kind of a dick,” Shane says, remembering what he said last time. “But we exchanged numbers. I think we’re going to be good friends.”