Work Text:
Shane knew himself, and he knew his body. The tell-tale signs of a panic attack usually crept up on him slowly: rapid heart rate, dizziness, shortness of breath, shaking. It was almost always gradual, giving him time to prepare—to get off the ice or away from the eye of the public if he needed to. He’d take a breather, call himself a pussy for a few minutes straight, and get right back to it.
If he knew himself any less, he would think he was about to have a panic attack. But he wasn’t. He was just a little nervous, a little on edge, and very tired from walking around Tokyo in the sun. The lattermost point was mostly inconsequential to his overall suffering.
Shane leaned into Ilya—not too close, but close enough to whisper and have Ilya hear him over the busy buzz of hungry people in the KFC they’d stopped in for lunch, “We’re definitely going to get recognized out here.”
Ilya had absolutely no concerns about that. “Relax, Hollander, we are in Japan. Who will recognize us here?”
They weren’t exactly in disguise or anything. They were wearing hats, sure, but Ilya’s was backwards and did nothing to disguise his face. He had the added benefit of sunglasses, but, again, they did nothing to obscure his sharp jaw and strikingly famous features. Shane’s sunglasses were also doing nothing but ticking Ilya off because they covered most of his freckles.
“People watch hockey in Japan, Rozanov.”
Ilya clicked his tongue, and he, seemingly, tuned Shane out as he studied the menu.
Their Japan trip was an impromptu one. Yuna and David had planned the short trip months ago, on a whim, but they invited Shane and Ilya along as a way to bond with their new son-in-law. (They were getting ahead of themselves; Ilya and Shane weren’t married yet. They weren’t even engaged. Hell, they’d only, finally confessed to each other a year prior. But, nearly a decade of hooking up and being addicted to each other was a solid foundation for marriage. Shane couldn’t blame his parents for being so eager and so certain; he’d never felt like this for anyone before, and he’d certainly never acted this way before.)
Ilya and Shane spent a lot of time out and about while they were in Japan. Of course they did; they were in Japan. Still, their outdoor ventures put Shane on edge. If they were caught in public, their story was simply going to be that they planned a trip together to start exploring other locations to base a charity out of. They chose Japan to connect with Shane’s heritage. It was total bullshit, but it was something. It gave them a little bit of freedom with which to be seen in public together.
Shane was especially on edge inside of KFC, for some reason. Well, he knew the reason. Ilya was bored, which meant he was particularly touchy. He kept pulling Shane closer to him, trying to hold his hand or hang his fingers off of Shane’s waist. Even as they ordered, his hand fell into Shane’s back pocket, and Shane tried to be casual about removing it. (He wasn’t. He reached back, tugged on Ilya’s wrist, then slapped the inside of his elbow until he stepped away.)
As they stood off to the side waiting for their order, which included enough food for Yuna and David, Ilya tried to pull Shane closer again.
“Stop,” Shane whispered through his teeth. “We’re in public.”
“So what? We are on vacation,” Ilya said. “We’re friends now, to media. We can be close.”
“Not like this.”
“Why not? Is natural friendship. Russians are very loving, very touchy-feely.”
Shane narrowed his eyes. “No they’re not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re—” Shane stopped himself. Because you’re not touchy. It was a weak and blatantly untrue argument, and he knew it.
“Because I am what? Not touchy? Not always kissing you and hugging you and loving you?” Ilya inched closer with each question. Shane pushed him away, but he was laughing as he did. He was nervous and antsy, but he was in love. Ilya was so ridiculous, and Shane was so in love with him. So in love with him. He adored Ilya, he really did—but, “I’m going to kill you when pictures leak of us being close like this.”
“You would have killed me long time ago if you wanted,” Ilya said. “I think I am safe.”
Only small miracles prevented Shane from strangling Ilya on a regular basis, such as the call of their order number and Shane’s obligation to go collect their food. He breezed right past Ilya to exit the KFC with their meals so Ilya didn’t have a chance to try to grab his hand or, worse, slap his ass in public again. (Shane nearly throttled him right there in the park for pulling that stunt.)
Ilya caught up to Shane just in front of the building. He wrapped his arm around Shane’s waist, whining at him for moving too fast. Shane paid him little mind, only because he was distracted by yelling a few feet away.
To his and Ilya’s left was a very angry man with pure white hair, flailing his arms around and screaming at another man with long, black hair. The man to their right wasn’t reacting much, stoic and with his hands in his pockets, as if he couldn’t be bothered to engage in the conversation at all. But he was; he responded with a calm voice, just loud enough to travel down the street so the other man could hear him.
“Oh, shit,” Shane whispered. He was used to screaming and fighting (he was a hockey player, after all), but in the middle of the street like this? That was bold.
“Should we . . . do something?”
Slowly, Ilya turned his head to Shane, presenting him with an incredulous look. “Hollander, what would we do?”
“I don’t know,” Shane said sheepishly. Ilya chuckled, but he said nothing else. Instead, he looked back and forth between the men as they talked (well, as one talked and one screamed). Ilya was frowning the same way he did when he was trying to listen closely and translate in his head.
No way.
“Do you know what they’re saying?” Shane asked, still thinking no way, there’s no way.
Ilya always took Shane by surprise, though. “I learned some Japanese for travel. And for Yuna. We talk shit about your father and he has no idea.”
Shane couldn’t believe it; he was so shocked, he couldn’t even respond to the lattermost part of Ilya’s confession. “Even I don’t know any Japanese.”
“Maybe you should get more, ah, ambitious.” He tapped his hand against Shane’s chest, where his arm was hanging off of Shane’s shoulder. “Shhh. Is interesting, what they are saying.”
Shane had absolutely no context for the argument, only that it was definitely an argument of some sort. The white-haired guy looked absolutely livid, screaming across the sidewalk and, shockingly, not stopping anyone in their tracks along the way. The black-haired one was much more stoic, shooting back what Shane would only assume were insults or rhetorical questions. Shane wished he could have half as much composure in high-stress moments.
Eventually, the black-haired man turned and walked away, leaving the angry, white-haired man behind. Ilya was snickering behind his hand. “I think he just got dumped.”
“What did they say?”
“Not so sure,” Ilya admitted. “They said things I do not know. But this one,” Ilya shamelessly pointed to the white-haired man, who was still standing in the same spot, shaking with anger. “He thinks other guy can’t accomplish goals, or something. Other guy says he will go do it anyway.”
“Oh. Maybe they’re just going down different paths?” Shane suggested. Ilya shrugged, “Maybe. Either way, is funny. Maybe they are rivals, too, but not as friendly as us.”
“I doubt it,” Shane said. He eyed the white-haired man warily. He looked livid. “And don’t be so loud. Or mean.”
“Is spectacle,” Ilya said, again shamelessly gesturing to the angry man. He didn’t seem to be paying attention to anything but the spot the black-haired man once stood. Good. Shane didn’t want him to overhear them and try to fight one, or both, of them.
“Who fights in public like this?” Ilya continued. “So embarrassing. This guy, he, how you say, fumbled?”
“Fumbled?” Shane snorted. “Where did you learn that?”
“Internet. Slang is funny,” Ilya said. “What is other thing I do to you? Fans say it. Rage gait.”
“Uh, bait, I think. Rage bait.”
“Yes. Rage bait.” Ilya gestured to the white-haired man again. “Maybe he got rage bait.”
“I don’t think that’s what that means.”
“You know nothing about Internet slang. Too boring,” Ilya said. Shane couldn’t argue with that; he didn’t particularly like to explore the Internet, certainly not to the point of learning slang. He couldn’t believe Ilya did.
“Show is over,” Ilya commented. The white-haired man had tucked his tail between his legs and was walking away, head down, probably crying, if the shudder of his shoulders was anything to go by. Ilya took Shane’s hand, as if he was going to steer him up the street. Shane pulled away quickly, “Ilya. Public.”
“Japan,” Ilya argued.
“Public.”
“Japan.” Ilya gripped his hand again. “Is okay. If people notice, I’ll say I did not want to lose you in crowded place.”
“That’s not—”
“Don’t be so boring, Hollander, we are in Japan. Is fun place. Busy streets and public breakup.” Ilya ranted as he walked, his fingers firmly laced through Shane’s. “Beautiful skies, romance everywhere, no one knows who we are.”
“People definitely know who we are.”
“Too bad. Narrative is different now, we’re safe,” Ilya said. There was some truth to that, perhaps. Shane looked around and he didn’t see any cameras. He didn’t see anyone giving them any sideways glances—and he wondered, for a moment, if that was the culture, or the street, perhaps. No one had been staring at the screaming couple (exes?) except for Ilya and Shane. Perhaps people minded their business around here.
Whatever the case, Shane was happy to be holding onto Ilya’s hand. He was happy to see Ilya carefree, too, still going on—and now laughing—about the couple who broke up publicly because they, supposedly, held different values.
“Don’t break up with me in public,” was Ilya’s takeaway. “Please. I will cry. And Russians do not cry. Public break-up will ruin my image.”
“I think you’re already ruining your image by clinging to me,” Shane chuckled.
“Eh, is normal, Russians like to touch. But we do not cry, or blush,” Ilya said. (Liar. Shane had seen him cry and blush—at the same time, once.)
But Shane knew Ilya was referring to how other people saw him—people he didn’t love, people he didn’t particularly care about. “Public break-up for captain, terrible PR.”
“I won’t break up with you ever,” Shane promised, a sentence so quick it sounded like he was rushing a confession before he lost the courage to do so. Ilya looked at him for a moment, smiling. Shane wanted to kiss him. He wished they lived in a world where they were allowed to do that. How many happy moments had he missed out on because he couldn’t have Ilya whenever he wanted? How much tenderness did he have to deny himself because they were pitted as rivals, because they existed in a world where being gay was taboo—especially for an athlete?
“Good,” Ilya said. He squeezed Shane’s fingers, and he blew him a very subtle kiss. And, suddenly, Shane didn’t feel as terrible. They had their own way of making their moments special—maybe even more special, because of the secrecy.
“I love you,” Shane whispered, in French, for secrecy. Ilya responded to him, just as quietly, in Russian, “I love you, too.”