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June 2017 - Las Vegas
Ilya strides down the congested sidewalk with purposeful steps, a frenetic energy racing through his veins in the wake of Hunter’s speech at the NHL Awards.
Before that, even.
A replay of the night Scott Hunter became a Stanley Cup champion, kissing his (probable) boyfriend for the whole world to see and changing everything in a moment’s time burns through his mind.
Ilya has felt ablaze ever since.
Tonight, he’s a tangle of anxious exhilaration heightened by the thrumming pulse of the Vegas nightlife. He hasn’t felt this way in ages, maybe ever, and he doesn’t quite know how to wrangle this influx of emotion—only that it makes his lungs feel like they’re inflated with helium. Like his future is ripe with possibility.
Like maybe his most coveted desires and unattainable dreams are within reach after all.
Ilya thinks of Shane and, for the very first time, he allows himself to hope.
The instinctual urge to push it away is ever present, but it’s there, tentatively rooting around his heart and searching for a place to stick.
A neon sign advertising Bottoms Up draws Ilya’s attention and his brisk pace slackens, confidence wavering as he stems the compulsion to scan his surroundings, to verify he isn’t being watched. Passerby skirt around him without a hitch in step, the flow of the city so steady and unstoppable that it propels him forward, too. His hesitation fleeting as quickly as the first slap shot across freshly zamboni’d ice.
Inside the nightclub, the heavy bass and flashing lights are a familiar assault on his senses, welcoming even though the routine of going to the club has been long abandoned. Drowning out the ache of loneliness with a quick fuck grew stale quite some time ago, the aftertaste of guilt sour on his tongue when all his hookups turned to tender brown eyes and pretty freckled skin in the fantasy of his mind.
But that’s not the reason Ilya is here tonight so the pressure in his chest unfurls like smoke at the reminder that he can do this, he’s allowed to do this. This place is not so different from the countless string of clubs he’s frequented in the past—except for the fact that it is.
Ilya has only ever been the part of himself that likes boys behind closed doors, a closely guarded secret.
But if fucking Scott Hunter can make a spectacle of coming out on national television, then surely Ilya can make an appearance at a gay bar to show his support. Especially considering Hunter's open invitation for anyone to join, which seemed more like a challenge.
Or at least that’s how he imagines his presence will be perceived if anybody recognizes him. No one will suspect just how excited he feels right now, stepping into a space that celebrates what his family, his homeland, would have condemned him for. (None of them know Russia stopped feeling like home when he was twelve years old.)
He stops at the bar first, needing a drink to fuel his plans for the night, to calm his jittery heart. Beer in hand, Ilya slinks through the crowd, taking the winding staircase that leads to the VIP section, a damp palm sliding against cool metal with every slow step. It grates at him how nervous he feels at the prospect of confronting Hunter off the ice, in a situation where he can’t shelter behind antagonizing the elder man.
Well, Ilya supposes, he can still taunt him a little. It would raise suspicions if he didn’t.
He finds Hunter with lips attached to the man Ilya recognizes from their history making kiss. It has been broadcast and printed on every media outlet a thousand times over by now, so Ilya recognizes him more quickly than he’d like.
The kiss is brief but it sends a horrible pang through Ilya’s chest, yearning contending against jealousy and a fresh surge of irritation crashes over him for being envious of Scott fucking Hunter.
Still, Ilya can’t be blamed. Because what would it be like to live that freely? To kiss a man, to kiss Shane, publicly without fear of consequence?
Ilya can’t be certain he’ll ever know.
The boisterous chatter cuts off when Ilya is spotted, more than a few of the Admirals in attendance wear bemused expressions and “whoa what the fuck is he doing here?” hits his ears. Vaughn, Ilya knows without a shred of doubt, prompting an infinitesimal quirk of his lips.
But all the stares (and glares) don’t halt his unshakable stride. He’s never been one to cower—not in his professional life, at least. Ilya has spent a decade cultivating his act of cool indifference and the way his grip currently strangles the neck of the bottle will be overlooked, of this he is sure.
As he approaches the couch where Hunter sits, the man—Kip, he recalls from Hunter’s speech—stands, says he’s off to get more drinks, flashes a smile at Ilya. “Hey! Another teammate!” Kip beams proudly as he passes.
“Oh god, no,” Hunter clarifies, looking stricken at the mere suggestion of it.
“Please. You wish I play for your team,” Ilya retorts, mischief bracketing the corner of his mouth. “Would have had cup much sooner.”
Hunter scoffs as Ilya settles onto the worn leather in the newly vacated spot. Sprawling out, he nonchalantly tips his beer toward Hunter who regards him with blatant suspicion. “Is good of you to come out. Thought you’d be in bed by now.”
Huffing out a startled breath, Hunter shakes his head in exasperated amusement. “It’s my fucking night, Rozanov.”
“Ah.” Ilya’s eyebrows hike up before he makes a show of sweeping his gaze over the writhing sea of bodies below. Not a single pair of eyes is focused in their direction, oblivious to the guest of honor in their midst. “Yes. Lots of fans clearly. I was surprised to get such a good seat,” Ilya deadpans, his nerves settling as he falls into the familiarity of this exchange.
“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Hunter grumbles, though his words lack any true animosity. His cheeks are flushed, eyes shining, and Ilya doesn’t think he’s ever seen this dinosaur of a man look so carefree.
Another spike of envy lodges itself square in his chest.
Ilya channels that rush of feeling into something defensive, the need to push a bit further too enticing to resist. “Must be you are too old. They don’t recognize you from the history books.” There’s a bitter edge to his tone and it’s instant, the way Ilya can feel the mood darken.
A strained moment pulses between them, then Hunter’s expression shifts, leveling a glare at Ilya as all traces of levity are wiped clean. “Did you seriously come all the way out here just to give me shit? Because if that’s the case, you can get the fuck out. I don’t want to deal with your bullshit. Not tonight.” Hunter gusts out a harsh exhale. “Fuck. Especially not tonight.”
The smirk falters from Ilya’s face at the stony look in Hunter’s eyes, a jarring contrast to the joy that had been radiating from him mere moments ago when he had been pressed thigh to thigh with the man of his dreams.
Ilya’s stomach plummets.
Sure, he’s brash and he wears sarcasm like a suit of armour and maybe he’s kind of an asshole, but he never ever wants to be cruel. Not when he’s been on the receiving end of it and knows firsthand how it feels to be sliced open and left bleeding.
And while Ilya knows he hasn’t said anything particularly damning during this conversation, the realization slots swiftly into place that he has given Hunter the wrong impression. Like he came to the club for all the wrong reasons, like he came to harass him for being gay. He doesn’t really care if Hunter thinks he’s an asshole, but he doesn’t want him to think he’s homophobic.
A curse tumbles from his lips, indiscernible. Ilya is fucking this up. He’s fucking this up and he really wants to get it right.
It’s important that he gets it right.
“Actually,” Ilya starts, throat suddenly bone dry as heat climbs his neck. He senses the eyes of Scott’s teammates on him and his heart is thundering, but he meets Hunter’s gaze with determination. His expression carefully blank, he says, “I am here to say thank you. For your speech. Was very brave.”
Skepticism lingers on Hunter’s face, his eyes searching Ilya’s for a suspended moment, stretched taut. Ilya fidgets, a trembling in his leg that he stifles by pressing a grounding palm down on his thigh. Hoping his face conveys, for once, how serious he is.
An apathetic “okay” is all the response he receives, in the end. Because of course Hunter is not going to make this easy for him and Ilya isn’t surprised, not really. He’s built his career on being an arrogant little shit, with an impenetrable exterior he uses to keep himself safe by never showing an inkling of earnestness and never taking anything too seriously—except winning. He hasn’t exposed just how much or how deeply he cares because he’s terrified it will be ripped from him faster than he can blink. Ilya is all too familiar with how abruptly a life can be irrevocably changed.
But he’s long since grown tired of hiding who he is, who he loves. Exhaustion is steeped so thoroughly in his bones that he's not sure he can sustain the pretense much longer. Not sure he even wants to. So maybe he can hand over this fragment of himself without his world imploding.
“I think it will mean a lot to many people,” Ilya continues.
It means a lot to me, he adds in the privacy of his mind.
No matter how grateful he is, there isn’t a universe that exists in which Ilya will admit to Scott Hunter that him coming out was the catalyst for believing he can have a future with Shane, in some convoluted way.
“Well, I hope that I made an impact,” Hunter says cautiously, still studying him with an intense curiosity that turns almost knowing. But with years of practice at repressing his emotions, it’s effortless for Ilya to maintain his neutral expression, giving nothing away.
“You did,” Ilya insists, punctuating the statement with a curt nod before he’s reaching for his beer to soothe the strange ache in his throat. Maybe vodka would have been a better choice. Ever since the All-Star weekend when he unburdened his heart, unraveling in the safety of Shane’s arms, it’s like all his feelings are now hovering just below the surface, trapped beneath a thin layer of ice that would be so easy to crack.
“And what you said about being lonely. I relate,” Ilya admits with a shrug. He doesn’t elaborate further, Hunter can form his own conclusions. Lonely because his family is back in Russia. Lonely because his father is dead. Lonely because he knew exactly what Hunter meant in his speech tonight. “I’m sure others…like you,” he emphasizes, casting his gaze down, “have felt much the same.”
“Yeah,” Hunter agrees. “I’ve had a lot of people reach out saying as much. It’s been rather, uh…eye-opening.”
Curiosity sweeps through Ilya. Has he gotten messages from other NHL players? Athletes? Just fans? His face remains passive while his thoughts race about the implications of there being other queer players in the league, but any opportunity of seeking more answers is effectively blocked as Kip returns.
“This is your boyfriend?” Ilya asks, sliding over to make room as drinks are distributed.
“Yes, this is my Kip,” Hunter confirms with fucking hearts in his eyes and Ilya watches the blush bloom onto Kip’s cheeks, visible even in the dim light. The man’s lips curl into a soft smile as the two catch and lock eyes, trapped in a tender moment.
Another ache splinters Ilya’s chest, bittersweet longing floods into the gaps, a visceral yearning for more more more.
More than just secret, stolen pockets of time with Shane.
“Well,” Ilya starts, willing the melancholic thoughts to scatter with a dismissive wave of his hand, because even if he and Shane can’t have this, they could have something. And maybe that could be enough. “I was told there would be dancing.”
“You’re going to dance? Here?” Incredulity is splashed across Hunter’s face and a thrill zips through Ilya at the prospect of doing something unexpected. He loves to be a surprise.
“Of course! Would be shame to waste eyeliner this pretty, no?” Ilya claps a hand on Hunter’s shoulder and winks at Kip. “Enjoy retirement!” he calls in parting before swiping his beer from the table and downing the rest of it as he stands, washing away the last remnants of despondency. This is a night for celebration, after all, and Ilya plans to make the most of it.
A chuckle passes from Hunter’s mouth. “You fucking wish, Rozanov.”
And because he just can’t help himself, Ilya spins around with outstretched arms and adds, “Is this not retirement party?”
His signature smirk is in place, but he has the unsettling feeling that Hunter can see straight through to the heart of him, detect the tiny flare of warmth in his eyes, the unexpressed gratitude he can’t completely conceal. He can’t find it in him to care.
Descending the stairs, Ilya feels lighter.
That weightlessness accompanies Ilya onto the dance floor, guiding his movements as he falls into rhythm with a gorgeous man, all thick brows and silky dark hair with a trimmed beard that frames a sharp jaw.
Ilya suppresses the urge to laugh, delirious at how this night has panned out. Never in his wildest dreams did he envision himself dancing with a man in a gay bar surrounded by hockey players. Tipping his head back, he lets the music and the moment wash over him, reveling in it.
And in the forefront of his mind, there’s Shane. Just like there has always been a space carved out for Shane. All these years and countless hookups later and Ilya has never been able to shake those bottomless brown eyes and those beautiful fucking freckles. Has never really wanted to, if he’s being honest, and he thinks maybe he’s ready to try a little honesty, to let himself be selfish and want.
Even if he doesn’t deserve Shane.
Shane, who embodies all that is good and pure, born out of love and safety and warmth whereas Ilya has only ever known resentment and cruelty and devastating heartbreak.
The suggestive slide of a sweaty palm caressing his hip snaps Ilya back into the moment.
“Sorry. No.” The rejection bursts out of Ilya, a distinct decline for something more, stumbling backward to put distance between himself and the—admittedly, very hot—stranger.
“I have a-” Ilya pauses, biting back the word boyfriend, even though he’s suddenly overcome with the need to say it and for it to be the truth. “I have someone,” he settles on instead, trying the words out on his tongue, pleased when they don’t feel false.
Because even though they’ve never put a name to it, Shane has been his for a long time.
Ilya’s dancing companion drifts away without fanfare, and then there’s a vibration from his pocket he can feel even through the thrum of music pulsing through his body. A smile creeps across his face before he even glances at the screen.
Jane
Ilya’s brows slant as he stares at the words, trying to make sense of them. And then it all shuffles into place. He remembers what brought him here tonight—Hunter’s speech after winning MVP, an award Ilya was also a nominee for. He hadn’t even felt the sting of disappointment (not much, anyway, objectively grandfather was deserving) because his mind was elsewhere, stuck on thoughts of Shane and how he wished Shane were there, too. Or that he was with Shane. The location didn’t really matter, just as long as they were in the same place. Together.
The reminder that they will be reunited in less than a month is a welcome one.
Ilya decides then that he won’t tell Shane about this night right away. He’ll wait and casually drop the admission when they’re face-to-face so he can witness Shane’s reaction, how adorable his face will be when it’s awash with shock, and how inevitable it will be when Ilya cradles Shane’s jaw and presses a kiss to stun-parted lips.
Mouth wilting into a pout, Ilya watches and waits as the three dots appear on his screen, disappear, then pop back up.
His frown vanishes as he reads the words, heart tripping in anticipation.
With his phone still clutched tightly in his outstretched hand, Ilya retreats from the dance floor, unaware that Hunter’s teammates have joined the fray, or that Hunter and Kip are openly grinding against each other as he aims for the exit.
It’s no less crowded outside the club, but Ilya doesn’t notice the noise or the jostling bodies, his gaze intent on the screen as he mindlessly heads in the direction of his hotel, waiting for the image to come through.
To his immense disappointment, it’s not a picture of Shane wearing his sexy glasses, or a shot of his dick. It’s not even a picture of Shane. Just navy dark water fringed by trees and a midnight sky that holds more stars than he’s ever seen.
The message ignites something in Ilya’s chest, the admission uncharted territory when they’ve spent years skating around feelings, leaving words unspoken, downplaying what they mean to each other. Ilya can’t condense all the thoughts that are clouding his mind into a response, so he sends only one word, a reminder and a promise.
As he walks, Ilya daydreams about what those weeks spent in isolation will be like, their own little sanctuary. Time and space to just be together in a way they never have before. Languid. Lingering. Indulgent.
And when Ilya steps into the hotel, greeted by a blast of brisk air, a faint smile still plays upon his lips. Soon.