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When it happens, Ilya is taken by surprise. It’s a question he’s heard the inverse of a million times, posed towards him, giving him pause. Weren’t there any nice men in Montreal, Shane?
It’s a question that has sat under Ilya’s skin a million times over, made him feel uneasy, laid bare and with a particular worry about how other people think of him as Shane’s partner. It’s heady, in a lot of ways. The question of if he is worth it, if all the chirping and bickering is worth it to Shane, if Shane wanted to have a partner who wasn’t Ilya.
The first time it happened, the second, and the third, he watched Shane chuckle and brush it off. But it made a specific feeling bloom under Ilya’s ribs that he wasn’t too sure of. Insecurity. Scrutiny. He’s Ilya Rozanov, and because of that, a lot of people seem to think he is undeserving of someone like Shane. Which isn’t new, it’s something he’s been aware of in his own mind for ages, but now it’s abundantly clear in a different way, and the more that Shane doesn’t correct anyone, the more alone Ilya begins to feel.
It comes to a head in their living room. Ilya asks. “Am I worth it? All of the comments? The chirping?”
Shane looks at him in confusion, and sits down beside him. “Babe, what are you talking about?”
“Every time someone asks about it, if you could find a nice man and settle down with him… one who isn’t me. You do not correct them. You do not tell them why you chose me. I am worried… that you agree with them.”
Ilya’s voice was wobbly in away he couldn’t understand, even to his own ears, and Shane had gathered him up, running fingers through his curls, murmuring indistinctly and just letting Ilya feel. He told him, I asked you to marry me. I want to spend the rest of my goddamned life with you. I don’t care what they have to say about it. I know you. I didn’t think I needed to correct anyone on it… because that’s just for us. That’s just you and me.
And Ilya had only partly understood, really, the perspective Shane had on this, until he was sitting at the Kingfisher with his former teammates, and the inversion came to him.
The reveal of his relationship with Shane had been something he’d worried about plenty, underneath the long line of hurt that they couldn’t be public about their relationship. He’d lost friends, brothers he thought he knew. But a shock came in the way that the Bears came to his side, the ones who weren’t small-minded assholes, they chose to be in his corner in a way the Voyageurs hadn’t for Shane, and he was incredibly grateful for it. He had family, in these people, and that was something. Which is how he found himself at the Kingfisher that summer, sitting with Cliff at the bar like old times.
And that is when the question is asked. “I’m happy for you, Rozy.” Cliff says honestly, taking a pull off his bottle of beer. “But like, c’mon man, weren’t there any interesting men in Boston you could’ve taken up with?”
And isn’t it odd, to understand immediately, the question that Shane had been asked so many times? To understand his exact thought process?
He thinks, and he thinks, and he thinks. To himself, alone in his mind. He sees Shane, and the million reasons he chose Shane. He also thinks of the million reasons that they don’t make sense, the reasons why either of them are getting asked this exact question.
He thinks of Shane in a million ways. Of Shane being particular about the dishwasher, or the laundry. Of him folding his clothes and scolding Ilya for his messiness. Thinks of Shane’s particular habits, and how they fall so far to the other side of the spectrum as Ilya. Even Shane tells him such. He wonders if Shane gets asked this all the time. If he questions himself about it. It makes his chest hurt, to think of his perfect, sweet Shane, worried that he’s not enough for Ilya as he is. It makes him think to a time where Shane told him he should find someone else to marry for love, someone less complicated. It makes him a little sick, to think of Shane sitting up and questioning why Ilya would pick him.
He knows Shane. Knows Shane knows him. Knows that Shane is particular and frustrating and complicated. He knows that Shane cares nearly too much about hockey. That he only reads boring hockey books and listens to podcasts instead of music. That he does everything down to routine. They have a shared Google Calendar. His entire life is spread out on it, and even though he teases him for it, Ilya secretly loves it. Loves their days being scheduled, right down to what time they’re going to have lunch, down to when they’re going to have sex. It’s invigorating to see into Shane’s mind like that. He feels lucky he gets to have it. Even more so when he gets to break their schedule and Shane lets him. He’s perfect. Ilya loves him.
He thinks about it. About how he’s known a million interesting men and women. And at the crux of it, is perhaps the most interesting person Ilya has ever known.
Boring, for Ilya, is just dependable. It’s Shane remembering dates and times and checking on Ilya at any given time. It’s Shane knowing his schedule for him, and being dependable and the best home Ilya’s known his entire fucking life.
At the crux of it, Ilya can only think of the biting air in Saskatchewan, and a young Shane Hollander, toque on his head, telling Ilya he was smoking in the wrong fucking place. At the end of all things, is a young Shane Hollander, aware that they’d be tied up with each other in accolades until the end of their careers, probably inducted into the fucking Hall of Fame together, and daring to shake Ilya’s hand and make himself known. There’s his nervous grin and freckled cheeks.
And well, he’s Shane fucking Hollander. Olympic gold medalist. Best fucking player in the league. Top of the game, and beautiful the entire time he’s done it. Winner of several Lady Byng’s and a three time Stanley Cup winner. He’s incredible on the ice, and off the ice, too. He’s strong and smart and fast. The only person to match Ilya on the ice, the most fascinating opponent he’s ever had. The best person he’s ever played with or against.
He’s incredible, to put it plainly. Absolutely fucking unmatched. And Ilya gets to love him. At the end of the day, he’s the one who gets to go home to Shane Hollander.
But above all of it, above any of the league stats or outside factors, there’s one simple thing. There’s Shane Hollander, telling Ilya he wants them to work. Telling Ilya not to marry someone else, coming up with an entire ten year plan just so he can be near Ilya. Just so they can be together. Above any of it, there’s Shane, learning Russian painstakingly, listening to every bit of critique and taking it in kind. There’s Shane, sitting with Svetlana and letting her teach him too. There’s Shane, sitting with the Pike children and making sure they know they’re loved. There’s Shane, poring over Russian cookbooks and trying to make dishes that remind Ilya of home, all while he’s at home with Shane.
Above all of it, there is Shane Hollander, standing in his living room surrounded by candles and telling him he’s done waiting. He’s going to be brave. Because he can’t imagine a life without Ilya. That he wants to spend the rest of his entire life with him.
Above it all is ten years of Shane in his bed, or in a hotel room, or buying an entire apartment building for them to meet in. Above it all, there is Shane, refusing to end this thing between them, because just like Ilya, he’s loath to think about it ending.
Above all of it, there is Shane fucking Hollander, best in the league, buying toys for Anya and getting photos of them printed to put all over the house even though it makes him vulnerable. There is Shane Hollander, trying to understand the inner workings of his mind, sitting with him in the silent moments and holding him while he cries.
There’s Shane, just Shane, his Shane, body clinging to his and giving everything he has, letting Ilya be the only person in the entire goddamn world who gets to see him undone and needy. Laying beside him in the afterglow, basking in the moments that are just theirs. There’s his Shane, freckles illuminated in sunlight, big brown eyes staring into his soul in the way only he can.
And he could tell Marly all of these things. Could wax poetically to him about how lovely Shane is, how seen he feels, how loved he is.
Instead, he pulls his phone from his pocket, and sends a text message to Shane. I love you. Puts it away, sips his vodka, and looks Marly squarely in the face.
“He’s the love of my life, Marly. What more can I say?”