Chapter Text
The MLH charity gala is a lot.
Too bright. Too loud in a way that is polite but relentless. Every laugh just a little too sharp, every voice pitched for an audience that might be imaginary. Kip has been smiling for so long his cheeks hurt, like he has been holding a pose and forgot how to drop it.
Ever since Scott kissed him on the ice, people keep finding him. Like heat-seeking missiles in expensive suits, veering off their original paths just to intercept.
“Brave,” they say.
“Inspiring.”
Which is… what, exactly? Kiss his boyfriend back?
The thing is, Kip is proud. So proud it almost hurts. Proud of Scott for standing there, in front of cameras and a league that has never made room easily, and choosing honesty anyway. Proud that Scott didn’t flinch. Proud that he didn’t ask Kip to stay hidden, or softer, or quieter. Proud that what they did mattered, that it cracked something open, that it made space for other people to breathe.
He knows that. He really does.
But knowing something is important doesn’t stop it from being exhausting.
The praise feels rehearsed, like lines learned phonetically. The other half of the room does not say anything at all, just watches. Looks that linger too long. Conversations that die when he walks past, then restart a beat later. Smiles that don’t quite reach the eyes. The quiet kind of ugly. The kind that makes his shoulders stay tight, makes him keep checking where the exits are without consciously meaning to.
Scott is still stuck in it, of course. Surrounded by teammates and league people, smiling, nodding, shaking hands, being Captain Hunter. The brave one. The public one. The man who knows how to stand in the spotlight and make it look easy.
Kip watches him for a second too long. Watches the way Scott’s posture never quite slouches, the way he keeps his hand steady even when someone says something a little too loaded. This is Scott’s arena. He knows the rules here.
Kip catches his eye and gets a soft smile in return. Real. Unperformed. Just for him.
That helps. Not enough, but some.
When he finally manages to peel off, he takes the first empty chair he sees near the wall and drops into it like he has run a marathon. His shoulders are tight. His pulse is still doing something weird, fluttery and too fast. He presses his feet flat against the floor like that might ground him.
He stares at the table setting, the linen, the cutlery, the little place card he is definitely not meant for him, like it might shield him from the rest of the room. Like sitting still and quiet might make him less visible, less examined.
It does not.
Someone sits down next to him, easy as anything. Close enough that Kip’s knee jerks before he can stop it.
Oh.
That guy.
Boston’s captain. Scott’s favourite personal enemy. The “smug bastard” Scott complains about with the intensity of someone reliving trauma.
Ilya Rozanov.
Up close, he is bigger than Kip expects, all shoulders and long limbs packed into a suit that looks like it was tailored onto him under protest. Light curls fall into his eyes, cutting across the sharp lines of his face in a way that feels accidental but absolutely isn’t. He’s slouched back in the chair, vodka in hand, expression set in a permanent scowl like he is deeply disappointed in the concept of dinner parties as a whole.
Kip can see, because he is taken not dead, that Rozanov is unfairly attractive.
Then Ilya glances over and says, mild as anything, “Staring is rude, you know.”
Kip snorts. Actually snorts. “You’re Rozanov.”
Ilya’s mouth curves, slow and pleased. “I am,” he says. “Then you must be Hunter’s.”
“Boyfriend,” Kip says immediately, flat and clean, like ripping off a plaster. He waits for it. The pause. The look.
Nothing happens.
“Oh,” Ilya adds, like he’s just remembered something obvious. “Right. Yes. He hates me.”
“Yeah,” Kip says, already loosening without meaning to. “A lot.”
“Good,” Ilya says sincerely. “I would be offended otherwise.”
Kip laughs. It slips out before he can stop it.
“He calls you a little shit.”
Ilya considers this. “Only little?”
“On a good day.”
“I will take it.”
“He also says you live to remind him he’s old.”
“I do not live for it,” Ilya says. “But I enjoy it very much.”
Kip tips his head, studying him. “Do you actually think he’s washed?”
Ilya turns fully toward him now, eyebrows lifting like Kip has just asked the dumbest question imaginable. Then he laughs, loud and sharp, the sound cracking straight through the gala hum.
“No. God, no,” he says. “He is annoying because he is still good. If he were bad, I would not bother.”
“So you’re mean to him because you respect him.”
“I would not say respect,” Ilya replies. “Your man peaked before I debuted.”
“Oh my god,” Kip says, laughing outright now. “You know he takes that personally.”
“Yes,” Ilya says, pleased. “That is why it is funny.”
“That’s evil.”
“Thank you.”
They sit there for a second, shoulder to shoulder, watching the room swirl past. Then Ilya clears his throat, abrupt.
“We should introduce ourselves,” he says. “Properly.”
Kip blinks. “We just—”
“I know,” Ilya says. “Still.”
He straightens, just enough to offer his hand. “Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov.”
Kip takes it. Firm grip. Warm. “Kip,” he says. Explicit. Grounded. “Kip Grady.”
Ilya nods like that matters. Like he’s filing it away.
Someone drifts past and squeezes Kip’s arm, eyes glassy. “You’re so brave,” she whispers.
Kip thanks her on reflex. She’s gone before he finishes the sentence.
He exhales. “I kissed my boyfriend.”
Ilya hums, unimpressed.
“I didn’t do anything heroic,” Kip adds, surprising himself by not stopping. “Scott did. I just… showed up.”
“They say brave,” Ilya says, staring into his glass, “because it makes them comfortable.”
Kip looks at him.
“If you are brave,” Ilya continues, blunt and steady, “they get to feel like good people for not calling you a slur.”
Kip lets out a thin laugh. “The silence is worse.”
“Yes,” Ilya says immediately. “It is.”
No pause. No softening.
“If someone gives you trouble,” he adds, casual as breathing, “I handle it.”
Kip blinks. The offer lands heavy. Solid.
“Still,” Ilya says, quieter now, “what you did mattered.”
“Scott—”
“For us,” Ilya says, firm. “Not for league.”
Kip stills.
Us.
“Well,” Kip says carefully, “I’m glad.”
“Me too.”
Ilya’s gaze drifts across the room then, slow and deliberate, until it catches. He stops.
Across the space, Shane Hollander is talking to a tight cluster of executives, smiling like he’s negotiating a ceasefire.
Ilya watches him openly. Not soft. Not guarded. Just… focused.
Kip follows the line of sight, then looks back at Ilya and smiles.
Ilya catches it. His mouth twitches. He looks back to his drink like nothing happened.
“You’re not what I expected, Rozanov,” Kip says.
“Call me Ilya,” he says immediately. Then, after a beat, “I rarely am.”
“I thought you’d be cruel.”
“I am,” Ilya says. “Just not stupid.”
“You’re kind of a bitch.”
Ilya grins. “You understand.”
“And the scary thing?”
“It discourages questions.”
Kip nods. Yeah. That tracks.
“I like you,” Ilya says. “You are not… fake.”
Across the room, Scott finally breaks free and heads their way.
Ilya straightens instantly, the relaxed sprawl snapping back into something sharper. Colder.
“I should go insult your boyfriend,” he says.
Kip sighs. “I would rather you didn’t.”
Ilya ignores that. Instead, he pulls out his phone and holds it out. “Number.”
“I’m taken,” Kip says automatically.
Ilya rolls his eyes so hard it’s almost athletic. “Yes. I know. You love your old man.”
“I’m just saying.”
“I am not house breaker,” Ilya says. “I do not destroy families.”
“Homewrecker.”
“Exactly. That.” He squints. “I am bad person. Not this bad.”
Kip laughs as he types his number in.
Scott arrives just in time to see Ilya step away.
“Rozanov,” Scott says, wary.
“Hunter,” Ilya replies cheerfully. “Still alive. Miracles happen.”
Scott scowls.
Kip beams.
Later, his phone buzzes.
Kip laughs, warm and easy.
In a room full of masks, Ilya Rozanov feels real.
Shane’s flat is quiet in the way only a place owned by a control freak can be.
Clean lines. Clear surfaces. Nothing out of place. Even the city outside feels muted, like Montreal is holding its breath out of courtesy.
The bed is not tidy.
Shane is naked, sheets twisted around his legs, skin still warm and oversensitive in that floaty, post-sex way he pretends he doesn’t crave. His back is flat against the mattress, chest rising and falling slow, deliberate. He is trying very hard not to think too much.
Ilya is naked too. All limbs and heat and weight, sprawled half across Shane like he belongs there, which, fuck, he does. light curls crushed into the pillow, mouth slack with the kind of loose satisfaction that only ever happens here. Not in hotels. Not in locker rooms. Not in stolen hours that end too fast.
Here.
They’ve been together officially since the summer. Said it out loud. Chosen it. Still feels unreal sometimes, like the world hasn’t caught up yet.
Shane lets himself enjoy it.
Then Ilya’s phone buzzes.
Shane feels it before he hears it, the shift in Ilya’s body, the subtle reach. He opens one eye just in time to see Ilya squint at the screen, thumb moving, mouth curving into a smile that is not sharp or smug.
It’s fond.
Shane’s stomach drops.
For a flicker of a second, stupid and unhelpful, his brain offers: Someone easier. Someone who laughs faster, asks less, doesn’t need secrecy. The thought barely finishes forming before Shane is already annoyed at himself for having it.
They’ve been sleeping together since they were eighteen. They’ve survived worse than this. Still, old instincts don’t vanish just because you put a label on things.
Ilya taps out a reply, then drops the phone onto the bedside table and exhales, heavy and pleased, settling his bare thigh more firmly against Shane’s, like anchoring himself there.
Shane swallows. “Who’s that?”
It comes out too careful. He hates that.
Ilya cracks one eye open. “You sound… how you say… suspicious.”
“I’m not suspicious.”
“You are suspicious,” Ilya says fondly. “Like cop. Very tense.”
“Just tell me.”
Ilya blinks at him, processing, then shrugs. “Is Hunter’s boyfriend.”
Shane blinks back. “Cristopher?”
“Yes. Kip”
The panic doesn’t disappear. It shifts. Eases, just a little.
“Oh,” Shane says.
Ilya studies his face. “This is… good oh?”
Shane nods. “Yeah. He’s out. He already knows what this costs.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not—” Shane gestures vaguely between them, naked bodies and tangled sheets and everything else. “Doing something stupid.”
Ilya snorts. “I am stupid always. Just not this stupid.”
Shane exhales, tension draining out of his shoulders. The earlier thought dissolves, embarrassed, with nowhere left to stand.
“Good.”
Ilya grins, then winces slightly as he stretches. “Also, you exhausted me.”
Shane huffs a laugh. “What.”
“I fucked you very… how is word… thoroughly.” Ilya waves a hand. “Now I am tired.”
Shane snorts. “You’re ridiculous.”
“But happy,” Ilya adds, softer.
His phone buzzes again.
Ilya lights up. “He is mean, but funny”
Shane frowns. “Scott’s boyfriend?” He pauses. “Everyone says he’s really nice, eh?”
“He called me bitch,” Ilya says proudly.
Shane stares. “You liked that.”
“He is my friend now.”
Shane laughs, the last of the anxiety cracking open and dissolving. “Of course you did.”
Ilya shifts closer, bare skin warm against Shane’s side, fingers sliding easily into Shane’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like they haven’t spent years pretending they didn’t do this.
“He is funny,” Ilya says. “And he does not pretend with me.”
“That’s good,” Shane says quietly. “I like that for you.”
Ilya hums, content, and ignores the phone when it buzzes again.
Shane closes his eyes, still naked, still here, still chosen.