Work Text:
“Dear Hayden,” Ilya said aloud as he typed. “My boyfriend is sad because he has a very annoying coworker and he needs to be cheered up. Could you send him a video and sing him his favourite song,‘O Canada’?”
“That is not my favourite song.”
“What is?”
Shane didn’t have an answer for that, so he crossed his arms instead.
- Chapter 15, The Long Game
- - - -
Ilya stands on the blue line in his full gear, thirty minutes before the puck is set to drop. The arena is full of fans, all waiting for the pre-game ceremony to start.
A man – an NHL official, definitely someone Ilya has been introduced to but whose name he has not cared enough to learn – steps up to the microphone and launches into a bland speech. His voice reverberates slightly as he lists sponsors and thanks partners. Ilya shifts his weight. Scrapes one skate along the line under his blade. Looks at the crowd. They are decked out in Centaurs gear, but there is also a huge amount of red and white fluttering through the audience. Flags and facepaint and waving towels.
The speech drags on until finally the man says, “Please welcome the individuals who recently took part in their Canadian citizenship ceremonies,” He pauses dramatically. “Including our own Ilya Rozanov! Welcome to Canada, Ilya!”
There is screaming and shouting and yelling. Flowers and flags and teddy bears dressed in little red and white outfits rain down onto the ice. It’s ridiculous really. Completely over the top.
“Ilya Rozanov will now be representing Canada at the Olympic games in Italy, alongside his husband, Shane Hollander,” the representative says. “Please give it up for our future Olympians!”
Shane nudges Ilya with his shoulder as the screaming somehow intensifies. “Crazy, isn’t it?” he says.
Ilya can only nod in agreement.
- - - -
Three days ago, Ilya had sat in one of the many beige rooms that seemed to make up the entirety of the municipal building. Yuna had patted Ilya’s cheek before she and David had gone to find seats. Shane, who had been wearing a hat and sunglasses (“To avoid being recognized,” he had hissed when Ilya had made fun of him) had stayed behind a moment longer, and his arm had twitched, a tiny, aborted movement, almost as if he was going to try and shake Ilya’s hand, before he had leaned in and pressed a kiss, quick and dry, to Ilya’s lips instead. A faint blush had been creeping across his cheeks when he pulled away.
“We’ll be watching you from the back,” Shane had said, nodding his head towards the viewing area.
“What else would you be here for?” Ilya had said.
“You're such a dick,” Shane had said as he punched Ilya in the shoulder, and then immediately looked chagrined when the couple standing next to them had turned to stare.
Twenty minutes later, Ilya had been sitting on the uncomfortable plastic chair as the judge at the front of the room had finished his speech. It had been full of words Ilya had to work to translate, so he had tuned most of it out. He had no doubt that Shane had been paying rapt attention and would fill him in later.
Instead he had allowed his mind to drift over how he had even gotten to this point. The entire process of him getting his Canadian citizenship had been expedited. Fans had signed petitions. Hockey Canada had made calls. Government officials had signed papers. Yuna Hollander had coordinated meetings with lawyers. The entire country, it seemed, had wanted Ilya Rozanov to wear the maple leaf at Milano Cortina.
He had known a public relationship with Shane meant no more trips back to Russia. And that by becoming a Canadian citizen, he had effectively severed his last official tether to the land where he had been born. To the frozen ponds where he had learned to skate. To the home of the language that shaped his thoughts.
To the place where his mother had been buried.
The crowd around him had stood, and Ilya, knocked from his thoughts, stood also.
“I swear that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to His Majesty King Charles the Third, King of Canada…” Ilya had recited along with the crowd. He was glad no one had seemed to recognize him. That he could just be himself in the sea of excited faces.
Shane had found Ilya in the crowd, after. “So? How does it feel to be Canadian?” he had asked.
“It feels boring,” Ilya had said, but he couldn’t stop a small smile from crossing his face. Shane had just looked so happy.
“You’re such an asshole,” Shane had said. But he had been smiling, too. It had been a little watery, Ilya had noticed. And his eyes had been suspiciously bright. Ilya had the feeling that his, unfortunately, were matching. “You can do all sorts of exciting things now,” Shane had continued. “Like paying taxes and voting and running for office.”
“Of course you would think these things were exciting,” Ilya had said. “And I already pay taxes. But now I can at least vote against being taxed more.”
“A revolutionary,” Shane had said, rolling his eyes.
“I refuse to become an annoying and polite Canadian like you are.”
“Wouldn’t annoying and polite cancel each other out?” Shane had asked.
“One would hope,” Ilya had sighed. “But I keep finding that is not the case.”
They had begun walking to where Yuna and David were waiting. Yuna had somehow procured a bouquet of flowers. Ilya had felt his eyes get annoyingly wet again, and blinked before Shane could see. “So what is next?” he had asked. “Do I receive an apology from the Prime Minister? Will Celine Dion come sing for us?”
“Actually, you can only listen to O Canada from now on,” Shane had said. “It's legally required to be your new favourite song.”
“Nyet. Will always be Gosudarstvenny Gimn Rossiyskoy Federatsii,” Ilya had scoffed.
“I bet you'll cry the next time you hear it,” Shane had said with a smile that made his freckles crunch up.
Ilya had wanted to kiss him. “Russians do not do this,” he had said instead.
Shane’s smile had only widened. “Well good thing you’re Canadian now.”
- - - -
A children’s chorus is gathering on the ice, a cluster of wiggling bodies in red sweaters. They fidget in place, small hands and feet shuffling and twitching as their nerves get the best of them. Ilya has long forgotten what it feels like to be intimidated by a crowd of people staring at him, but he can sympathize for these kids all the same. He would do a lot of things, but singing in front of a crowd is not high on his list.
“Please rise, remove your hats and join us as we prepare to sing our national anthem,” a voice booms over the sound system.
Ilya pulls his helmet off. The words are familiar yet foreign, all at once. Our national anthem.
As the music begins to swell and their voices stagger into the opening lines, an unexpected pressure begins to build in Ilya's chest. It climbs, sharp and undeniable, into his throat. He blinks hard. He will not let Shane see him like his. He will never hear the end of it.
The children’s voices rise. They’re out of tune, out of sync, out of pitch. It really is awful. He should be smiling with his team. Not maliciously, of course, but good-naturedly, at the adorable musical catastrophe happening in front of them. But instead he lifts his eyes up to the rafters, where the Centaurs Stanley Cup banner hangs.
Last year he and Shane had helped the Centaurs bring home their first ever Stanley Cup. He had every intent of repeating that performance this year. He can picture it now. The second banner. Then a third. Maybe even a fourth. And through it all, Shane smiling and ecstatic in the way only hockey can make him, Ilya at his side.
The only difference: he would be Canadian when he did it. He is Canadian now; his red passport exchanged for blue.
Around him, his teammates chuckle as the children continue to stumble through the anthem and Ilya realizes, with no small amount of personal betrayal, that he knows all the words.
- - - -
Two days ago, Ilya had been woken by Shane pulling down his briefs and swallowing his cock down like it was a delicious meal and he hadn’t eaten for weeks.
“Is this how all Canadians are welcomed to the country?” Ilya had asked after.
“It is actually,” Shane had said, and smacked him on the thigh. “So it’d be great if you could get going, I actually have a quota of people to welcome each day and you’re holding me up.”
They had spent the morning like that, teasing and bickering and flirting, until it was time to head to Shane’s parents house.
“For a casual dinner,” Shane had said, as if Yuna Hollander had ever done anything casually in her life.
Ilya had entered the house to find an explosion of red and white decorations had taken over. A banner of maple leaves had hung over the kitchen table. Small Canadian flags had dotted the fireplace mantle. Red and white balloons had been attached to the chairs, and matching streamers hung from the ceiling.
Yuna and David had been in the kitchen, working around each other in a familiar cadence as they put together a celebratory dinner. “There will be smoked meat and poutine and bannock and nanaimo bars,” Yuna had said when Ilya and Shane had arrived.
“And maple syrup to dip it all in!” David had added. “A Canadian feast to celebrate our newest Canadian.”
As Shane had gone into the kitchen to greet his parents, Ilya had placed his new citizenship certificate on the coffee table. Yuna had claimed she wanted to see it up closer, but Ilya was pretty sure she was going to get it framed, which… was nice.
He had stared at the elaborate crest, at his name in flowing script, and his hand had gone up to the gold chain around his neck.
“What are you thinking?” Shane had asked when he joined him.
“That Canada is very lucky to have a citizen as attractive and talented as me,” Ilya had lied.
Shane had taken Ilya’s free hand in his own as he said, so softly, “You don’t have to be one thing.”
“I know,” Ilya had murmured as he ran his thumb along the edge of the crucifix. And he did know. He had been many things, was many things. So why had this felt different? “It feels like… I am losing part of me. Cutting it off.”
“Is it?” Shane’s voice had been quiet. “Or is it adding another layer on top of what already exists?”
Ilya had looked at Shane accusingly. “Have you been talking about me?” he had demanded.
Shane’s face had been adorable in its confusion. “What?” he had asked.
“In therapy,” Ilya had said.
Shane had blushed before obviously steeling himself and saying, “Of course I talk about you, you’re my fucking husband. And you know I want to be better at like… supporting you.”
Ilya had gathered Shane in his arms then. “I feel like I have abandoned her,” he had said after a moment, the words more watery than he intended.
Shane’s arms had tightened around him. “She's not in a country, Ilya. She’s in you. You can’t leave her behind when you carry her everywhere.”
Ilya looked down, meeting Shane’s earnest gaze. “I hope so,” he had said.
“I know so,” Shane had said. He had taken Ilya’s hands in his own and brushed a finger over the black band on his finger “And she’s seen what an amazing man you are. Everything you’ve accomplished.”
Ilya had looked away. “Did you learn how to say that in therapy, too?” he had asked.
“I did, actually,” Shane had said.
“When you are not talking about how very sexy I am, of course,” Ilya had said.
“About how very annoying you are,” Shane had retorted.
Ilya had leaned his head against his husbands, enjoying the feeling of his silky hair against his cheek. “Perhaps your therapist is onto something,” he had whispered.
“They tend to know what they’re talking about,” Shane had murmured as he snaked an arm around Ilya’s back.
Ilya had stared at the certificate on the table. The official end of one life and beginning of another. He had felt Shane’s body, warm against his own. He had heard Yuna and David laughing in the kitchen. He had felt his mother’s cross, solid and unyielding in his hand.
He was surrounded by everything and everyone he loved.
He was where his mother would want him to be.
- - - -
As the final, off key notes hang in the air, the wet, traitorous heat spills over Ilya’s lashes. He feels like the truth is finally settling into the very core of him. He is Canadian now. This is his national anthem. His passport is blue. His is flag red and white.
But the cross around his neck is still gold, and her memory is still his. One does not cancel the other. They can only add layers to who he is. Can only add depth. Can only add love.
He keeps his face tilted up, acting as if he is interested in the geometry of the rafters, the crowd, as he pretends to scratch at an itch with his gloved hand, surreptitiously wiping the tears away. But he can’t hide. From the corner of his eye, he sees Shane’s head turn.
He can see Shane’s smile without even looking at him, and for a moment, he thinks about their future. He will live in this Canadian city with his Canadian husband and have a Canadian life - pets, kids, arguments about how to load the dishwasher, makeup sex, more arguments, more sex, until they are old and bent and grey.
It was everything his younger self had never allowed himself to want.
It is more than he ever imagined he’d have.
His teary image appears on the jumbotron. Eighteen thousand eyes focus on him. And Ilya Rozanov – Russian-born, Canadian-made, finally, impossibly home – lets himself smile.
- - - -
That morning, Shane had driven to the arena without rushing, and for once, Ilya had not minded. He knew what was coming. What would be announced.
“Are you ready?” Shane had asked.
“Da,” Ilya had said, because he might be Canadian now, but that doesn’t mean he’s not Russian, too. After all, he can be more than one thing.
Shane had glanced over and for a moment his profile had been lit up by the sun. He looked beautiful. “I keep thinking about what we’re going to do in Milano,” he had said.
“We are going to destroy everyone,” Ilya had said, because it is true.
The smile on Shane’s face had faded for a moment. “Are you…” he had asked hesitantly, then squared his shoulders. “Are you okay? With everything that’s happened?”
Ilya had put a hand on Shane’s thigh and squeezed. Somehow he’d been just as impressed by the strength he felt as he had been the first time he was given the privilege. “Yes,” he had said. “I would do it all again, every time.”
He doesn’t need to visit his mother’s grave to know she is with him. He feels her every day in the shape of the life he somehow gets to live.
Shane had smiled and blushed and looked terribly fond and terribly sad at the same time, the way only Shane Hollander could. Ilya had thought his heart might burst with how much he loved him.
After a moment, Shane had nodded. He’d been learning when to push Ilya to say more and when to give him space. “I think we have a real chance of medaling,” he had said. An obvious shift in the conversation that Ilya is grateful for.
“Ready to add another gold medal to your trophy room?” Ilya had said.
“Two golds,” Shane had corrected as he parked in the players parking lot.
“You cannot have mine just because we are married now.” Ilya had joked.
Shane had reached over and threaded his fingers through the hair at the back of Ilya’s neck. “You’re such a dick,” he had said, but his voice had been soft and unbearably fond. “Now let’s get you looking presentable for your big day.”
“What? Will you dress me in a plaid uniform?” Ilya had asked as they got out of the car.
“Double denim actually. Canadian tuxedo,” Shane had laughed.
“How about the flag as cape?”
“Absolutely not."
- - - -
In two weeks, Ilya and Shane will lead the Canadian men’s hockey team to gold at the Milano Cortina Olympics. It will be a tight game, but a last minute pass from Shane will allow Ilya to score the winning goal, cementing their place in history as two of the best hockey players of their generation. They will kiss at centre ice as the crowd screams around them.
At the medal ceremony, the first notes of the Canadian national anthem will rise and Ilya will once again feel a pressure build behind his eyes that he can’t blink away. This time, he won't even try.
Shane will lean in close, until his lips are almost brushing Ilya’s ear and say, “You fucking sap. I was just kidding when I said you had to love this song.”
Ilya will look down at his sweaty, perfect, beautiful husband and a wet laugh will escape him, which will make Shane laugh, too.
“I love you,” Shane will say, giddy and smiling so widely that Ilya will be able to count his molars.
“I love you so fucking much,” Ilya will reply. And then, “We are going to have the best fucking life together.”
And they do.