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Ilya adjusted his bowtie in front of the hotel room mirror. On the edge of the bed, Shane—dressed to the nines—was finishing tying his laces. From the corner of his eye, Ilya watched him. He loved the way Shane’s brows would knit together in concentration. Sometimes, during such meticulous tasks, Shane would unconsciously bite his lower lip. It drove Ilya mad. Mad with a sudden, sharp desire. It made him want to cast everything aside, to hide his man away from the world and taste that tongue.
"Do we really have to go?" Ilya asked, tucking his shirt into his trousers.
"Yes."
"We could just order food," Ilya suggested, moving closer to Shane.
Shane shot him a look of clear disapproval. Ilya slid his fingers beneath Shane’s chin, gently tilting his face toward the mirror beside the bed. "We could make good use of this mirror."
"No. The taxi is already here. And people are expecting us, remember…"
"You are no fun, Hollander," Ilya muttered, throwing his head back with a groan.
"But you love me."
"Da," Ilya replied,, “Позже я этой жопкой займусь по‑полной.”[1]
“There. Later.” Shane stood up and faced Ilya, his hands reaching out to adjust Ilya’s bowtie before pressing a tender kiss to his lips. “Only if you behave.”
Minutes later, in the back of a cab, Ilya was scrolling through his unread texts. Suddenly, a bright grin broke across his face and he laughed out loud. “You will not believe it!” he said, elbowing Shane in the side.
“Ouch! What is it?”
“The English Prince and the American, they are coming to the gala!”
“Yeah, Ilya. We know,” Shane said, giving him that "Where is this going?" look.
“Ryan texted. He found them. He caught them in a closet or something? During our game.”
“Poor Ryan.”
Ilya smiled, remembering the time Ryan had caught him kissing Shane at summer camp. Shane had been mortified to be discovered—yet again. Ilya, on the other hand, had been happy. He knew Ryan; he knew he was a man to be trusted. On that day, he had felt a sense of relief that someone other than Shane’s parents knew that they were more than just friends. Since then, he had formed a real bond with Ryan. Beneath his massive frame lay a precious delicacy. The Ryan he’d known back when he played in Boston would never have agreed to help organize a charity gala. But since he’d been with Fabian and retired, he was truly thriving.
“He told them I want to meet them...”
“And you don't anymore?”
“I do. But he told them the reason.”
“That you admire the work they do with their shelter for kids rejected by their families for being gay, bi, trans, or...”
“Yes. But I will not tell them that. I do not want to make their egos big.”
“Mm-hmm. Sure.”
“I just want to be sure we are more sexy than them.”
Shane simply shook his head, feigning exasperation. He turned his gaze toward the window. Outside, the city lights blurred past like a movie in slow motion. Ilya had suggested taking the subway, but Shane had flatly refused. He didn't want to risk staining his suit or being recognized by hockey fans. Ilya was still convinced it would have been fun. In his hand, his phone vibrated.
“Your dad is texting me.”
“Why is he texting you?” Ilya loved this—the way Shane’s eyebrows knitted together as he searched for a logical explanation.
“Because I am the favorite now. You were his favorite son for twenty years...” Ilya placed a hand dramatically on Shane’s thigh and leaned in close. “But since he's met me, he has made his choice.”
Ilya turned back to his phone to open David's message. Enjoy the evening. Be nice to Scott Hunter. Ilya couldn't hold back a laugh. David knew him only too well. He knew Ilya took great pleasure in teasing Scott Hunter. But it was for his own good; at Scott’s age, he needed to stay vigilant and alert, and Ilya was happy to help. He held his phone out to Shane.
“He knows you too well. Reassure him. Tell him you’ll be nice.”
Ilya grimaced. He couldn't lie to his father-in-law. He settled for a simple reply: Thank you. Cannot promise about Scott. Give Yuna a kiss for me.
When they finally arrived at the gala, the party was already in full swing. Photographers were lying in wait at the entrance, and Ilya's jaw tightened. He had never been a fan of paparazzi scrambling to steal a shot. He quickly wrapped an arm around Shane’s waist and led him inside with a purposeful stride, safely away from the unwanted flashes. He didn't mind having his photo taken—after all, a physique like his and a smile that charming deserved to be immortalized—but only on his own terms. Besides, he was already looking forward to their joint Calvin Klein campaign; it would be a first for the brand.
They were greeted by a hostess who seemed to radiate joy the moment they approached.
“Hello, we are—”
“Mr. and Mr. Hollander-Rozanov. Welcome.”
Ilya had loved hearing that ever since they’d gotten married, but he couldn't resist leaning in to whisper playfully in Shane’s ear, “To think we could have been Hollanov. But you said no…“ He then offered the hostess a warm greeting.
“...And through there, you’ll find an outdoor patio if you’d like some fresh air. It’s completely private, shielded from the paparazzi,” she continued, guiding them through the layout before handing them the evening’s program.
Ilya scanned it after thanking her and leaving a tip. Welcome cocktails—perfect. Opening speech by Scott Hunter—boring. Introductions of the charity’s various contributors—fine, interesting. Dinner followed by a concert. Oh! That sneaky Ryan!
“Did you see this?” Ilya exclaimed, his eyes dancing. Coming here wasn’t going to be a total waste of time after all.
“See? You didn't come for nothing,” Shane teased, giving him a light nudge with his shoulder.
As they approached the cocktail lounge, the noise grew into a steady roar, like the collective hum of a thousand bees. Ilya had to admit, the venue was sublime. In the grand hallway leading to the noise, massive frames lined the walls, illustrating the work of Scott Hunter’s foundation: hockey photos, Scott visiting schools, shots with young players, and press clippings detailing the volunteers' achievements.
“He’s been busy!” Shane commented, his eyes full of admiration. “Maybe one day we can start our own gala for the Irina Foundation...”
Ilya was about to agree when a jovial voice called out to them. “Rozanov! Hollander! Finally! We were starting to get bored without you!” Wyatt, champagne glass in hand, approached and slid between them just to annoy Ilya. “So, Hollander, did your husband whine the whole way here?”
“Ilya? Whine? About seeing Scott Hunter? Never,” Shane played along.
Ilya tried to look offended, but all he could manage was an amused smile. He never imagined he’d one day have friends—fellow hockey players—who accepted him so completely. Moving to Ottawa had been a massive, emotionally draining challenge, but he had found something there he’d never had in Boston: a family. A team that backed him. Above all, they had been there when his relationship with Shane became public. Wyatt had been among the first to show support, welcoming Shane with open arms and making him feel at home in the locker room from day one.
Wyatt led them into the crush of the cocktail room, snagging two glasses of champagne along the way. They joined other teammates before the crowd began to press in. Slowly, they were swallowed by the inevitable trap of small talk. Ilya loathed it. And Shane? Shane kept shooting him pleading looks to get him out of there. On that point, they were perfectly matched.
Ilya finally managed to extricate himself from a director pitching a movie, which he hadn't listened to for a single second. His eyes had been fixed on Shane, who was currently enduring a monologue from an elderly woman.
“Sorry, madame, big problem. I need my husband,” Ilya said, grabbing Shane and pulling him away quickly. They were gone before she could even blink. Rough method, but it worked.
Ilya needed some air, and he knew Shane wouldn't mind a moment of quiet. They walked with purpose, Ilya doing his best to avoid eye contact with anyone. They navigated the sea of sharp suits and chic dresses, fleeing the hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses. If it wasn't for the fact that this was a charity gala, Ilya would have bolted long ago. He felt like a hockey puck on a football field—completely out of place. He spotted the door to the patio. Just a few more steps and they would be in the clear. And… Shit. Hunter. Of course, Shane went over to greet him. Ilya followed, his dreams of a quiet corner put on hold.
“Nice birthday party, Scott!” Ilya teased, putting on a jovial front.
“Rozanov... It’s a charity gala. Maybe I should have sent the invitation in Russian? Was reading it in English too much to ask?” Hunter was in a playful mood. Good.
"Oh! My bad. I thought we were celebrating the day you came out with your boyfriend. You know, that 'low-profile' moment on the ice."
“Good evening, Scott. Don’t mind him,” Shane interjected. “Beautiful gala...”
“Isn't it partly thanks to me—and that moment on the ice—that you two, you know...?” Scott pointed between them, a small, victorious smile on his lips.
Touché.
“Hum. I don't know what you are talking about.”
Shane and Scott chatted for a while longer while Ilya settled for listening, his hand resting on the small of Shane’s back. His thumb gently stroked the fabric of Shane’s jacket. After what felt like an eternity, Scott left them to tend to his host duties. Ilya let out a sigh of relief and almost lunged for the patio.
Shane couldn't help but laugh. “You’re such a kid. Unbelievable...”
Ilya shrugged and pushed open the door. The outdoor space was furnished with garden lounges, space heaters, and high-top tables. Low ambient music tied the warm atmosphere together. Best of all, it was nearly empty. Perfect.
Ilya spotted a small sofa in a corner, far from the door. He slumped onto it, pulling Shane onto his lap. Before Shane could react, Ilya pressed his lips firmly against his. Shane responded with tenderness.
Ilya was about to deepen the kiss when voices drifted toward them. They jumped apart instantly, not wanting their private moment discovered.
Ilya cursed in Russian. He missed their hotel room.
Who the hell dared to interrupt them? Ilya turned around and... Oh. Oh.
“It’s them!” Ilya whispered, tapping Shane’s thigh. “Come, we go see them.”
“I thought we came out here for peace and quiet. To avoid talking to people.”
Ilya let out a frustrated grunt and pressed his forehead against Shane’s. “You are no fun.”
“If they came to the patio, they probably wanted to be left alone too,” Shane argued, though he didn't pull away.
“Okay.” Ilya started to stand. “I go see them anyway.”
He took a step back, keeping his eyes locked on Shane, swaying slowly to the soft rhythm of the ambient music.
“Come back here! Don’t leave me alone,” Shane murmured, beckoning him with a wave of his hand. He looked adorable—worried, like someone who desperately didn't want to be noticed.
Ilya, wearing a mischievous grin, continued his slow reverse-walk, pointing both thumbs toward the couple who had been all over the news. The more Shane signaled for him to return, the more Ilya took a wicked pleasure in weaving between the chairs and sofas, drifting further away.
As he drew closer to the other couple, he realized he had no strategy for how to approach them. But he couldn't turn back now. Literally. He pivoted and closed the remaining distance. He almost regretted being so cocky with Ryan. Damn, Ryan—why did you have to go and repeat what I said?
Then again, maybe Ilya had bet he wouldn't do it. And here he was. Ryan was a different man these days. Ilya laughed at his own insolence; it was time to own it.
“Hi. Ilya Rozanov,” he said, extending his hand, trying to sound relaxed and nonchalant.
“Pleasure, Henry Fox.”
“Alex Claremont-Diaz.”
Alex shook his hand and held his hand in an iron grip. “The famous one. We heard about you this afternoon.”
Ilya decided to play innocent. “Ah, yes?”
“Yes. Apparently, you wanted to check if we were...” Alex turned to Henry, who was watching with a quiet, knowing smirk.
“...less sexy than you and your husband,” Henry finished.
“Yes, exactly. So?”
Ilya laughed. They were fast. “I need my lawyer before I talk,” he joked, trying to sidestep the trap.
Alex barked out a laugh. “Well, it's your lucky day.” He paused. “I’m a lawyer. And a good one, too.”
“The best,” Henry added, laughing.
Twice in one night, Ilya was speechless. First Hunter, now the American. This was a disaster. His embarrassment was saved by a hand resting on his shoulder. He felt it slide down his back before settling firmly on his waist.
“Good evening, Shane Hollander.” Ilya felt Shane’s fingers pinch his hip. “I hope my husband hasn't interrupted or bothered you.”
Husband. Ilya bit the inside of his cheek. Another word that made him want to be back at the hotel. Then, an idea struck him. He turned to Shane as his partner shook hands with Alex and Henry.
“Если ещё раз скажешь "муж", я зажму тебя в углу и разберусь с твоим задом. Не смей меня так заводить.”[2]
Shane frowned for a moment, processing what Ilya had just said. Then, to Ilya’s great satisfaction, a deep red crept up his cheeks. The strike had landed. In exchange, he received a sharp swat to his chest from Shane.
“Stop that. Not now!” Shane turned back to Alex and Henry, his face still crimson. “Sorry, that was rude. Anyway, he didn't mean to, and...”
“Don’t worry about it, I’ve got one just like him,” Henry laughed, giving Alex a pointed look.
“I need to know… was that, like… dirty talk?” Alex asked, buzzing with curiosity.
“Alex!” Henry elbowed him.
Ilya felt obliged to take the bait. “Da. Yes.”
“Ilya!” Shane exclaimed, still blushing.
“Can you teach me some? Please?” Alex pleaded, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Henry is too used to my Spanish lines by now.”
“I’m so sorry...” Henry murmured to Shane.
“I need a drink,” was Shane’s only reply.
Ilya saw an opportunity too good to pass up. He stepped toward Alex and draped an arm around his neck. “Do not move. My new friend and I will get drinks.” He led Alex toward the reception hall, leaving Shane and Henry behind. Shane shouldn't be too mad about being abandoned; Henry seemed like a good guy. And if he was, Ilya would just apologize and make it up to him with plenty of interest in bed later. Satisfied with his plan, Ilya and Alex headed for the bar.
“So. You are invited because you have the shelter to help kids, yes?” Ilya asked, making an effort to be social and show genuine interest in Alex, whom he had practically abducted.
“Not me, no. I’m just the plus-one. The shelter is the work of Henry and his best friend, Pez. You’ll probably see him tonight; he’s supposed to be here.”
“Okay. That’s good,” Ilya said, nodding as they reached the bar. A server approached them immediately to take their order.
“One ginger ale and one beer. Unless you have Russian vodka.” He turned to Alex. “And for you and boyfriend?”
“Fiancé, actually. A whiskey and a martini, please.”
“I’ll see if we have that,” the server announced before disappearing.
A few moments later, the man returned with a wide grin, as if he had discovered the eighth wonder of the world. In his hands was a bottle of Beluga Noble. Before the server could even speak, Ilya reassured him, “That will do. Thank you very much.” Turning to Alex, he added, “You must taste this vodka.” Then, turning back to the server, he requested: “Another glass, please, for my friend.”
“In that case, make it two whiskeys as well, please. The best you’ve got,” Alex added.
As the server prepared the drinks, Ilya waited, his gaze shifting between the glasses and Alex. Beside him, Alex was tapping his fingers on the counter. Ilya studied him a little more closely.
“You have long eyelashes.”
“Haha, yeah… it’s genetic. My whole family has them.”
“Wow. Genetics... things it can do! I bet your... boy... fiancé loves them.”
“They’ve definitely helped me win an argument or two,”Alex joked.
The drinks were lined up on the counter. It was a lot of glasses. Ilya could already hear Shane’s concerned voice in his head, telling him this wasn't serious, that they were in the middle of the season, and that too much alcohol would ruin his performance. He chose the simplest solution. He grabbed one of the whiskey glasses and handed the vodka to Alex.
“Too many glasses for our hands,” Ilya stated. He winced at the taste of the whiskey. “Sorry, but compared to vodka, this is shit.”
“No, you’re not,” Alex laughed.
Alex made a face of his own as the vodka hit him. “Whoa. It’s not bad, but I am definitely not used to that.”
“If you want to learn Russian,” Ilya said, “you must start at beginning. You must love vodka.”
Taking their time to savor—or, in Ilya’s case, endure—their drinks, they continued to talk, leaning against the bar. Ilya was fascinated by Alex; in the span of just a few minutes, they had managed to cover a multitude of subjects, from Henry and Shane to a critique of monarchies, eventually landing on their mutual hatred of the paparazzi. Alex stopped talking, looking slightly embarrassed.
“Sorry, I talk a lot,” Alex muttered, running a hand through his hair.
Ilya was surprised and couldn't help but laugh. “Yes.”
“I can’t help it. When I’m passionate about a subject, I—”
Ilya cut him off with a quick wave of his hand. Alex had misinterpreted his "yes," and Ilya didn't want any misunderstandings.
“Are you joking? It is good to talk with someone who has things to say and opinions. Shane does not talk as much. Very little, actually. So it is good. It is change. And about paparazzi—I am same as you. I cannot stand them.”
Ilya was relieved to see Alex relax, his shoulders dropping. They barely knew each other, but Ilya was happy to have established a connection. Common traumas and shared struggles certainly had a way of facilitating new bonds.
“As soon as my relationship with Shane leaked, paparazzi wanted to be first to have photo of us…”
“And let me guess,” Alex interjected, “your bosses; or whatever you call them; wanted you to lie. To say it was Photoshopped or something like that.”
Ilya nodded. Alex understood him; he had lived through the same thing.
“Yes. Old men who know nothing about how world works now.”
“And old crowned women who still live in colonial times,” Alex said, raising his glass. “But we’re here, and we’ll be a thorn in their side until they kick the bucket.”
“Oh, yes. I am going nowhere,” Ilya assured him, clinking his glass against Alex's.
“I have to admit,” Alex said, “this vodka... after two or three sips, I’m starting to enjoy it.”
“I cannot really say same about this whiskey,” Ilya replied quite seriously. “Sorry.” He wasn’t.
Alex let out a little laugh, then, curious, he began flooding Ilya with questions about what made a vodka "good." From there—Ilya wasn't quite sure how—the conversation drifted back to the fact that Alex was indeed a lawyer. And eventually, they ended up talking about animals.
“You tell me your dog, his name is David? Yes?” Ilya asked. He tried to picture a dog—a beagle, according to Alex—but all his mind could see was his father-in-law.
“Yeah, I know… I had the same reaction. But it’s David for David Bowie. Henry will explain it to you if you want.”
“It is still weird,” Ilya said, taking another sip of the mediocre whiskey. “If I ever meet your dog, I can never call him by his name.”
Alex's brow furrowed. “Oh? Why not?”
“It is the name of my father-in-law.” Ilya mimicked a fake shiver running down his spine. “The thing is, with our dog, I have habit of rubbing her belly and saying, ‘Who’s the good girl? Yes, it’s you, Anya.’” Ilya couldn't help but act out the scene as if their dog were right there, though she was surely snoring in her bed at Harris’s parents’ house. “So, imagine if… I say and do same thing to your dog. Because I will. You know… habit.” He took another swallow, searching for the words to finish his point. “And if I do this, I can never,” he emphasized. “Look at or speak to my father-in-law the same way again.”
Alex burst into a contagious fit of laughter, while Ilya tried to shake the mental image he’d just had of David. His father-in-law. Not the dog.
Ilya kept talking about Anya and David the dog as they made their way back to Henry and Shane. “They have to meet! She loves playing. You have to come to Ottawa! She needs new friends who understand her!” Ilya said, his voice bright with excitement.
“Or you could bring her here next time you have a game.”
They continued to come up with increasingly eccentric plans to get their dogs together. By the time they reached the patio—with two fewer glasses to carry—Ilya was relieved to see Shane laughing. He seemed engaged in a fascinating conversation. Across from him, Henry was radiant, responding with equal vitality.
“What are you talking about?” Alex asked, settling in beside Henry.
“About you.”
“And you,” Shane added, giving Ilya a look heavy with meaning.
“Something good, I hope. Did he tell you that because of me,” Ilya slid his arm around Shane’s neck and lifted his glass of vodka to his lips. He took a sip, a wicked smile playing on his mouth, “…He is now expert in language. Trilingual now. His tongue can do and say many things now!”
Ilya could see that Shane was trying hard not to react to his provocations. It was Henry who answered him in his calm voice, with that slight English accent. Very cute, that accent, Ilya thought. Very seductive. He was now well aware that his own accent could be a major asset—a weapon of mass seduction. No wonder Shane had been so hooked on it.
“We were just agreeing that as cute as you both are, you are also menaces.”
“Cute is a fact. Menace? I don’t …”
“Rozanov! Hollander!” Wyatt’s voice cut Alex off.“Where are you?” he shouted from one of the doors leading back inside.
“Ah! There you are!” he exclaimed, waving them over without actually approaching. “Harris is waiting for you! Hurry up!”
The photo. For the team’s socials. Harris had made a big deal about them being seen here. He wanted to prove that the Centaurs' commitment to the LGBT cause wasn't just performative—there were real, concrete actions behind it.
Shane stood up abruptly, swearing softly. Adorable. It wasn't like him to forget a detail like that. Ilya smiled; Shane must have been truly comfortable to let that slip his mind. After a quick apology to Alex and Henry, Shane grabbed Ilya’s hand and pulled him inside. Ilya laughed, calling out, “Sorry, see you later! Pleasure to meet you!” A moment later, they were greeted by Harris, who looked half-amused and half-annoyed at being forgotten.
Everything moved quickly after that, much to Ilya’s satisfaction. Harris got his photos, and then it was time for dinner. Fortunately, Hunter’s speech was brief. Ilya had to admit, Scott Hunter did good work with his charity; he had a real impact on those kids. Sitting with his teammates, Ilya realized he was having a wonderful time. Shane kept sliding a hand onto his thigh, as if seeking an anchor in his husband. Every time he felt that lingering warmth, Ilya felt butterflies in his stomach. He never grew tired of that feeling.
Then came the moment he had been waiting for: Fabian Salah’s concert. The reception hall had been transformed during dinner. Ilya’s eyes widened. A stage worthy of a real theater had come to life. The lighting had shifted, turning the space into something dreamlike. On stage, a young artist whose name Ilya hadn't caught was singing a series of covers. He didn't envy her position—not for anything in the world.
She served as the interlude while the guests filtered back in. Ilya paused for a second to admire her presence. Few people paid her much attention, yet she never took her eyes off the room. Her powerful voice rivaled that of international stars. One day, she will own a room, Ilya thought. Her curls danced around her face like a living frame. For a heartbeat, her eyes met his. Ilya thought he saw a silent thank you in that look. Thank you for stopping. Thank you for being present with me. Thank you for listening.
The moment was broken by Shane, who tapped his shoulder. “Look, Ryan is already in place!”
Sure enough, there he was. Tall and imposing in his suit, his beard perfectly trimmed, leaning against the back wall facing the stage. Ilya followed Shane toward him. “Ryan! Already in place for show?” Ilya exclaimed, clapping Ryan on the shoulder. “Look at you, so chic! Fabian must love it.” He turned to Shane as if he had to clarify: “Fabian maybe told me once, over a drink, that he likes seeing Ryan in suit. And then taking it off.”
When he looked back at Ryan, the big man’s cheeks were bright red. Ilya couldn't resist giving him a wink.
“Next time, remind me to remind Fabian that he used to hate hockey players,” Ryan muttered.
“Yes, but I am unique. How can he not love me?” Ilya proclaimed, leaning against the wall beside him.
“Last I heard, plenty of people don't like you,” Shane commented with a smirk.
“Haters who are jealous of my talent on ice. And jealous I have THE best hockey player in my bed every night,” Ilya declared.
Now it was Shane’s turn to blush and lose his words.
“Did you... did you get to meet Alex Claremont-Diaz and Henry Fox?” Ryan asked with fake innocence and too happy to change the subject of their discussion.
“Yes. Good guys. They are handsome. True. And very nice.”
Ryan leaned in as if sharing a secret. “But really, who is sexier?”
“You have changed, Ryan Price. You are more bold. I like it. And to answer you—it is obviously Shane and me. Have you seen us? There is no debate,” Ilya argued, perfectly nonchalant.
Ilya looked for Shane’s approval, but Shane wasn't listening. He had turned toward the stage, applauding as the singer left the stage for Fabian.
“Ilya, sorry to burst your bubble, but in my eyes, you aren't the sexiest in the room. Not for me, anyway. You know that. Especially not next to him...” Ryan’s voice trailed off into a whisper as Fabian walked onto the stage to a roar of applause.
Okay. Perhaps Ilya had asked the wrong person. He wanted to say something more, but the room fell into a sudden, deep silence. The lights shifted. Only Fabian remained, shining brilliantly under a crystalline halo. Dressed in a simple black jumpsuit, his neck glittered with a necklace adorned in countless precious stones. Even from the back of the hall, Ilya could see the incredible makeup; it was as if the Milky Way had settled on his skin, lighting up his gaze with a thousand constellations. A true star. He wondered briefly what such a look would look like on Shane.
Without a word, Fabian lifted his violin and let a few notes escape. They drifted through the room—an invitation to stillness. Hypnotic. Slowly, the music found its way into every corner of the hall, wrapping each guest in its softness. Then Fabian’s voice, celestial and pure, struck them right in the heart.
♪
Where were you?
Where were you?
Please don't go
Now please don't go
♪
Slowly, Ilya felt Shane press his back against his chest. Ilya caught his breath. Shane took Ilya’s hands and placed them against his stomach, inviting the embrace. Ilya’s heart hammered against his ribs.
♫
Stay right here
Stay right here
Don't ever leave
Don't ever leave
♫
Ilya pulled Shane closer under the spell of the melody. He would never leave. Shane delicately stroked Ilya’s hand…
♪
It's you
It's you
It's you
It's you
♪
He had no doubt about it. It was him. Tenderness overflowing, Ilya pressed a kiss to the curve of Shane’s neck. He kept his nose against the skin, breathing him in, intoxicated by his scent.
♫
It's you
It's you
It's you
♫
Shane let his head fall back, totally relaxed in the arms of his husband. The violin melody carried them further into their trance.
♪
What the hell are you?
The hell are you?
♪
Ilya couldn't wipe the smile of pure ecstasy from his face. He wanted to protest when Shane gently pulled away, but only to turn and face him.
♫
Now please don't go
Now please don't go
♫
Nothing else seemed to exist but the two of them. They were suspended in a moment outside of time.
♪
Stay right here
Stay right here
♪
Shane brushed Ilya’s lips with a kiss full of a thousand promises. His eyes were full of so much love it was hard to look away.
♫
Don't ever leave
Don't ever leave
♫
Never. They belonged together. Shane settled back into Ilya’s arms, and Ilya held him even tighter, covering his bare neck with a flurry of kisses.
♪
It's you
It's you
It's you
It's you
It's you
It's you
♪
When the final notes faded, Ilya felt as though he were waking from a dream. But fortunately, it was real. Shane remained curled against him, showing no sign of moving. Beside them, Ryan had eyes only for his Fabian. Once the violin was set down, the room erupted in a thunderous, well-deserved ovation.
Fabian’s concert continued before an entirely captivated audience. When the end finally came, the crowd seemed unwilling to leave. Ilya felt the opposite. And so did Shane.
With a very specific look, Shane signaled to Ilya that his social battery was dead and it was past time to go home.
Ilya needed to be alone with Shane. He had promises to keep, and his thoughts were very occupied by the idea of feeling Shane’s naked body against his own.
Ryan had already said his goodbyes, far too eager to join Fabian and congratulate him on the performance.
As they headed for the exit, they bumped into Alex and Henry, who were accompanied by a colorful purple-haired man. This had to be the famous best friend Alex had mentioned—the co-founder of their youth shelter.
“Heading out too?” Alex called out. “Pez, let me introduce you to Ilya and Shane, and—”
“A pleasure! I’m glad to finally introduce myself in person.”
Ilya smiled. With that heavy British accent, he could only be Henry’s friend.
““Nice to meet you. What you’re doing with the shelter is amazing,” Shane said, before turning to Alex. “And yes, we are going home. Between the game this afternoon and the gala, I am exhausted.”
“I hope you still have little bit of energy left...” Ilya whispered, much less discreetly than intended. Alex gave him a knowing look, and Shane, once again, couldn't help but blush.
“Before you go, I have one small question.” Pez stepped closer to Ilya, grinning. But it was a bit too mischievous and suspicious for Ilya. “During dinner, Alex and Henry told me they were frustrated because they didn’t know which couple was sexier...”
“Oh.” Ilya decided he really should have kept his mouth shut. “Oh no, now that we know each other more, I do not want to compare,” Ilya claimed, earning a skeptical look from Shane, who had heard him give Ryan a very different answer earlier.
“...It turns out several queer magazines have done rankings. And you’re all in them. I looked at your placements and—” Pez began, pulling out his phone.
“Pez, let’s let them end their night on a high note. Don’t bother them with that,” Henry intervened, placing a hand on his best friend’s shoulder.
End on a high note? What did he mean? It was impossible that they were ahead of them in a ranking. Right? Sure, they had a global audience as a prince and a First Son, but Ilya and Shane were two very sexy hockey players. He thought this quite objectively.
“Let me see that,” Ilya decided, far too curious. Unfortunately, Shane stepped in.
“Our taxi is here, and we don't need to know this.”
“Apparently, I do not need this information,” Ilya muttered as he stepped back, feigning disappointment. “And our taxi is indeed here...”
“I’m sure we’ll have the chance to discuss my first-place spot again,” Alex joked. “Next time you’re in New York, come over for dinner. We’ll introduce you to David.”
Ilya resisted responding to the "first place" provocation. But he agreed to the dinner and the dog meeting without hesitation. He and Shane still couldn't wrap their heads around a dog named David. With those plans made, they left, unwilling to keep their taxi waiting any longer.
Slumped in the back of the cab, Ilya took Shane’s hand and pressed a tender kiss to it. The silence was restful. Shane slid a hand behind Ilya’s back and began to massage him affectionately. As he relaxed under his husband’s expert touch, Ilya realized how tense he had been all evening. He let his head fall onto Shane's shoulder.
“Я тебя люблю... Спасибо, что ты всегда рядом,” Ilya whispered.[3]
“И я тебя люблю. И... у меня, пожалуй, ещё осталось немного энергии.” [4]
A wide grin broke across Ilya’s face.
“Good.”
He had only one desire now: to be alone with Shane and show him exactly how madly in love he was.
To make him feel every bit of his passion and desire.
—--------------------------------
[1] I'll take full care of this ass later.
[2] If you say 'husband' one more time, I’ll pin you against the corner and deal with your ass. Don't you dare turn me on like that.
[3] I love you... Thank you for always being by my side.
[4] And I love you. And... I think I might have a little energy left.