Chapter Text
“Ilya’s managed to stuff his basket more than Casey’s this time,” Shane muttered to Landon, more in the vicinity of his shoulder than his ear due to the height difference.
“Well, Casey’s more into fruity, pure-sugar-type candy than chocolate,” Landon grumbled back, “Not that M&Ms aren’t pure sugar, but Y’know what I mean.”
The two men stood uncomfortably a few feet away from the wall of giant candy-dispensing tubes in the Times Square M&M store.
Tonight was the debut annual Hockey for All (H4A for short) Conference in New York City. The kick-off event was supposed to be a sort of variety dinner show in a huge ballroom, with hockey stars in the organization giving speeches, punctuated by musical numbers by Fabian Salah; drag king and queen performances; and highlight reels of queer and BIPOC players (from high school teams to the NHL) edited with fanciful flare to pop music by Harris Drover.
Given the joyous and lighthearted tone of the event, Shane’s and Ilya’s speech was only a three-minute-update on The Irena Foundation’s monetary success and sign-ups for next summer’s camps. The heavy stuff they would save for their booth over the weekend, where they would be handing out fidget toys and sensory tools, and information on the foundation’s services to help struggling people connect with the perfect therapist and cover the cost of sessions and medications.
Still, Shane had woken up in a gridlock of panic and paralysis over his impending duties.
He could imagine Landon’s anxiety was exponentially worse, as he and Casey were giving the keynote speech on de-mystifying the ace spectrum. Landon would tell his story of embracing his demisexuality; Casey on understanding his hyper-sexuality; how they learned to uplift each other in their relationship; and ways the hockey world could help make people more seen and comfortable, no matter where they were on the spectrum.
Other scheduled speeches were one on Black excellence in sports with Carter Vaughan and Laila Edwards, and on the alliance between cis women and the trans community to promote gender equality in sports with Hillary Knight and Max Riley.
“Oh no, he found the Jolly Ranchers,” Landon said, eyes twitching in the direction of their husbands. Casey and Ilya were chatting so animatedly, their heads were bobbing like their golden and bronze curls were competing to bounce more majestically. “Well, they will make him taste nice after the garlicky Alfredo we’re serving tonight. I mean…” Landon flinched, his thick eyelashes splaying out wide as he looked to Shane like he forgot he was there. “Sorry, that was gross.”
Shane laughed away the comment warmly. He got the sense that their mutual quietness and introvert-ness put Landon at so much ease, he was getting lulled into these trip-ups of openness with Shane.
“Where the fuck did he find a—“ Shane cut himself off with a strangled gasp.
Catching Shane’s gaze on him, Ilya had taken a strawberry-pink-and-cotton-candy-blue lollipop—the long, twisty, unicorn-horn-shaped kind—out of his basket, unwrapped it, and sucked the whole thing into his mouth. He slid it in and out of his mouth a few times, coating his plush, Cupid’s-bowed top lip with spit and melting candy. With his his heavy-lidded stare boring into Shane, Ilya winked.
“God fucking dammit, asshole,” Shane spluttered.
The cock the lollipop was clearly intended to represent lurched in his crisply-tailored slacks. Shane whirled around toward the center of the M&M store, leaning into the way the tacky blocks of in-elegantly bright, plasticy colors ground harshly on his senses. Like he had grown another set of molars deep in his neck and chest, and they were clenching hard and uncontrollably. Thankfully, in this moment it made his dick cut its shit out.
Finally, Ilya and Casey made it to the check-out line. Both of them had, of course, purchased so much that they’d earned complimentary Holliday-themed tote bags in which to haul their loot.
Casey rushed to a sedan waiting by the curb as soon as the group got outside, dropping off the tote bags through the rolled-down window into the passenger seat. He somehow had arranged a service where a driver met them after all of their excursions during the day, ready to shuffle whatever junk they accumulated back to their hotel rooms. Even with his and Ilya’s NHL all-star salaries, Shane was a bit gobsmacked at how naturally Casey navigated the world with luxury at his fingertips. Apparently, the Hicks family was somewhere between having fuck-you money and being richer than God.
“Thanks, Christine! Have some of the peanut M&Ms—the texture’s not my favorite,” Casey said, wriggling his torso in through the open window to lean over and give the nonplussed Christine a thank-you peck on the cheek.
Shane wondered if Christine worked for the Hicks family often, or if she had just taken this gig and Casey showed his appreciation like this when anybody provided a service to him.
He curled up his lithe, relatively short legs, momentarily reminding Shane of Winnie the Pooh stuck in Rabbit’s hole, but then he kicked back his light khakis and popped out of the window with the agility of Flubber.
He skipped back to the group, then said, “We’ve gotta go to a he big-ass Christmas tree, right? Like, it’s a mandatory activity. Unless anybody needs a break, or like, has their heart set of another shop.”
“Rockefeller Center, right? That sounds nice, actually. And I don’t mind staying outside for a while,” Landon said.
Shane nodded and smiled, “Yeah! It’s only like, two blocks away.”
He understood what Landon meant about staying outside, too. Inside, the chaos and sounds bounced around back at you, inescapably. Outside, no matter how loud it was, it blurred into a sort of calming white noise. Plus, the weather was rather refreshing. Even though it was December 4th, it was a mild, foggy fifty degrees Fahrenheit.
Maybe that wasn’t a great sign for like, the planet, but that was for a different conference.
Ilya got out Google Maps and charted out their path. Casey bounded forward to lead the way. Shane and Landon were content to follow, both training the same peaceful, half-exasperated, half lovey-dovey grins at their boyfriends.
Casey started doot-dooting out the melody to “All I Want for Christmas is You,” probably not even realizing he was doing it out loud, and waving out a sort of sassy dance with his arms. The ends of his baby-blue-and-forest-green argyle sweater slid down a few inches past his fingers, creating two small, loose tubes of fabric that flapped around and windmilled with his movements, adding to the silliness.
The H4A speakers had agreed upon a well-dressed-English-professor-like dress code, figuring that slick sports coats and sharp business suits could hint at a sense of strict, intimidating toxic masculinity that they were trying to fight against.
Ilya had on a brick red knit sweater with the collar and tails of a crisp, muted pink button-up poking out from underneath. His corduroy pants were sculptured around his perfect ass. If Shane wasn’t careful, he’d let the sway of that ass and the way Ilya pointed and called out directions so confidently and authoritatively hypnotize him. Then, he’d be vulnerable to falling into an open manhole, or running into a ladder, or any other typical New-York-slapstick blunder, in his stupor.
“There’s a skating rink there, too, right? What if we got on the ice and pretended it was our first times, and then we tricked all the straight men trying to impress their dates into false senses of security,” Casey mused, an impish twinkle practically radiating off of him. “Then, we’ll goad one of them into mansplaining skating to us, and the we’ll all bust our moves and completely knock everybody’s socks off! And then the straight men will have learned not to look down on a group of queer men. That’s what we’re supposed to be doing today, anyway, right?”
Shane snorted and let out a few snickers.
“That’s so mean!” Landon exclaimed, but with a huge, appreciative smile.
“Is good plan, but Shane would never put his precious feetsies in stinky rental skates,” Ilya said.
“Yeah, and Sweety Drop, I’d never subject you a place where you’ll be bumped into by a bunch of randos,” Casey. Said, deflating a bit.
“Besides, for plan to work, we’d have to be in disguise. We’d need face hats, er—what is word—“ Ilya waved in his usual searching-for-English-words manner, “Ski masks.”
“Or baklava!” Casey said excitedly, but then melting into a pout. “Wait, no… that’s the triangle desert thing.”
Landon chirped out a surprisingly high-pitched and hiccupy laugh, earning a brighter-than-the-sun over-the-shoulder smile from his husband. “That’s close! Balaclava, Sweetheart, and literally people get those two words messed up all the time.”
“I mean, balaclavas aren’t the best idea, since the cops might think we’re actually some of the dork-ass losers sending Hunter death threats,” Shane said. Then, he blinked hard and shook his head, having not meant to ruin the ambient happiness by reminding them of the unfortunately large amount of people out there who hated what they were doing here today. And the four of them personally. The Top Shelf podcast, with honored guest Roger Crowley, were hosting their own event in Brooklyn. Shane had to shut down any thoughts about what could happen if their two crowds crashed. It was good to be cautious, but especially before he and Ilya spoke, he couldn’t afford to completely shut down. He owed it to Hunter to see this through. “Anyway, you two should definitely do the skating rink. I want to watch you being doofuses. And I don’t mean like, ‘I guess I’ll let you do it.’ I mean I actively think that would be fun and awesome!”
Landon nodded enthusiastically. “I want to see you two improvise a figure skating routine for us. Seriously, it will make me happy. Really happy.”
For some reason, Casey flushed watermelon-pink at that, and then he marched forward with a sene of urgency.
Once they reached Rockefeller center, there was an absolutely adorable minute when Casey and Ilya froze in place, jaws open, their sky-blue and sea-blue eyes wide like Christmas baubles, sparkling and swimming with the reflections of the famous Christmas tree’s lights.
They took a few minutes to snap all sorts of selfies, making sure that nobody would be upset later if they forgot to get a certain picture while they were there. They took couple selfies, group selfies, and glamorous smizing selfies. They took turns taking full-body couple photos for each other. A fan eagerly jumped in to take a photo of all four of them, which of course turned into a handful of fans conglomerating and lining up to have their picture taken with the superstar line-up. Luckily, the crowd at the moment seemed more Broadway-y than Hockey-y, so they weren’t stuck posing for too long.
Shane and Landon found a relatively calm spot on the platform overlooking the rink while Ilya and Casey passed their husbands their phones for safe-keeping, then rented their skates. To Shane’s relief, they both were very cautious and respectful of the other (mostly wobbling) skaters as they pushed out on the ice. However, after a few minutes of nimbly weaving through the masses, people caught on to the fact that Casey and Ilya were professional skaters. A wide berth gradually formed around them as people gaped at them with curiosity and awe.
Casey and Ilya more than delivered on Landon’s request for a figure skating show. The rink’s echoey speakers played “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” and Casey improvised a few hip shakes and spins, motioning for Ilya to mimic his moves. They took turns crafting dance moves and then following the other’s lead, getting more and more creative with hand movements and kicks as the music went on. Casey even surprised everybody with a triple toe loop out of nowhere. Shane felt Landon shimmy with pride next to him. Ilya had to take a moment to lean back and clap, twisting down the corners of his mouth in a “Good job, kid!” expression.
The music fizzled out and turned into “I Wanna Hippopotamus for Christmas,” and things just turned absurd and adorable and ridiculous and perfect. Casey’s and Ilya’s dancing turned into mostly ecstatic miming and lip-syncing. They were like chaotic bisexual ice goblins. But like, the hottest versions possible of that.
Ilya slid on his knees, with one hand on his heart and the other outstretched to the sky, pretending to belt out of desperate plea to the powers that be to bring him his coveted hippo. Casey did some sort of chicken-dance moves, waving his elbows and knees in and out to the words “To see my hippo hero standing there!”
Landon and Shane became so wracked with laughter that Landon actually contracted real hiccups, and Shane’s cheeks got so sore they threatened to pop off his face.
Toward the song’s end, Ilya halted to skate over and whisper something in Casey’s ear. A wicked grin cracked across the shorter man’s face.
In the next moment, Ilya grasped either side of Casey’s compact waist firmly and shot him high into the air. Casey’s body was like an exploding star as he split into a two-toe touch.
Landon shuddered out a tortured “Gah!”
Shane’s body reacted to the momentary flash of terror by moving to grab Landon’s forearm, but caught himself in time, remembering Casey giving him the heads-up about Landon’s sensitivity to touch.
Apparently, this one was of those “exception” moments when Landon wanted a touch from somebody he trusted in order to ground himself. He reached down to squeeze Shane’s hand hard until Ilya had caught Casey behind the knees and shoulder blades and placed him safely back down on the ice.
Landon released his death grip as both he and Shane exhaled and slumped with relief.
A man with a neon-yellow mesh jersey skated toward the chaotic bisexuals, blowing a whistle and making a “cut it out” hand motion by his neck.
Shane could have kissed that man.
Ilya and Casey showered the man with sheepish apologies as the next song started up.
Whoever was working at the rink and controlling the aux had apparently decided it was time for a breather from strictly Christmas songs, because Ed Sheeran crooned the first few words of “Perfect” from the warbly speakers. A collective “aww” rippled throughout the crowd.
Ilya really did look perfect, with his face flushed and the curls closer to his neck slick with sweat. He pulled the red sweater over his head, revealing the pink button-up that was now damp and clinging to his sculpted pecs and shoulders.
“Mine,” Shane couldn’t help but whisper as Ilya tied the sweater around his waist.
Ilya and Casey glided over to opposite sides of the rink, urging the other patrons to get back out there and enjoy their skating time. Casey got to work approaching anybody who seemed adult and single to slow-dance-skate with him for a few seconds. Ilya went over to a family with three elementary-school-aged kids and chatted with their parents for a second. Soon, the eldest girl stood behind him with her hands on his waist. Her siblings lined up behind her, making a chain with their hands on the child in from of them’s shoulders.
Ilya skated forward, and the children sailed behind him without having to move their feet. Not thirty seconds later, all the children in the rink had joined the chain like a real-life version of Meerca Chase.
Now that their “show” was mostly over, Shane became acutely aware of a new surge of tourists pressing in behind him. Knowing that being jostled around in a tight crowd for too long would take a serious toll on him and Landon, he motioned with his head to back up from the platform railing. The two of them found a secluded spot behind a light-up angel figure to sit on the marble ledge of some raised topiary beds.
Shane was eternally grateful to Landon that he was happy to simply sit in comfortable silence while they both decompressed.
Other than the inevitable discomforts of being in a big city, Shane was utterly blissed out and effervescently happy. Loathe as he was to admit it, he was glad his husband had twisted his arm and made him get out of the hotel that morning.
He had been resigned to wallowing in worry, going over their speech and fuss over the booth materials (even though he had been meticulously planning for months) until around 7pm, when he would have to get ready to head down to the ballroom at 8.
There must have been some scheming between Casey and Ilya the night before, because before Shane could even think about fighting his anxiety nausea in order to eat breakfast, there had been an explosive knock at the door. Ilya had answered it, and Calgary’s favorite hyper little jumping bean bounded into the room.
“Roooozzzyyy! Help, my husband is so meannnn! He says he wants to stay inside and mope, but our Holiday seasons are always supposed to be like gay Hallmark Christmas movies, and we’re in New York in December! And he wants to do nothing for twelve whole houurrrssss!!!”
Ilya put the back of his hand on his forehead and gave a Broadway-worthy dramatic gasp. “You, poor, poor man! But my husband is same! However will we survive?”
He dove to hug Casey, and they clung to each other like a bloody battle raged around them. “Russia has no Christmas! Just sad Slavic New Year!”
Over Casey’s shoulder, Ilya shot Shane the most devastating puppy-dog eyes he’d ever seen. No doubt, Casey was doing the same over Ilya’s shoulder, looking out the open door into the hallway.
Shane looked that way, as well, where an impressively tall goalie was hovering awkwardly with his hands in his pockets. He locked eyes with Landon, and they shared defeated looks that clearly said, “There’s no use pretending we’re not going to cave to this, is there?”
And so, they all got dressed and headed to the lobby. The main worry still nagging Shane was the idea of leaving Scott Hunter behind to finish all the preparations for this incredibly courageous project all by himself. However, as soon as they got off the elevator, Yuna Hollander’s clear, crisp voice was echoing through the rotunda, rattling off tests that had to be run with the AV system. Shane spotted her, iPad and stylus in hand, pacing in front of a group of leather chairs where she had corralled the hotel manager, the event coordinator, Scott Hunter, and Zohran Fucking Mamdani (he would be MCing the event tonight with Scott to help endorse the cause) like they were her kindergarten class.
Shane realized that Scott had absolutely no need for anybody else’s help.
Casey had taken the group to every big-name, tourist-trappy store around Times Square. Even—no. Especially the Barbie and American Girl Doll stores. Both he and Ilya had cleaned house. Ilya insisted he needed to get the best-of-the-best for Hayden’s kids, so they would be disappointed with whatever their dad got them. Casey had loaded up on doll clothes, insisting he could bring them back to Samir for inspiration.
Anyway, that was all before 11:30, when Casey dragged them into the M&M store.
Shane checked his phone, noting the time was 1:42. Casey’s and Ilya’s skate time had been over two minutes ago.
Shane and Landon moseyed back to the skating rink. They both glanced around, not immediately spotting their husbands.
Shane brought up his phone to text Ilya, but the realized he had Ilya’s phone in his back pocket. Casey’s phone was in Landon’s.
They walked around the platform for a bit, then checked the rental skates kiosk. Then the walkway around the tree.
“I swear to god,” Landon said, rubbing his temples, “I’m getting one of those backpacks with a leash on it that people put on their kids.”
“Believe it or not, I’ve thought of getting one for Ilya a few times,” Shane chuckled. “But talk about ‘own goals,’ Y’know? He would immediately make me wear it at home, and make it weird.”
“Yeah, why do they have to design them to look like adorable pandas and koalas and stuff?” Landon commiserated. “Unfortunately, Casey found out that seeing him in cute things—er, like—Kawaii-type stuff, is one thing that will actually turn me on really bad. Like even, uhhg, even in public.”
Now convinced their husbands were playing a prank on them, Shane and Landon started checking under benches, behind topiaries, and in alcoves. Panic nipped at their heels, seeping into their toes and up their calves, inch by inch with every passing minute.
They found themselves back at the platform overlooking the rink, and all at once, something roared and tore at the base of Shane’s stomach.
It was a rolling, scalding stew of torture, bubbling over and bursting into Shane’s heart and his throat. He nearly tasted it in the back of his mouth, and it tasted wretchedly like when he learned of the Centaur’s flight making an emergency landing.
“ILYA!” He screamed like a mother whose child had just been thrown off a cliff, the sound ripping through his whole body as if it had started deep in the earth, and was only using Shane’s body like a phonograph. “WHERE ARE YOU?”
A man in a black tactical vest with “SECURITY” emblazoned on the breast pocket appeared at his side.
“Sir, sir! Try not to panic. This happens all the time. Could you tell me how old your child is and what he was wearing when you lost him? Can you call his or her mother? Are you sure he or she is not with her?”
“He is a full-grown man and he’s MY. HUSBAND,” Shane snarled back.
The casual heteronormativity and inability to use the singular pronoun “their” was more than he was able to endure at the moment.
Something powerful torqued his shoulder, and it took a few moments for him to realize Landon had grabbed his wrist and was marching him out of Rockefeller center.
Understanding how bad it would be for the H4A conference if the unhinged scene he was making got any bigger, Shane forced himself to drag in a few breaths through his nose.
Then, as inconspicuously as he could, he started whispering through his teeth, “My husband my husband my husband, he’s mine he’s mine he’s mine, I love him I love him I love him, he loves me he loves me he loves me, won’t lose him won’t lose him won’t lose him…”
His therapist had mentioned recently that these urges to make repetitive noises or motions he got sometimes might be something called “stimming,” and in some situations, it was healthy to lean into his stimming in order to regulate what he was feeling.
“He’ll be with me forever, forever, forever…”
“Let’s retrace our steps,” Landon said, clearly and stoically, a muscle twitching in his jaw as he stared rigidly ahead.
Something odd had befallen Landon. While Shane had been reduced to a whimpering mess, Landon had ostensibly turned to stone. Like all the light and life and breath had deserted his body.
Well, at least Landon seemed to have the problem-solving part of his brain left. And that might actually help them find their husbands.
Landon pulled Shane onto 5th Avenue, where they both craned their heads around, searching for any sign of Casey and Ilya.
And then, the sun of Shane’s solar system imploded.
There, on a square of gum-spotted sidewalk, was a limp, slightly damp, brick-red sweater.