Work Text:
Shane doesn’t know what the fuck the league thinks it’s doing, but he wishes they’d stop making it his problem.
He’s spent years being the face of their narratives: the first Asian player to be drafted by Montreal (as if that was his success, rather than their failure), the first Montreal captain to lead the team to back-to-back victories, the youngest ever player to be named captain.
One half of the biggest rivalry the league has ever seen.
He thinks, surely that is enough. Surely they’ve squeezed enough from his image by now that they’ve rung the towel dry. He’s getting boring now, right? He must be.
And not boring in the fond, teasing way that Ilya says it as he kisses Shane breathless. But actually boring, in the ”god, haven’t we seen enough of him yet?” kind of way.
“Sorry, do you want to run that by me again?”
Theriault huffs out a frustrated breath as he leans an elbow on his desk and pinches the bridge of his nose. He looks up at Shane, long-suffering and weathered.
“The league is trying to do damage control after that fight between Comeau and Boodram the last time you played.”
Shane blinks slowly back at him.
He has never been accused of being a genius about anything other than hockey, but he really doesn’t get this. Players fight all the time; back when Ilya was still in Boston, those games used to end in complete line-brawls half the time. He’s not sure why one fight against Ottawa has led to…this. To damage control.
“In Boodram’s post-game interview he implied that, well, that Gil said something…unsavoury, which led to the fight.”
Shane frowns. “He did? He called Luca Haas a-“
“Alright. Well,” Coach waves a hand. “We don’t need to get into what he said.”
Shane kind of thinks they do, actually.
Comeau had hurled a homophobic slur to Haas that was so loud it’s a wonder no mics picked it up.
Bood made sure he answered for it on the ice, and Shane had tried to make sure he answered for it off the ice, but - unsurprisingly- Theriault refused to investigate the matter. He put it down to ”the heat of the moment.” Implied that Shane was especially sensitive to it, given the confession he had made at the start of the season.
And while there have been rumblings and rumours about it online - about the culture of the Montreal Voyageurs - no one from Ottawa has publicly commented on what Gil said. Montreal is a fucking vault, too, when it comes to all the shitty things players say on the ice and in the locker room. It’s an unspoken rule that you keep your mouth shut, or you get frozen out.
So. Shane hardly understands why this is necessary.
“The point is, they want it to all look like water under the bridge. So-“
“-they’re throwing us a party?”
“You’re the only two teams playing on New Year’s Eve,” Theriault says, shrugging his shoulders. “It all works out.”
“You want us to go to a New Year’s Eve party with the Centaurs, in Ottawa, after the game?”
Theriault huffs again, dropping his face down into his hands and firmly rubbing at his eyes for a moment. When he looks back up at Shane, he looks like a man on the edge of sanity.
“Look, Hollander. I don’t want you to do fuck all. The league - Crowell - they want this. And you know the deal. They say jump…”
“…we say how high?”
“Exactly. So.” He holds his arms out in exasperation.
“So we’re going to a party.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Shane had just wanted one night - one fucking night - with his boyfriend. They were gonna be in Ottawa for New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day; Shane had just wanted to spend the night with Ilya, and then both of them were going to spend the day with his parents. It was going to be nice, quiet.
It was supposed to be their time to recharge, before the big push for the playoffs started. It was supposed to be just for them, and now Roger fucking Crowell is ruining it. Because of course he is.
The second Shane slams his car door closed, he leans forward and bangs his head against the steering wheel.
As his thoughts about Crowell start to become increasingly violent, his phone rings from the passenger seat where he’d tossed it. He doesn’t have to check the caller ID to know who it is - he can sense it - but he still manages a slight smile when he sees Rozanov light up his screen. Not Lily anymore, but not quite Ilya yet, either.
He answers the call, puts it on speaker, and presses his forehead back to the steering wheel.
“Hey.”
“Hi.” Ilya’s voice is impossibly soft, and - stupidly - it makes tears well in Shane’s eyes.
“You heard?” He mumbles.
“Yeah, sweetheart. I heard.”
Ilya’s tone doesn’t give much away through the tinny sound of the speaker, but Shane knows him well enough by now. He knows him better than anyone, in fact. So it’s impossible for Shane to miss the slightest hitch in his breathing.
“It’s not fair,” Shane complains.
“No. It’s not,” Ilya agrees.
“We were supposed to spend it together!”
“Well, we kind of-“
“No,” Shane interrupts him. “No, it’s not the same. And you know it.”
It’s stupid, maybe. An overreaction, definitely. They’ve spent a decades’ worth of New Year’s Eves apart - a decades’ worth of Christmases, and birthdays, and Valentine’s Days, and anniversaries. They make it work because they’re worth it, because they love each other enough to never stop trying. Especially when it’s hard.
But this year…this year it was supposed to be different.
They were supposed to be able to have this one fucking thing for themselves. Christmas and New Year together. They’ve been looking forward to it since the game schedule was released before the start of the season, and it’s not fair that it’s being taken away now, when the league has already stolen so much from them.
It’s not fair that Shane is going to spend New Year’s Eve with his boyfriend, and he won’t even be allowed to touch him.
“I know,” Ilya says quietly. “But maybe we could sneak away early?”
“Ilya,” Shane sighs, because they both know they won’t be allowed to get away with that.
All eyes will be on them. Their teammates, the league - no doubt - and whoever else gets invited to this absolute farce of an event.
“What? Shane Hollander is very boring. He needs early night.”
Shane snorts out a half-hearted laugh. He feels better just for talking to Ilya, but that doesn’t take the frustration away. They’re experts at making the best of a bad situation - they’ve been doing it for a long fucking time - but sometimes Shane wishes they didn’t have to.
Sometimes, he just wishes things were easier.
“And what about Ilya Rozanov?”
“Ilya Rozanov does whatever he wants.”
Shane can hear the grin in Ilya’s voice, and he can’t help but smile. He’s entirely helpless when it comes to Ilya and his charms. He gives Shane his breath back when he is panicking, and makes him feel brave when he is afraid.
“My love, don’t worry,” Ilya murmurs, serious this time. “I will find a way to kiss you at midnight.”
Shane hums. He sits up, bringing the phone near to his face in some futile attempt to feel closer to Ilya. He takes it off speakerphone, presses it close to his ear.
“You promise?”
“Of course, Shane. I promise.”
“Okay.”
Shane is vibrating out of his skin.
They lost 5-6 to Ottawa in overtime, and instead of getting to go home to his boyfriend he is here: some fancy hotel in downtown Ottawa, with too many people and too-loud music.
It ends up being smaller than the league had planned for. Turns out not a lot of people are thrilled about the idea of giving up their New Year’s Eve for a PR stunt.
There had still been reporters at the entrance when they arrived, though.
Asking questions and snapping pictures that the league will blast all over social media to quell the rumours that had been brewing. No, there is no drama. No, there isn’t a culture problem with the Voyageurs. See, we have pictures to prove it!
Thankfully the press aren’t allowed past the front door, which is a relief; Shane spends so much of his life performing already.
He just wants Ilya. He wants to be fucked into the mattress, and then cuddle up with him and talk for hours about all the things they’ve missed in the weeks since they saw each other last. He wants to say sorry. Shane had an eleven-day road trip that ended the same day Ilya headed out to the west coast for a week.
And then they’d had Christmas, of course, until Shane had ruined it.
Until Ilya had looked at him like Shane was breaking his heart, and asked him to leave.
He shouldn’t have. He should have stayed, and they should have talked - should have listened - and Shane should have gone to that goddamn party. But he hadn’t. And while they’d talked since, the messages had only been brief. Neither of them had really known what to say or how to say it.
And now Shane’s bones are actually, physically aching with the need to hold his boyfriend - with the need to fix things between them. But he’s scared he won’t get the chance. Because Ilya is somewhere on the other side of the giant room, surrounded by his teammates, and yet he feels like an entire world away.
Instead, Shane’s got Hayden in his ear.
“I’m just saying, that hit was dirty. There was no need for-“
“Hayden, please,” Shane groans. “I truly do not fucking care.”
He loves his best friend. Really, he does. He’s not sure how he’d survive all this time apart from Ilya if he didn’t have Hayden to complain to about it.
But he can’t hear another lament about how Barrett’s hit on Hayden in the third should have been a penalty. He actually could not care less.
“Don’t snap at me because you have to be here instead of sucking face with Rozanov,” Hayden snarks, but he’s not really being mean; he’s just teasing. He knows how shitty Shane is feeling right now.
“Sorry.”
“Nah, man, I’m just fucking with you,” Hayden says, bumping their elbows together. “You should talk to him.”
Shane fixes him with a blank expression. “Ah, yes. I should go and talk to my super secret boyfriend in a room full of our teammates,” he deadpans.
Hayden jostles him again. “Fuck you, you know what I mean.”
Shane does, of course. He’s just being bitchy because he’s sad. Because they lost, and because he misses Ilya, and because they’ve never felt so distant in all the years they’ve been dating.
Because it’s New Year’s Eve and he wants to be kissing his boyfriend, but instead he just misses him. Even while they’re in the same room.
He fucking hates this, and he hates that, right now, there’s nothing he can do to fix it - not surrounded by so many people. When they first found out about the party, Ilya promised he’d find a way to kiss Shane at midnight. It had been the only thing that convinced him to go along with the charade.
He wonders, now, if that promise is still in effect. Wonders if he’ll get his kiss, or if Ilya is too hurt to make it happen. Shane wouldn’t be able to blame him.
He glances around the busy room in search of Ilya, just needing to put eyes on him again. He spots him by the bar, with Luca Haas and the Centaurs’ social media guy, Harris. He’s laughing, head tilted back slightly as he ruffles Haas’ hair. The rookie blushes, looking at Ilya with something like worship in his eyes.
Shane’s jaw clenches and his hands curl into fists involuntarily.
He wants to snatch Ilya away. He wants to stop anyone from looking at his boyfriend like that - like he hung the moon and all the fucking stars in the sky. He hates it.
“Dude,” Dillon’s voice startles him, as he comes up behind Shane and rests his hands on his shoulders. “What did the rookie do?”
“What?”
“You’re glaring at him like he stole your girl,” J.J. teases.
He’s trying to, Shane thinks.
It’s not true, probably. From what Ilya has said, Haas seems like a great kid. But Shane gets mean when he’s hurting, and right now he’s in a whole world of pain.
“Come on,” J.J. says as he walks backwards towards the dance floor. “We have to be here, so we might as well have fun.”
Shane and Hayden stay seated at the table they’ve claimed, watching as J.J., Dillon, and Drapeau shuffle onto the dance floor.
It’s crowded, even this early in the evening. Some of his own teammates are out there, and he recognises the Centaurs players that are dancing chaotically. He expects the two teams to stay separate, but Bood starts chatting to Wennberg, and J.J. throws his arm around Evan Dykstra, and suddenly they’re all mixed together. Dancing. Laughing.
Shane’s eyes seek out Ilya once more, only to find that Ilya is already watching him. That look in his eyes - it makes Shane ache. Makes him desperate. He sucks in a breath, rubs his hands over his thighs.
“Go,” Hayden says, nodding towards Ilya. “I’ll cover you if anyone asks.”
“You sure?”
“Of course, bud. Go fix it.”
Shane nods, offers Hayden a brief thanks, and then stands up without another moment of hesitation.
He crosses the room quickly, saying hellos to the people who stop him along the way, but not lingering for longer than a second or two. He catches Ilya’s eyes as he tracks him, and Shane subtly nods towards the exit. He’s not sure where he’s going, not even sure if Ilya is going to follow, but he can’t just sit around for another minute longer without at least trying to fix this.
He knows it’s reckless, knows dealing with this in a hotel full of their colleagues is a dangerous idea, but Shane simply doesn’t care anymore.
He loves Ilya more than anything. He would choose him over everything. It’s high time that Ilya knew that, too.
He slips into a room that’s probably used for meetings, or something. There’s a handful of tables and chairs, a smart board attached to the wall, and a whiteboard in the corner. It’s empty, though, and that’s the only thing that Shane cares about. He flicks the lights on, thankful that there’s no internal window and the external ones are covered by closed, vertical blinds.
He perches on the edge of a table, and he waits.
Just as Shane starts to think Ilya’s not coming - when it’s been over five minutes with no signs of him - the half-open door swings carefully back on its hinges. Ilya’s eyes meet Shane’s, and some of the tension seeps out of his body as Ilya steps inside and closes the door behind him.
He’s here.
“Hi.”
“Hey, sweetheart,” Ilya says, as hesitantly as Shane has ever heard him.
It brings tears to his eyes in an instant, and all he wants is to go to him. To hold him. To feel the rest of the world slip away as they get lost in each other.
“I’m so sorry.”
Ilya immediately shakes his head. “No. No, Shane, you do not have to apologise to me.”
“Yes, Ilya. I do. You - god - you gave up so much for me, and then I-“
“Stop, no. Shane, my love, please,” Ilya interrupts, stepping towards Shane with a hand outstretched. He doesn’t touch, though. Not yet. “Everything I did for us was because I wanted to. I still want to.”
Shane knows that. Of course he does. It’s just - uneven, is the problem. Ilya gave up his team and his home and his friends, so he could neatly slot into Shane’s life, without Shane having to lose anything. And Shane, with his friends and family who know and support them, had asked Ilya not to tell anyone. That wasn’t fair. It was cowardly, and - unintentionally - it was cruel.
Shane has been keeping him isolated in order to protect their secret, when he should have been protecting Ilya.
“I should have just come to the party with you,” Shane insists. “You keep so much hidden for us, and the one thing you asked me to do…”
“It was a big thing, Shane. Too big,” Ilya says. “Especially to just drop on you like that. It wasn’t fair.”
Shane had been blindsided when Ilya suggested they go to Zane Boodram’s party.
They had - have - a plan. It’s a long, painful, drawn-out plan, that both of them desperately wish wasn’t necessary, but it had been the only way forward that they could see for them. For their relationship. And they’d been sticking to it well enough that Shane had no idea Ilya wasn’t happy with it.
He knew something was wrong, of course. He knows Ilya too well not to realise that he’s been different lately. Quieter, more reserved.
But Shane had asked and asked, and Ilya had insisted he was fine. He should have asked more, maybe. Should have pushed until he’d gotten an answer. But he’s not a mind reader.
“You can tell people,” Shane blurts out. “Your friends, your teammates. I know you trust them. I shouldn’t have asked you not to.”
Ilya smiles, sad and soft and sweet all at once. He takes another step closer, until there’s barely a foot of space between them, but it still feels too far. Shane still longs for him desperately.
“I do not blame you, Shane. I need you to know this. I am - not okay, sometimes, but. That is not because of you. Never because of you.”
It’s both a heartbreak and a relief, all at once.
“I’m getting help. Therapy. I am - trying to be better.”
“Ilya. Baby.”
Shane wants to weep. He hates that Ilya has been going through this alone, hates that this was something he didn’t feel like he could talk to Shane about. He hates that they’re having this conversation in a fucking hotel, at some stupid party, instead of at their home.
He would have listened, he would have supported him. But…he gets it, too. He understands how difficult it is to reveal the most painful parts of yourself to someone.
It’s hard to be vulnerable without feeling like a burden.
“I’m proud of you,” he says, because Ilya deserves to hear it. Because it’s true.
And the smile that stretches across his boyfriend’s face…god, Shane has missed that. He hadn’t realised just how much until now.
“I miss you,” Shane confesses, his voice breaking as his eyes fill with tears.
“Oh, Shane, sweetheart. I am right here,” Ilya says.
And then…then he is.
Ilya closes that last foot of distance between them and throws his arms around Shane. He’s pulled into Ilya’s chest so tightly - a cocoon against the rest of the world - and Shane melts into Ilya as all the strength leaves his body.
He’s not sure how he managed to remain standing this week. It had felt like there was a weight on his chest, and one tied to his feet.
Ilya is…he’s Shane’s entire heart. The air that he breathes, the reason for everything he does. None of it would matter without Ilya. This is the closest he’s ever come to losing him, and the thought of it - the possibility that everything they’ve been fighting for could just be lost - had struck Shane so acutely, so agonisingly.
He’d once thought that losing hockey was the worst thing that could ever happen to him. He knows, now, that isn’t true.
“I missed you, too,” Ilya murmurs as he sways them from side to side. “So much.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
“We can’t ever fight like that again, okay?” Shane pleads.
He feels Ilya’s chest shake as he laughs, squeezing Shane even tighter and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “I did not like that.”
“We have to talk, okay? And listen. And not walk away, or ask each other to leave.”
He’s clinging onto Ilya, hands fisted into the back of his shirt as he rambles almost nervously. He doesn’t ever want to let him go, and he hates that they can’t stay here long - hates that they’re going to have to go back out there and pretend to be nothing more than acquaintances…nothing more than co-founders of a shared charity.
“I promise,” Ilya says.
Shane sighs. He burrows his face into Ilya’s neck and kisses the sweet spot just beneath his jaw.
He wants to bite him, wants to sink his teeth into Ilya’s skin and leave him covered in a flurry of bruises like they do over the summer, when no one is around to catch them. He can’t, though. Not here. So instead he pulls back, tipping his chin up in search of a kiss.
Ilya looks down at him, smiling like Shane’s the best thing he’s ever seen. And then he leans in close and captures his lips in the sweetest of kisses.
“It’s not midnight yet,” Ilya teases him.
“Don’t care,” Shane grumbles.
“I’ll kiss you then, as well.”
Shane’s breath catches in his throat. He knows Ilya had promised, but that was weeks ago. Before things had slipped so far out of their control that Shane worried they would never get them back.
It might be silly, but he feels so deeply touched that Ilya remembers.
He nods his head. “Yeah, that’s. Good.”
Ilya kisses his lips again, then his nose, and then he rests their foreheads together while they take a moment to just enjoy each other’s company. The last time they had been so close, Ilya was telling Shane to leave.
“I’d choose you, y’know?”
“Shane,” Ilya whispers, his breath fanning across Shane’s lips.
“I would. Above hockey, above everything. I’m sorry I ever made you doubt that.”
Ilya pulls away so he can look at Shane. He’s smiling as he reaches up a hand to caress Shane’s cheek, brushing the pad of his thumb over the freckles he’s always been so obsessed with. For a split second it reminds Shane of that moment in the hospital, when he had been hurt and Ilya came to see him because he couldn’t bear to stay away.
“My head made me doubt. My mean thoughts,” Ilya explains. “Not you, sweetheart.”
Shane nods his head. He understands. Maybe not to the same extent as Ilya, but he does get how he feels when the cruel voices in your head are the loudest of all.
“You still deserve to know.”
Ilya kisses him. One, two, three times, until Shane is laughing quietly.
“I know, Shane.”
He doesn’t ever want to pull away; he’d spend the rest of this life in this stuffy hotel conference room if it meant he never had to separate from Ilya ever again. But there’s a party going on outside the door, and their teams are probably missing their captains, and they can’t stay stuck in here forever. They have to choose to move forward.
So, reluctantly, Shane slips out of the comfort of Ilya’s arms. He pouts, and Shane briefly presses his thumb against Ilya’s bottom lip before taking a large step back.
“We should go back out there,” Shane acknowledges.
“I’ll go first.”
“I’ll find you before midnight?”
“Not if I find you first,” Ilya jokes, flashing Shane a wink.
And then he steps out of the room and closes the door behind him.
The rest of the night is both easier and harder.
Shane’s chest no longer feels like a gaping wound missing its heartbeat, but it’s agony to be so close to his boyfriend and not touch him. At least, not in the way that Shane wants to.
They’re standing side by side with a mixed group of their teammates, talking casually about their seasons, and Christmas, and the Irina Foundation. It’s easy - relaxed in a way that has most definitely surprised Shane. Most of their group is made up of Centaurs players, though. Ilya’s friends. People that he really, genuinely likes. So it shouldn’t come as such a shock that it’s actually fun.
Someone tells a joke, and everyone laughs, and Ilya’s shoulder bumps against Shane’s in a way that looks accidental but he knows definitely is not.
They’ve been finding ways to look, and touch, and be close to each other all evening, orbiting each other like they create their own centre of gravity. No one has even asked too many questions.
Everyone knows they’re friendly enough by now, even if not everyone gets it.
They drift apart for a while, Ilya disappearing to check on the rest of his team while Shane stays with Hayden, Barrett, Harris, and Haas. They’re good people, Shane quickly comes to learn. Funny, and friendly, and lighthearted in a way that no one on the Voyageurs is.
He understands why Ilya likes these guys…why he trusts them.
The crowd has been thinning out pretty steadily over the course of the evening.
No one had wanted this party in the first place, and everyone was only here because they weren’t given a choice in the matter. Some of them left as soon as the reporters and cameras were sent packing, but as the clock ticks closer to midnight there seems to be a mass-migration of players and their partners all leaving the party. Going back to their homes or hotel rooms, no doubt to kiss or call their loved ones, or simply crash after a tough game.
It makes it easier to track Ilya as he flits about the room, chatting with teammates and opponents alike. Boodram and his wife, one of the Voyageurs’ latest call-ups, even Coach Wiebe, who’d made a brief, reluctant appearance.
Ilya is such a social butterfly when he wants to be, and while Shane knows it takes more out of Ilya than he lets on, he’s still having fun tonight. Still smiling and laughing and looking as beautiful as he did on the day they first met. Still making his heart race, too.
God, Shane loves him.
The feeling grows and swells inside of him, getting bigger every single time he looks at him. It’s loud, and warm, and overwhelming; a lot like Ilya, it forces Shane to pay attention to it. And fuck, does Shane want to kiss him - wants to walk up to him in this room filled with people, and claim him regardless of the consequences.
“You’re being obvious,” Hayden leans in to mutter.
“I know.” Of course he knows. The way he and Ilya look at each other…if anyone dared to pay attention, they would see it. It would be impossible to miss. “I don’t care.”
Hayden rears back a little, his eyes widening in surprise. He looks at Shane like he’s waiting for him to backtrack, to change his mind, but he’s not going to. He means it. When Hayden realises, he simply smiles and nods his head.
Shane might not be ready to announce it to the whole world right now, but. Maybe it’s okay if they stop hiding it so entirely. Maybe it’s okay if they start to trust people with their secret?
Things are so much lighter when you aren’t carrying them alone.
“So. You and Cap - uh, Rozy. Rozanov,” Luca Haas stutters. “You’re, um. Really friends then. Huh?”
Shane laughs at the rookie’s obvious nerves. He knows Haas is a fan of him because Ilya has already told him, so it’s not a surprise that - when Shane sidles up to him to chat - Luca can barely get his words out.
It’s endearing, honestly. Shane gets why Ilya has adopted him.
“Yep,” Shane says. “We really are.”
“That’s cool,” Luca says, nodding his head insistently. “He’s, uh, he’s a really great captain. Not that you’re not, just-“
“You’re right,” Shane interrupts, mostly to put him out of his misery. “He is really great.”
Luca fixes his wide-eyed gaze onto Shane. He’s looking at him like he can’t believe he’s here, talking to Shane, let alone the fact that they’re both complimenting Ilya Rozanov. Shane can’t help but laugh again. He gently nudges Luca with his elbow, before turning to join in with the rest of the group.
He feels Luca’s attention flickering to him throughout the entire night, like he’s trying to figure something out.
There’s a TV on over the top of the bar, with the Times Square countdown on it - even though they’re in fucking Canada - and everyone still at the party is surrounding it. Except for Shane’s small group, of course, which is still made up of the same handful of guys from earlier. They’re huddled way in the back, as far away as they could possibly get from their rowdy, drunk teammates.
With two minutes to go on the countdown, Shane searches for Ilya.
He finds him in an instant - drawn to Ilya like a compass is to North. He’s walking over to their mismatched little group with a tray of champagne flutes balanced on his arm. Harris whoops when Ilya begins to hand them out.
“I know, I know. I am wonderful,” Ilya teases. Then, as he passes Shane his glass, he whispers, “You don’t have to drink it.”
“Thank you,” Shane says, too soft to be anything other than loving.
Ilya leans back against the wall, standing beside Shane with his legs crossed at the ankles and his own flute of champagne in his hand. He looks…radiant. Incandescent. Like something Shane shouldn’t be allowed to touch. But he is allowed. Ilya belongs to him.
When the countdown hits one minute, Ilya’s shoulder presses into Shane’s as he leans in close to him.
“Follow me,” Ilya whispers, then tries to move away.
Shane reaches a hand out before he can stop himself, circling it around Ilya’s wrist to keep him from leaving. He freezes at the touch.
Ilya glances down to the hand that’s wrapped around his wrist, then to the guys they’re standing with - Hayden, Barrett, Harris, and Haas - and then he finally fixes his eyes on Shane. He looks confused, and Shane can feel him tremble slightly where he’s holding onto him.
“We should stay.”
Ilya’s brow furrows. “But you said-“
“Please.”
He knows he wanted Ilya to kiss him at midnight - it had been his promise, his gift to Shane. And he still wants it, but…
He has a gift for Ilya, too.
Ten.
Shane looks over to the bar to check who’s there and what they’re doing - if anybody is looking over here. They’re not. They’re too busy drinking, watching the screen, counting down.
Nine.
Shane takes a step closer to Ilya.
Eight.
“Shane, I thought you wanted me to kiss you?”
Seven.
“I do.”
Six.
“Then we need to go,” Ilya insists, laughing quietly.
Five.
“Or…we could stay?”
Four.
Three.
Two.
“I love you, Ilya.”
One.
Shane kisses him.
The ball drops, and cheers erupt, and fireworks begin to explode outside, but none of that matters here. Not in this moment, with Ilya’s hand on Shane’s waist and lips on his mouth.
He tastes like champagne bubbles, and laughter, and home.
For a brief few seconds, nothing else in the world exists but this.
And they are free.
Shane pull away quickly. He can feel his cheeks blushing, and his heart is thundering in his chest, but Ilya…Ilya is looking at Shane like he is a revelation. Like he has just given him the most precious gift.
“Shane…”
“No one is watching,” he promises. “Except, well…”
He glances over his shoulder to the odd little group they’d acquired through the night, and Ilya follows his gaze.
They’re met with four mildly stunned faces, but every one of them - Haas, Barrett, Harris, and Hayden - smile, and nod, and then look away. They don’t say a word, their attention doesn’t linger, they don’t make it into a big deal. It’s just quiet, steady acceptance. An understanding that this is a secret they’re being let in on…something precious they are being trusted with.
He looks back to Ilya, who is watching him with awe and wonder and adoration.
“I love you,” Ilya rushes to say. “Oh my god, Shane. I love you so much.”
They’re not touching, but Ilya is clenching his fist like he’s desperately trying to hold himself back. Like he wants nothing more than to take Shane into his arms and claim him.
“Thank you,” Ilya whispers in disbelief.
There’s a lightness to his eyes and smile, and to the way he carries his body. As he smiles over Shane’s shoulder at his friends, it’s as if a gargantuan weight has been lifted off his chest and he can finally breathe again.
Shane smiles, the most honest one he’s worn in weeks. “You don’t have to thank me. I love you.”
But they both know this is big…that it’s absolutely huge. And that is clearly not lost on Ilya. Shane can see the appreciation in his eyes as they fill with tears that, if they were alone, Ilya would allow to fall down his cheeks.
They’re not alone, though.
They’re in a crowded hall filled with teammates and their WAGs. So they move further apart, just in case, even though everyone by the bar is still not paying a shred of attention to the guys hiding away in the back of the room.
“You gonna take me home, Rozanov?” Shane asks. It’s the one thing he’s been waiting for all night.
Ilya grins. “I’m gonna take you apart, Hollander.”
Ilya leaves first, and Shane follows behind him five minutes later. But he’s certain, now more than ever, that they won’t be doing this for much longer. The sneaking, and the hiding, and the secrets - they’re not worth it. Even his career isn’t worth it. Ilya means far too much to him to keep this quiet for another decade. He’s not sure he can even last another season.
Shane shouldn’t have to pick between his career and his love, but if he does then he will choose Ilya.
Always, always Ilya.