Work Text:
Shane has dreaded the immigration interview for years. He can’t wait for his husband to be a Canadian citizen, but discussing their marriage in a formal interview terrifies him. Not just because he’s easily stressed, but because Ilya is a complete fucking asshole, and there’s no telling what will come out of his mouth.
He grips Ilya’s hand tightly as they walk into the immigration office, thirty minutes before their scheduled appointment. “This is important, Ilya,” he reminds him. “Please just be normal?”
“I am always normal,” Ilya replies.
“You’re not,” Shane argues. “And this needs to go well, okay?”
They check in and sit in the waiting room. Shane’s leg bounces anxiously while Ilya leans over to kiss his neck. “Yes, this is important,” Ilya whispers, making Shane shiver. “We will be fine.”
Shane can’t help but lean into Ilya’s touch even as he knows he’s completely full of shit.
Whatever this interview will be, he’s confident ‘fine’ won’t be it.
:
After a few minutes of Shane stewing in fear and Ilya texting the Centaurs group chat, a slight, twenty-something man with large wireframe glasses and short hair calls their name.
“Hello, Mr. Hollander, Mr. Rozanov. I’m Martin,” he says. “I’ll be conducting your interview.”
Shane gives him an awkward smile because how does one address the government official who holds the future in his hands?
“Yes, you look like a Martin,” Ilya says with a thoughtful expression, following him through a maze of hallways to a small office.
“Ilya,” Shane warns quietly as they reach their destination and Martin shuts the door. He gestures to the two plastic chairs in front of his desk, and Shane tries to ignore the stack of papers that glare menacingly. They, too, have the future in their hands.
Ilya looks around the office, as casual as Shane is tense, and appreciates the decor. He smiles at the maple leaf ceramic coasters and the faded “Determination: Persistence conquers all things!” sign on the beige wall.
They both think, ‘Here goes,’ with incredibly disparate levels of confidence.
:
“Well, let’s get started,” Martin tells them both with a smile. “Just relax and answer truthfully.”
‘Just relax, he says,’ Shane thinks. One of the most important moments of his life—his marriage, for sure—and he knows exactly how it's going to go because he's married to the most unhinged person he's ever met. This man he happily married, this man he's in love with, this absolute asshole, will turn this morning into a waking nightmare.
Ilya sprawls out, as much as one can sprawl out on an uncomfortable plastic chair, and looks as relaxed as he's ever been in his entire life.
Shane, meanwhile, sits upright and rigid, on edge in preparation for every word about to come out of his husband's mouth, and looks more tense than he's ever been in his entire life.
He knows, he just knows, that Ilya is going to burn this interview to the ground.
:
“Let’s start easy: What did you do last weekend?” Martin asks.
Ilya smirks. “Many deep talks about Tolstoy and theological principles.”
Theological principles? Shane mouths. Is this the tone Ilya is choosing to set for one of the most important conversations of their life?
“Really?” Martin asks with a frown, and Ilya chooses not to be offended at his skepticism.
“No, not really.”
“Oh.”
“Can you please give him some straight answers today?” Shane says with forced patience. Ilya is thrilled to see that his husband is already exasperated, and they’ve barely even started. Mission accomplished.
Ilya raises his eyebrows. “You want me to say what we did last weekend?”
Okay, no, Shane doesn't want Ilya to say.
He nods, satisfied with Shane's silence. “We should not say,” he tells Martin. “You maybe do not want to type those words into a government computer. But I will say that it was… athletic. Very good weekend.”
Despite himself and despite Ilya using athletic as a clear euphemism, Shane can't help but smile because yeah, last weekend was a good weekend. And Ilya's right; that probably shouldn't be detailed in an official file anywhere. “We also did laundry,” he says defensively. “Mundane couple things.”
“Briefly,” Ilya agrees. “Also, Hayden was there—”
“For an hour—”
“—who is very mundane.”
“And who is Hayden?” Martin asks, writing something that Shane probably doesn't want to know about.
“Shane's best friend. He's little bit in love with Shane,” he says casually.
“Oh my god,” Shane mutters quietly, though no god could help him now.
Martin doesn't press further but keeps writing. “Wait, don’t put that in there,” Shane says. “You're not putting that in there, right?”
Martin still doesn't look up. “We don't discuss our notes, Mr. Hollander,” he says by way of an answer, which is explicitly not an answer.
Fucking hell. It’s already derailing. Shane thought they’d at least have a good ten minutes before Ilya self-sabotaged and got deported.
He looks over to see Ilya beaming and giving a thumbs up.
:
“Let’s start with the history of your relationship. How did you first meet?” Martin asks.
Ilya shakes his head and sighs. “In a very hostile work environment, Martin. Back then, we are coworkers and he is mean to me and I am mean to him—always insults—and all we do is make each other mad.”
“‘Back then’?” Shane asks incredulously. “You called me boring on the car ride here.”
“That is not an insult. Is fact,” Ilya says. “You organize our fridge for fun. You drive a dumb car. You alphabetize the spice drawer. All boring.”
Shane shakes his head and looks at Martin. “It wasn't hostile. It was…competitive back then.”
“Back then?” Ilya echoes. “You tell me you were rookie of the year maybe every month.”
“That's not true,” he tells Martin.
Ilya rolls his eyes. It's a slight exaggeration, yes, but it's definitely based in reality. Does he usually say it to counter Ilya's brags about MVP? Also yes, but that feels irrelevant.
“Right,” says Martin, moving on, somehow satisfied with that answer.
Ilya continues to smile. Shane begins to panic.
:
“Can you describe some of your first dates?”
Shane grimaces. “That's sort of…complicated.”
“Is not complicated,” Ilya counters. “It was hotels. More hotels. Then other hotels. Big supporters of the, how you say—hospitality industry.”
Shane swallows as Martin looks at him expectantly. He reluctantly shrugs. “I guess he's technically right, if we're counting that as dating.”
“We are,” Ilya says definitively and with a sense of finality. Maybe they weren't what they are now, but they were something, and dismissing that era feels like a disservice to what they built.
“It was hard,” Shane says after a moment. “Long distance.”
“Zero stars,” Ilya agrees. “Do not recommend.”
They meet each other's eyes. Those days are long gone, but neither like remembering the loneliness that sometimes accompanied them. Sure it was fun and hot and shaped them into where they are, but it still feels like wasted time.
“Hotels,” Martin says to himself as he writes. “Long distance. Zero stars.”
:
“Let’s try another easy one,” he says, openly ignoring the fact that the questions—all softballs, to be sure—have already started the interview off on an unsteady foot. “Who initiated the relationship?”
“I did,” Ilya and Shane say simultaneously.
Ilya looks over to Shane, skepticism written all over his face. “You,” he says. “You initiated the relationship.”
“Yes,” he answers, forehead furrowed in confusion. “Obviously.”
“You,” repeats Ilya. “You.”
“Yes,” Shane says again, now more baffled than confused. “I followed you outside. I walked up to you. Complimented you. Shook your hand. I… initiated.”
Ilya scoffs. “No, that is ‘introduce,’ not ‘initiate’; even I know this.’”
Shane shakes his head, forehead still all scrunchy. Ilya tries not to get distracted by his husband's face, but, like usual, it doesn't work.
“How is there a difference in this context?” Shane asks. “You're saying you initiated it?”
Now it’s Ilya’s turn to shake his head in disbelief. He turns to Martin and, to Shane’s annoyance, starts counting on his fingers. “I set up a commercial to spend time with him. I stare at his dick in the shower. I get him to stare at my dick in the shower—”
“Ilya!” Shane hisses. “Everything you say is going to end up in an official government record—shut up.”
“I find out his room number,” Ilya continues, ignoring him and, infuriatingly, still counting on his fingers. “I blow him—”
“Jesus, Ilya!”
“—and teach him how to blow me. I ask for his number. I text him for two years. I initiate everything. Next question.”
“Don’t forget ‘I ghosted him for six months,’” Shane says under his breath.
Ilya pauses but doesn’t take the bait. He has a point to make, and he’s certainly not going to let Shane take credit for all of the work he invested. He repeats: “Next question.”
“And none of that would have happened without me introducing myself,” Shane mumbles, indignant. “I initiated your initiation.”
“Write ‘Ilya chased after Shane Hollander like a man possessed’ on your paper please,” Ilya says. “There is a Taylor Swift song about it. Is called…I cannot remember. Do you know, Hollander?”
He meets Shane’s eyes. “You expect me to know?” he asks, eyes wide. He knows Taylor Swift is a singer, sure, but he doesn't know any of his songs.
“Mastermind!” Ilya says, snapping his fingers. “‘Machiavellan because I care’! It was written about us. Next question.”
Shane blinks and doesn’t say anything. What is happening. Tolstoy and Taylor Swift by question four?
Martin scribbles on his paper while Shane distantly wonders how one types ‘stared at his dick in the shower’ with any sense of professional dignity.
:
Martin flips the page. “How did you realize you were in love?”
They're both quiet for a minute. As much as he hates giving Ilya a chance to speak first and sabotage the direction, Shane doesn't have an answer ready, so he has no choice.
“What is ‘realize’?” Ilya asks. “I do not know this word.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “You started off with ‘theological principles’; you know what that word means.”
“No,” he says with feigned innocence. “You go first, and maybe I will know.”
He rolls his eyes again. He's definitely going to give himself a headache.
“You are in love, right,” Martin says slowly after another long silence. He states it as a fact, but it's very clearly a question. Even people faking a permanent residency marriage are probably better at it than this.
“Yes,” Ilya says, finally. “Is just…a hard question to answer. Maybe the time I invite him to my house and cook for him and entertain him and take a nap with him? And flirt with him, and he leaves anyway?”
Shane's mouth hangs open. “That was flirting?”
“Yes,” Ilya says simply.
“You talked about women. And sleeping with women. And finding new women to sleep with. That's flirting?”
“Yes,” Ilya repeats. “I was trying to see who you liked. Who you were with. If you liked me.”
“How—how was I possibly supposed to figure that out?”
Ilya ignores him and turns to Martin, who's blinking at them. “And then he leaves, and the next day he is suddenly dating someone else. Photos everywhere.”
“It wasn't the next day,” Shane protests, but his heart isn't in it. “And anyway, it lasted, like, three weeks.”
“Zero stars,” Ilya says again.
They're both quiet, and Shane knows he needs to pivot to get this back on track, despite never having been on a functional track since they entered the office. Unfortunately, he still doesn't have an answer. “I don't know,” he admits. “It really wasn't just one moment. It was just a lot of little moments until I realized I didn't want little moments anymore. I wanted big moments. I wanted more. But I'm slow, and it took me a while to assemble the pieces. I can't pinpoint it.”
Ilya watches him, slightly taken aback by the sincerity replacing all the exasperation he's seen so far. “He left,” Ilya says eventually. “He left, and I realized I didn't want him to go. I wanted him to stay, but he left and I hated it. That is how I knew.”
Shane’s heart swoops in spite of everything. Sometimes he can’t stand his husband, but he’s always always desperately in love with him.
Martin is busy writing, clearly unaware that A Moment is happening in the middle of a sterile immigration office.
:
“And who said ‘I love you’ first?” he asks, suddenly, breaking the moment.
“Technically him,” Shane says. “But I created a space to make him feel like he could, and I feel like people don't give me enough credit for that.” Who ‘people’ is is unclear, and it’s a weird thing to be defensive about, maybe, but. It's a weird fucking day.
Ilya is unimpressed. “I did,” he says. “Ten times probably. I tell him I love him so many times—because I am brave—before he says it back.”
Shane scoffs. “One. You said it one time before I said it back. I'm sorry for taking a few extra seconds to process it.” Who cares if they're giving mismatched answers during the most important interview of their lives; he's not going to have his reputation besmirched.
“No,” Ilya says. “I said it so many times that night. Plus, I tell you when I'm in Russia, and you did not say it back.”
Shane's forehead scrunches in confusion. God, Ilya hates how weak he is for that look. (No he doesn't.) “When did you say it in Russia?”
“I mean, technically I said it in Russian,” he says, hesitantly. “But I still won.”
Martin writes something down, probably about the dysfunctionality of a love confession being a competition.
“Okay, what? That doesn't count,” Shane insists.
“It counts.”
“It really doesn't.”
“Yes it does.”
“Ilya, it doesn’t.”
“Shane. It does.”
He lets out an exasperated sigh. “What if I had said it in French? Would that count?”
Ilya shrugs. No, definitely not. “Yes, probably.”
“Okay,” he frowns. “Well then I said it in French, like a week before you did. You just didn't know.”
“Wow,” Ilya says, looking at Martin and raising his eyebrows. “Do you see this? Now he is lying. Someone isn't taking this interview seriously.”
Instead of biting back, Shane is quiet for a moment before eventually saying, “I wish I knew you said it then. I would have said it back, I think.”
“You think,” he says, trying not to sound pleased. “See, this is why I'm the brave one.”
:
“Let's go through some of your daily habits and routines,” Martin says, switching gears. “How do you communicate throughout the day?”
“Surveillance,” Ilya says immediately.
Shane looks upward and tries to remember calming breathing techniques. “He means we share our Google locations,” he says. “It's not some creepy, toxic thing.”
“And stalking,” Ilya continues. “We follow each other around with cameras.”
“We go to practice together,” Shane clarifies. “With our phones. Why are you making this sound so bad?”
“Because we are obsessed with each other,” Ilya tells him casually. They are obsessed with each other. If there are letters of recommendation in Martin's file, someone will have used those exact words, Ilya's sure of it.
“We're in love,” Shane counters. “You make it sound unhealthy.”
“The internet calls it ‘Shane Hollander Walks Ilya Rozanov Like a Dog.’”
Shane chokes. “They say what? What does that even mean? No—nevermind, don't explain.”
“Why? Is true.”
“You're making us sound like psychopaths,” Shane warns.
Ilya shrugs. Shane might not want to admit it, but Ilya is a little bit of a psychopath for him. He had to hide it for so long, partially because he didn't want to admit it, and then because the world made them feel like they had to. He has some time to make up for. He's not embarrassed about it.
“Very obsessed,” Ilya says. “Hayden and I fight for his attention sometimes, but when Hayden calls, and I give Shane amazing blowjobs, guess who has his attention then?” Ilya isn’t actually jealous over Hayden, despite the multiple accusations; it’s just that he gets childish when he doesn’t get to be Shane’s sole focus. Just like how he gets irritable when he’s forced to go too long without Shane being his.
Shane begins his yoga breathing techniques again. He knew this interview wouldn't go well because Ilya is Ilya—a professional ragebaiter who can't even take the day off for an immigration interview—but he wasn't prepared for this level of Ilya. Like, on-the-ice-chirping-his-own-teammates, singing-Taylor-Swift-lyrics, casually-discussing-territorial-blowjobs Ilya.
Martin stares at his paper and takes a breath before writing. Shane, again, wonders how he’ll write ‘amazing blowjobs’ with dignity.
:
“And who proposed?” Martin asks, pen hovering.
“Shane,” Ilya answered. “He is super in love with me. Very super gay.”
“I’m regular gay,” Shane grits out.
Martin jots a few notes down.
“Very obsessed with me,” Ilya reminds him, leaning forward to peer at Martin’s paper. “Write that part down.”
“Why are you brave for saying ‘I love you,’ but I'm obsessed for proposing?”
“Is okay to be obsessed with me, Hollander. Embrace it.” Ilya certainly has. He’s seen the #IlyaWalkedLikeADog tweets and he does not mind them.
“Oh my god,” Shane mutters. “We’re literally trying to prove you’re not using me for citizenship. Can you be normal for, like, ten minutes?”
“This is me normal,” he points out, nonplussed.
And that’s…a fair point, actually. “Okay, well, can you act like you actually care about this for twenty minutes then?”
Martin clears his throat. “Acting is frowned upon during this process. This is about trying to determine the authenticity of the marriage.”
Shane pauses. “Can I answer all of the questions then?”
“I’m afraid not,” Martin answers, voice neutral. “Both parties need to contribute.”
“Yes, Shane,” Ilya says. “Let me contribute. Is going very well so far, yes?”
“Definitely,” Shane agrees. “I mean, aside from how you've portrayed our relationship as a hostile work environment between two stalkers to the tune of Taylor Swift.”
“Ah, but also who love each other and have a very healthy sex life.”
:
“Okay, moving on to your wedding,” Martin says, face still inexplicably neutral. “Who were some of the attendees?”
“Our friends,” Shane answers quickly, not giving Ilya the chance to hijack Martin’s first impression. “Like, teammates. My parents, obviously.”
Martin fills in the sheet. “Which teammates?” he asks without looking up.
“Hayden Pike—”
“The best friend in love with him,” interrupts Ilya.
“Ilya,” he warns, side-eying him.
“He is, little bit,” he insists. He uses his thumb and forefinger to highlight his point, like maybe Martin doesn’t know what the fuck ‘little bit’ means.
“And my other close friend, JJ—”
“Also in love with Shane,” he interrupts. “Hayden, but French.”
“JJ isn’t in love with me,” Shane tells Martin.
“Ah!” Ilya exclaims, lighting up. “See? Nothing about Hayden because he knows Hayden is little bit in love with him.”
“Hayden isn’t in love with me either,” Shane argues.
“Little bit, though?” Ilya asks, forefinger and thumb out again.
“No. No bit at all.”
Martin’s eyes dart between them.
“And my friend Rose,” Shane continues, then tries to get ahead of it by clarifying: “Also not in love with me.”
“No,” Ilya agrees. “But they did date.”
Martin nods. “I think I remember seeing the news about that. Rose Landry, right? The actress?”
For the first time, Ilya falters and his eyes narrow imperceptibly. “They were very bad at sex.” He sounds borderline petulant.
“Ilya, for the last time: I’m gay,” Shane tells him.
“They were good at dating but bad at sex,” he says, ignoring him. “We are very good at both.”
“Understood,” Martin says.
Ilya watches him. “Write that part down.”
When Martin still doesn’t drop his pen, Ilya gestures to the paper. “Put it on your form: ‘Very good at sex.’”
“You don’t have to write that,” Shane insists, feeling his face flush.
“Ah, see? He did not argue. You can write it down.”
Martin frowns, pensive. “And who else—”
“No, no. You didn’t put it down,” he interrupts. “Hollander, tell him to write it on the form. Is very important.”
“Oh my god,” Shane mutters under his breath.
Mercifully, Martin writes it down, or at least Ilya hopes that’s what he writes. Shane very much hopes he did not. “Anyone else?” he asks.
“Who came to our wedding? Or who is little bit in love with Shane?”
“Your wedding, Mr. Rozanov.”
“What about Troy?” Shane asks, eyebrows raised. “Or Svetlana? You know, the people in love with you.”
Ilya scoffs. “Barrett is in love with Harris; everyone knows this.”
“Yeah, well, Hayden is in love with Jackie!”
“Is not the same—”
“How is it not the same?”
“—because YouTube has videos of Hayden’s ‘hearteyes.’ Whole compilations of him staring at you.”
It’s Shane’s turn to frown. “Wait, really?”
“Yes.” At Shane’s thoughtful expression, Ilya raises his eyebrow. “What, you want links?”
“Like, my best goals or something?”
Wrong answer, clearly, because Ilya's eyes narrow and he turns to face Martin. “Troy is also little bit in love with Shane.” Definitely petulant now. Ilya's not sure exactly what he's trying to prove, but he's going to prove it.
“What? No he isn’t.”
“Little bit,” Ilya repeats, forefinger and thumb out again. “I have not ever told you this, but he almost asked me for your number.”
“Yeah, that didn’t happen,” Shane counters, also turning to face Martin. “I guarantee you that didn’t happen.”
“He almost asked. He told me when he was very drunk and said sorry to me. I said is okay; Shane Hollander is very hard not to be in love with.”
Shane hesitates, not sure how much of this is based in reality. “Okay, well, Svetlana, then.”
“Ah, also little bit in love with you,” and Shane kind of wants to scream.
“That is so not true,” he tells Martin. “They slept together for years, best friends. I used to get—pretty jealous.”
Another weird thing to get defensive about, Shane realizes, but what the hell; the day is already a fucking disaster.
Ilya looks delighted. “Oh, did you? But you were so subtle.”
Shane barely wants to dignify that with a response, but he's got a point to prove.
“To be clear,” Martin interrupts. “Are you two fighting over who is more jealous?” He looks truly thrown, finally, and Shane wonders what types of interviews this man has seen for this to be his first breaking point of the morning.
“Everything is a competition. Rivalry is very real,” Ilya says. “Plus, like I said, Sveta is also little bit in love with you.”
Shane stares at him blankly.
“Is true, she used to talk about your hands and how pretty you are.”
Shane is quiet, once again not sure how much of this is based in reality and how much is Ilya just being an asshole.
“I am being serious," he insists. “She maybe did it to make me mad, or maybe she did it because you are pretty but—was very annoying.”
“So… not a competition then?” Martin clarifies. “I feel like it's important to clarify this is an immigration interview and not couples therapy.”
“Ilya, please stop giving the immigration officer the impression we're treating this like therapy.”
“What? I'm only saying that if this was competition, I would win. Sorry, but I would win.”
“Fine, whatever. But if he writes on his paper, like, ‘couple argues over who will cheat first,’ that'll be on your conscience.”
“I'm not writing that, Mr. Hollander—”
“No,” Ilya says sharply. So sharply that Martin and Shane both startle. The ragebaiting smirk slips briefly. “That is not ever on the table. If you knew us, you would know that is not ever on the table.”
It’s quiet in the room. “Understood,” Martin says, eventually.
:
“Moving on to your family,” he begins cautiously. Shane watches Ilya’s demeanor fall back into place. “Do you have children, and/or do you plan to have children?” Martin asks.
“Not yet,” they say in unison. Shane lets out a sigh of relief at an actual, real, genuine answer. But then:
“Shane cannot get pregnant,” Ilya says, sounding forlorn. Shane sighs. Train crash back on course.
Martin looks up from his paper and blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“He is always pregnant on the internet, but he cannot actually get pregnant, so no, we do not have any children yet.”
Shane lets out a choked noise. “I’m what?”
“Pregnant. On the internet,” Ilya repeats casually, like that explains something. Like it’s Shane who’s weird for being confused.
“Explain,” Shane presses for reasons he doesn’t understand.
“You know,” Ilya says, glancing between them. “Fan fiction. You are always pregnant.”
Shane realizes that the interview is probably beyond repair. They’re definitely going to have to fake his death or move to a mountain cabin, like Ilya suggested years ago. “No, we don’t have children but yes, we plan on it someday,” he says quickly. “Can we move on to the next question?”
Martin’s pen hovers. He doesn’t look ready to move on to the next question.
Ilya looks gleeful.
Shane, against his better judgment, turns to face his husband and asks, “How do you even know this? Why are you reading about…that?”
“I don’t read them,” he answers. “But they send me links sometimes, and I click them.”
“Who?”
“Hazy. Barrett. Marly.” He thinks. “Sometimes Pike.”
Shane stiffens. “Why is Hayden sending you links about me being pregnant?”
“No, no. He sends me other links. I post videos of him falling down on Instagram; he sends me links to stories where you like him better.”
“I’m sorry,” Shane says to Martin. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Is fine,” Ilya shrugs. “There are more stories about you in love with me than about you being in love with Hayden.”
“That's obviously not the thing I'm apologizing for, Ilya.” He pauses. He really, really doesn’t want to fixate on it, but: “Why are there stories about me being in love with Hayden? And why are you two exchanging—no. Never mind. We need to move on.”
Martin nods. “Let me just…” He starts jotting some notes but hesitates. “I’m not quite sure how to record all that.”
:
“To wrap things up,” Martin says, not looking at all sad to be wrapping things up, “could you explain why you want a Canadian passport, Mr. Rozonov?”
Shane braces for impact. It’ll be a bad pun about beavers or Mounties. Probably a joke about maple syrup lube.
“I don’t care about Canadian passport,” Ilya says, shrugging.
Martin cocks his head and frowns.
“You're such an asshole,” Shane mutters under his breath.
“I’m sorry?” Martin says after a long pause, and it's unclear who he's confused by.
“I don’t care,” Ilya repeats. “If it is Canada, I mean. I want to be with him,” he says, vaguely gesturing towards Shane, “and he is in Canada. If he was in Mexico, I would be in Mexico.”
Shane stares at him. So does Martin.
Ilya rolls his eyes. “Is a boring answer, but fine. All you want is boring answers today even though nothing about us is boring.” He straightens in his chair and his face turns serious as he meets Martin's eyes. “Here is your boring answer: Shane Hollander is everything to me. He is everything. I will be wherever he is. He is home. He is my home. My love, my whole world. My everything.”
He sighs and glances over to meet Shane’s eyes. “There is the boring answer for your boring paper. I love him. Canadian passport lets me be with him, and that is all I want.”
Shane doesn’t break contact for a long moment but eventually looks over to Martin. “See?” he says, swallowing thickly. “He’s a total ragebaiting asshole, like, ninety-nine percent of the time, but then he does that.”
He looks back to find Ilya just…staring. There’s a small lovesick smile on his face, and Shane knows that if anyone ever saw the way Ilya looked at him, really saw it, they’d never wonder why Shane can’t get enough. He can't pull his gaze away, not when Ilya looks like this, when his face hides nothing. He looks like a man so desperately in love but without the words to convey it in a way Martin can write on his paper. Shane, with two languages at his disposal, doesn’t know how to translate it either.
:
They jolt when Martin clears his throat and pulls out a piece of paper from a folder. He says, “We won't go through all of them as some are quite lengthy, but we did receive multiple letters of recommendation on your behalf.”
Both Ilya and Shane stare at the paper in his hands.
“That is not a letter,” Ilya says finally. “That is a text message.”
Which is a fair accusation, Shane can admit. It looks like two sentences, maybe. When he passes it to them to read, he sees that it is. It is two sentences:
Ilya Rozanov is a total asshole and doesn’t deserve Canadian citizenship, but you should let him in anyway. He’s completely obsessed with my best friend, and no one would ever love him better.
Ilya, bizarrely, feels smug. A two-sentence letter of recommendation—half insult and half unflattering accusation—has him smirking at Martin. “See? I’m very obsessed with Shane. More obsessed than anyone else.”
“I don’t think that’s the flex you think it is,” Shane says. He knows he’s fighting a smile, though, so it sounds weak, even to his own ears.
“What is the word for when I am so right and you think I'm wrong, but everyone else proves me so right?”
“Vindication,” Shane supplies. “But that's not what just happened here. We're not psychopaths for each other.”
But Martin frowns. “I have a few other letters of recommendation, if you’d like to see. ‘Psychopaths’ is peppered throughout. As is ‘walked like a dog’ and ‘ragebaiting asshole’—apologies, Mr. Rozanov, their words not mine.”
But Ilya still looks fucking smug, and Shane hates how much he loves that look. (No he doesn't.)
“Are they… better than Hayden's, at least?” Shane asks hesitantly.
“They're more informative, if that's what you're asking.”
It isn't.
“Right,” Martin says, gesturing for the letter. “I’ll just put this in the file, along with….this.” All three of them stare at the jumble of notes on the sheet in front of him. Half of it probably can’t even be entered into the system, or at least Shane hopes not.
They stand, and Shane holds out his hand awkwardly. Martin eyes it briefly before completing the handshake. Ilya huffs out a quiet laugh. He thinks (hopes) that Shane’s earnestness never stops being so fucking charming.
“I know all of that was a mess,” Shane says, “but I swear to you this marriage is real.”
Martin cocks his head. “Mr. Hollander, no one could fake what I just saw. You two are certainly… something.”
Shane sighs deeply. “He acts like an asshole, but I promise that’s not who he is.”
Ilya watches the still-ongoing handshake. “Martin, are you also little bit in love with my husband?”
“Okay, that’s not all he is,” Shane clarifies, dropping Martin’s hand. “I hope being an asshole doesn’t affect his citizenship.”
“Yes, fine, I am an asshole,” Ilya agrees, rolling his eyes. “But the interview is about our marriage, yes? So we will be fine. Martin will type into his computer that I am walked like a dog and the internet writes about you loving me more than Hayden, and then they will tell me I am a citizen. Is simple.”
Shane shakes his head. “Your definition of ‘simple’ is so warped.”
As they head towards the door, Shane subconsciously reaches for Ilya's hand. Ilya looks startled and stares at their interlocked fingers for a few moments until Shane wonders if he shouldn't have done so.
Ilya lets out a loud, exaggerated groan and stares up at the ceiling. Eventually he turns to face Martin. “My husband is going to be very angry in the car, and the rumors are true: I am very weak for this man and will do anything to make him happy. ‘Walked like a—’”
“Ilya, what are you doing?” Shane hisses. “We're so close to the finish line.”
“So if you have room on your papers, I will tell you one more boring thing. I will say that everything I said this morning is for Shane. He loves when I am an asshole. He has always loved it, and my favorite thing to do always is to be the person Shane Hollander is in love with. I do want the Canadian passport. I do take this seriously.”
Shane blinks at him, but Ilya's eyes are fixed on Martin, determined. “I want you to type that we have good sex and his best friend has a crush, but you will also type that we are very in love, yes?”
“We don't share our notes,” Martin reminds him, then hesitates before dropping his voice. “But yes, I can confirm that will end up in the report.”
Ilya finally meets Shane's eyes. He shrugs as if to say, ‘See, I made it better; don't be mad at me.’
Martin drops them off at the elevator and waves goodbye. Once they're inside and the doors click shut, Shane turns and pushes Ilya against the wall. Hard. “Where the fuck did you learn ‘theological principles’?”
Ilya grins. “Jeopardy. Sometimes I watch with your dad when we do puzzles.”
Shane stares at him blankly. “And I’m the boring one?”
“Yes,” Ilya says plainly before gripping Shane's hips and tugging him close. “But I like it. Is just a joke when I tease you about the spice drawer.”
“Oh. That's not boring?”
“No no, that is very boring. But when you do it, it is also very very sexy.” To prove his point, he leans in to capture Shane's mouth in a kiss. Heat pools in his stomach as Ilya reaches up to gently grip Shane's jaw, directing his mouth exactly where he wants it. It's slow and patient, the type of kiss that makes Shane think more more more.
When they pull away, they're both a little breathless. They haven't had a kiss that intense in what feels like ages. At least six hours.
Ilya rests his forehead against Shane's briefly but eventually pulls back to glance at the elevator display, which shows they have only three floors to go. He hits the ‘STOP’ button, and they jolt as it freezes.
“Ilya—”
He leans his forehead back against Shane's and lowers his voice. “You know I am not a jealous husband, yes? Is a joke, when I say I would win. Jealousy is wanting something someone else has. But I have Shane Hollander in my bed. He wakes up with me every morning wearing my ring on his finger. What do they have that I want, Shane? Nothing. All of them, they have nothing.”
“Okay,” Shane says breathlessly.
“Before, yes. Rose Landry had your hand in hers for everyone to see. Your number on her back.”
Shane pointedly grabs Ilya’s hand before giving him a soft kiss.
“Hayden Pike had your days. Next to you in the locker room, on the ice, on the plane. Always with you, by you. Near you.”
Shane squeezes his hand. “I’m here,” he says. “Next to you right now.”
“And now I have all these things, Shane. This is why I kiss you on the ice, why you don't get personal space in front of the cameras. Now I have all the things I wanted. All those things, now they are mine.”
“I love you so much,” Shane says on an exhale. “And if you get deported, I'll fucking murder you.”
Ilya’s smile turns dangerous. “Hollander, let them try. I dare anyone to take you from me.”
Shane can’t help but shiver.
“Why couldn't you say this in front of Martin?” he asks, staring at Ilya's mouth.
“Because this person is yours, Shane. This version of me is not for them.” Ilya can feel his heart beating erratically in his chest and wonders if Shane can feel it too.
“Not even for a permanent residency interview?” he huffs.
“No, not even.”
He leans in to give Shane one more heated kiss, one he feels right down to his toes, before pressing the button to start the elevator again.
“Plus, you wanted me to pretend not to be obsessed.”
Shane hesitates as the elevator opens and they head towards the glass entrance doors. “I mean, you can be a little obsessed.”
“Yes?” Ilya says, lighting up.
Shane shrugs, face flushing, already knowing what Ilya's next words will be.
“Can we go home so I can show you how obsessed I am?” he says before leaning in to whisper into Shane's ear. “Is still very early. I can spend all day showing you.”
“Ilya,” Shane chokes out, looking around to see if anyone is staring. His skin feels like it’s on fire. Is it always going to be like this?
“Yes,” he says quietly, like he can hear Shane’s thoughts. “Let me show you.”
:
(As Martin stares at his computer monitor and debates typing the words ‘walked like a dog’ into the fillable form, Ilya is chasing his husband up the stairs to their bedroom.
As Martin uses an online thesaurus—in incognito mode—to figure out how to tactfully write ‘dicks in the shower,’ Shane allows himself to be manhandled and tackled into their bed.
As Martin reads letters from teammates complaining about PDA jars and unwitting voyeurism, Ilya and Shane fumble to remove as much clothing as possible in as short of a time as possible.
And as Martin selects the “Application Approved” bubble and clicks “Submit,” Ilya whispers “Let them try; I dare them to fucking try” into Shane’s hipbone.)