Chapter Text
Shane did not and never had liked clubs. He never went willingly, and on the rare occasion he was dragged out he had left as soon as he could. He hated how loud everything was, how strong everything smelled, how the lights never stopped flashing, and mostly how people wouldn’t stop touching him.
But the Centaurs had won big tonight and Ilya had promised to take the team to a club to celebrate, and had made puppy eyes at Shane until he sighed and agreed. Ilya was now off… somewhere, probably teaching the rookies how to do shots or something else irresponsible, and Shane was sitting alone at the bar with a mostly empty glass of ginger ale. At least from here he could watch the hockey game that was on and mostly avoid the crowd.
He wanted to get out of this sweaty building and back home where he could tuck a drunk Ilya into bed and let his ears stop ringing from how goddamned loud it was in here. He could change out of his fashionable but terribly uncomfortable clothes, he could drink actually good ginger ale instead of the watered down nonsense at the bottom of his glass which he stared at unhappily. He should be over with Ilya, partying and having fun with his teammates. His thoughts started to wander to what a terrible teammate he was.
Shane was startled out of his brooding by someone sliding onto the barstool next to him. He blinked against the pulsing lights of the club to see a man signaling for the bartender and grinning at him. The man was probably around Shane’s height, maybe a little shorter, but with a wiry build and confidence dripping from the seams of his tight-fitting clothes. He was very pretty, Shane could admit that without any guilt; Very dark eyes and fluffy brown hair, a sharp smile that he kept shooting at Shane.
“Hello,” The man said, his voice light and sultry.
“Um,” Shane said intelligently, “Hi.” Another horrible thing about clubs, sitting alone meant come talk to me and not I’m waiting for my husband to finish getting drunk so I can go home please leave me alone.
“What are you drinking?” The man said as he took a glass from the bartender’s hand with a wink. Shane was surprised to hear the familiar curl of a thick Russian accent to his words.
“Just ginger ale,” Shane said, trying very hard to make Normal Person Eye Contact, “I don't really, like, drink.”
“Hmm. Are you fun in other ways?” His voice dropped slightly into a tone that Shane was sure meant something. Part of him was desperately trying to understand what it meant, mostly, he was a little offended that a stranger had already clocked him as boring.
“Sometimes,” Shane answered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He knew he wasn’t giving good answers. This guy seemed determined to talk to him for some reason, and Shane was giving him next to nothing in return.
“Good vodka here,” Said the mystery man after a long swig of his drink, “Hard to find.”
“I’ve been told,” Shane actually laughed a little. That was the whole reason Ilya had dragged them all to this bar in particular. The man rolled his eyes and smiled. Shane had clearly said something wrong.
“Are you here by yourself? Or am I expected to share you with someone else?” He leaned in, smelling sticky-sweet cologne and wearing a flirty grin across his lips. Shane realized in sudden panic that he was being hit on. That was not something he had a carefully laid out script for.
What is it with Russian men hitting on me??
As if summoned by Shane’s panic, Ilya slung himself over his shoulder with a grunt. He was visibly drunk and smiling dopily at him, not having yet looked closely at the man his husband had been trying to avoid speaking with.
“I missssss youuuuuuuuu. Who are you talking t-” Ilya glanced over Shane and tripped over the barstool, nearly smacking his face against the lacquered wood of the bar. Shane blinked at him, startled, and tried to steady him. Ilya was staring with huge eyes at the man beside Shane, suddenly looking much more sober, “Sasha!?”
“Ilya!?”
They stared at each other for a moment and Shane looked between them, somehow more confused than before.
“Do you guys know each other?” Shane said, which was stupid because of course they did. Ilya opened and closed his mouth a few times and cleared his throat, his hand tight on Shane’s shoulder.
“Yes- We were- He was-” Ilya took a slow breath, “He was my coach’s son, back in Russia.” It was Shane’s turn to stare wide-eyed. No fucking way. The coach’s son? As in his husband’s first male lover? Ilya turned his attention gaze to Sasha, “It has been a while.”
Sasha said something in Russian that Shane was pretty sure meant “You only speak English now?”
“Mostly, these days,” He answered in Russian, then, in English, “I see you have met my husband, Shane” His arm snaked around Shane’s shoulder, pulling him closer.
Shane’s heart stuttered. Even after years of being married, he still melted every time Ilya referred to him as his husband. Ilya’s wedding ring glinted on the chain around his neck, catching in the slow lights of the club. Shane’s own ring was nestled under his shirt on a similar chain; he liked feeling it against his skin slightly more than he liked showing it off.
Sasha looked between them for a moment, expression somewhere between amused and disappointed.
“You married a pretty man,” He said finally, in Russian “I am happy for you.” Shane blushed, and Ilya beamed with pride, which only made Shane blush harder.
Ilya shifted so he was between Shane and Sasha, and they chatted drunkenly in Russian about why they both somehow ended up in the same club in Montreal after all these years. At one point in their lives, Shane would have been jealous (and maybe a tiny part of him still was) that Ilya was talking so casually to a former hookup partner, but he was certain by now that Ilya would not be running away with anyone in the foreseeable future. Ilya was his, and he was Ilya’s.
“Small world,” Ilya laughed, staring out of the passenger window as Shane drove them home, “I cannot believe he of all people-” He cut himself off with his own laughter.
“And he was flirting with me!” Shane glanced over to see Ilya’s face go slack, “I think, at least.” He knew it would make Ilya a little bit jealous, but he also knew that meant that tomorrow morning would be much more fun when Ilya sobered up.
“You are like flame for a moth to Russian bisexuals,” Ilya said, eyes shining with mirth, “Or whatever Sasha is these days.”
“Maybe, but you are my favorite.” Shane reached over without taking his eyes off of the road to take Ilya’s hand in his.
“Good,” Ilya squeezed his hand, his voice thick with affection, “It would be very sad if you left me for my former fuck-buddy. Not the good kind of irony.”
Shane laughed, feeling his chest unwind for the first time all night. They talked over the thrum of the engine for a while longer. Shane opened his mouth to say something else, but Ilya was already slumped against the passenger window, snoring.
His hand was still tangled in Shane’s when they pulled into the driveway of their home.