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Prompt: Just a cute time - the boys go on a trip into the mountains for the winter to have some privacy. ice skating on a lake. snow balls. hot chocolates and whiskey.
It’s Hayden who recommends the chalet.
He had taken Jackie and the kids there a couple of years ago in the off season to get away from the world for a few weeks. Hayden had come back with a photo album’s worth of typical family vacation shots that he wouldn’t let anyone on the team avoid, though Shane had been the only one to sit through the whole slideshow - in his opinion, the highlights had been the ones of the kids splashing in a crystal blue lake while Jackie watched on in a floppy hat that would have looked more at home on a beach than the French Alps, and a shot of Hayden strapped with a red baby backpack at the summit of some mountain, sweaty and exhausted.
Shane shared that one in the team group chat and someone set it as the icon for a good month. Hayden had been so zen after the trip that he hadn’t even cared.
After the icon was changed to a picture of Mitty passed out on a long flight down to Florida, Shane didn’t think about Hayden’s chalet again.
Not until he mentioned to Hayden in passing that he and Ilya were looking to travel somewhere for Christmas break, somewhere quiet, private. His best friend had been quick to pull up the link for the chalet.
“It’s the most private place on earth dude, I swear. You’ll love it.”
Shane had been hesitant. Why would he need to go all the way to Europe for nature and privacy when he had his own cottage in the middle of nowhere? But he didn’t want to make Hayden feel bad, especially when his best friend was so clearly trying to be supportive.
He’d been doing that a lot, recently, ever since he found out. Ever since Shane told him. Because Hayden was an awesome friend, he really was, and he’d gone out of his way to make sure Shane knew he didn’t care about the big gay secret, that he didn’t care his best friend liked men, that he actually really only cared that Shane’s taste in men was the only shitty thing about his secret at all. Because Hayden may support Shane’s life choices, but Shane choosing Ilya Rozanov was just a step too far.
And yet, Hayden was trying. Kind of. The chalet suggestion was clearly an attempt, a sort of olive branch maybe. Shane had a suspicion that helping him find a vacation spot for a romantic getaway with his arch-nemesis was Hayden’s version of an olive branch anyway.
“He’s not my arch-nemesis, you’re so dramatic!”
“Oh yeah? Then why has Jackie banned you two from playing Hungry Hungry Hippos with the twins?”
So, maybe that's why Shane shared the link with Ilya at some point that night - maybe he was just passing on the olive branch. Surprisingly, his boyfriend was excited by the idea, even if it did come from Hayden Pike.
“Is not the same as the cottage, Shane,” Ilya insists, face visible in the corner of Shane’s phone screen.
“Trees, lake, snow,” Shane lists, maybe a little snarkily, but it makes Ilya laugh which is really the whole point. “Sounds the same to me.”
“You are a brat,” Ilya’s voice is so fond, it makes his heart thud unevenly.
But then, it always does when it comes to Ilya.
It hadn’t really been much of a fight, after that. Ilya wanted to go, wanted to explore a new part of the world he’d never seen, and Shane was incapable of saying no to him.
“Shane, look!”
Shane glances up from the two packets in his hands, tries not to let the ripple of irritation show on his face - it’s not Ilya’s fault, Shane’s just trying to understand the ingredients and he’s still stressed from the airport and the travel and, well, it’s just a lot right now. But Ilya has been grinning since they landed, since before then actually, so Shane shifts his attention to his boyfriend a few feet away at the end of the aisle in the small local store and Shane just stops and stares when he sees Ilya holding up a postcard with a furious-looking kitten on the front.
“Is you!” Ilya insists proudly, still grinning like sunshine, and Shane is so helpless against this man. He snorts, can’t even stop himself, before shaking his head and turning back to the rows of produce.
A lot is in German. Shane doesn’t know a lick of German. They must be close enough to the Swiss border that it’s leaked over, because he was sure everything was going to be in French and yet not a single packet of pasta in this store has a word of French on it. What’s the German word for protein-enriched?
“Любимыйsweetheart,” Ilya brushes a hand gently over Shane’s shoulder blade, making him jump. “They are all the same. You pick one so we can move on.”
Shane shifts, only a few inches, only enough to put space between them, but the look Ilya shoots him makes it feel like a cavern. He huffs at himself.
“Sorry,” he mutters, shoving one of the packets back onto the shelf and dropping the other into the small basket sitting at his feet. “Sorry, it’s just… hard to remember.” Or maybe hard to forget. Hard to forget the restraints of North America, hard to forget that they don’t have to be Hollander and Rozanov right now.
Ilya reaches for him again, and this time Shane leans into his touch just slightly. He doesn’t deserve the easy forgiveness, but he’ll take it anyway.
“See, grumpy kitten,” Ilya teases, pinching Shane’s waist before moving further down the aisle. Shane doesn’t miss Ilya grabbing the postcard on his way past, but he doesn’t make him put it back either.
He also doesn’t protest when Ilya sends it off the next day to David and Yuna, mostly because Ilya throws a snowball at him as soon as he’s done which quickly turns into an all out war, because they may have left Hollander and Rozanov back in the States, but they’re still Shane and Ilya, and Shane is never going to allow Ilya the last laugh.
The chalet is exactly as Hayden had described - or really how Hayden’s photos had shown. Shane felt like he already knew his way around the moment they arrived.
It's ridiculously large when you're not traveling with an entire family; Shane feels silly for getting such a big place, but it is as private as Hayden promised and it really is a nice property. He finds himself admiring some of the architecture as they settle in that first night, appreciating the way the stone accents blend seamlessly with the timber frame, making a mental note to ask the concierge before they leave for the producer of the integrated sliding doors which lead to the back deck.
He stops with the observations after Ilya catches him googling the fireplace manufacturer.
“This is vacation, Любимыйsweetheart,” Ilya whines, pouting, and soon finds the best way to distract Shane is using his mouth in other, much more pleasurable ways, and suddenly architecture is the last thing on Shane’s mind.
They spend the entire next day there at the chalet, cocconed in the peaceful warmth of the open fire and the slow, steady fall of snow outside. Ilya doesn’t even get restless when Shane spends over an hour absorbed in a book he’d found upstairs. He just lies down on the couch, head resting in Shane’s lap, dozing quietly as Shane reads. Sometimes, when a particularly interesting part comes up, Shane translates it for Ilya, the French to English switch catching him a couple of times until he can get his brain to cooperate but it only draws a soft smile from the Russian who hums in acknowledgement every time. Shane doubts Ilya actually took in a single word he’d said, but there’s still a fuzzy kind of thing that settles deep in his chest from it.
After dinner, they wrap up in jackets and scarves and their warmest gloves to venture outside onto the back deck where the view of the mountains slowly dissolves into a star-speckled sky as the sun sets low.
“You know,” Shane leans his head back so he can stare up at familiar constellations, “it looks pretty much the same as it does in Montreal.” He hears Ilya huff and hides his smile in his scarf.
“Nothing can please Shane Hollander,” Ilya mutters, “so boring he only wants his Canadian cabin.”
Shane glances to his right, sees Ilya staring up at the sky too. But his face is relaxed, eyes crinkled in the corners like he’s holding back amusement. Shane finds himself tracing the line of Ilya’s cheekbone, the cut of his jaw. He lingers on the mole on his cheek, on the stubble above his bow lips, the curls at the nape of his neck. Shane’s heart throbs beneath his ribs. It’s unfair how pretty Ilya is. He always calls Shane pretty, but the truth is the word fits much better on Ilya. It feels right. Handsome is fine, attractive works, but pretty is exactly what Shane thinks when he looks at the other man. Pretty eyes and pretty hair and such a pretty mouth.
“What?” Ilya catches him, raises an eyebrow at whatever must be flickering across Shane’s face, but Shane just smiles, shaking his head. He’s allowed to stare now. He’s allowed to think these thoughts. It’s not an adrenaline-inducing moment of panic when he gets caught now, it’s just a little bit exhilarating and a lot satisfying.
“Радость мояmy joy,” Ilya sighs fondly.
“Tu me rends tellement heureuxyou make me so happy,” Shane counters, just as fond, laughing when Ilya gets that pinched look between his brows that always appears when he speaks French to him.
You could be saying anything to me, he’d always complain, and Shane would respond with now you know how it feels. Except there’s never any resentment there, not when Shane loves to hear Ilya use his native tongue, not when he’s pretty sure Ilya loves to hear Shane do the same. And it doesn’t matter, really, when they both understand what the other means even without the words themselves. Shane can feel it, warm and safe like a caress, the same as when Ilya’s skin is on his.
Ilya disappears inside for a while after that, only to reappear holding two mugs in his hands. He gives one to Shane before sitting down again and there’s something careful in his expression - not defensive, but apprehensive maybe. Shane peers down at the drink now warm against his gloves. It smells like rich chocolate and vanilla.
“Hot chocolate?”
“Da,” Ilya nods, holding his mug up to his face and inhaling softly but not taking a sip. “горячий шоколадhot chocolate.” There’s a way he says the Russian words that make Shane think this is more than just a drink to him.
He waits. Ilya looks away.
“My mother used to make it for me,” Ilya admits quietly, whispering it to the darkness like he’s held the words in for far too long.
“Ilya,” Shane murmurs. His boyfriend glances over but he’s not upset - or he is, but it’s less than Shane had expected. His face doesn’t crumble. In fact, there’s a ghost of a smile there.
“She was terrible at it. Always made it so lumpy.” He chuckles then and Shane releases the breath he’d been holding. He smiles against the rim of his own mug, then takes a small sip. It’s warm and sweet, and there’s no lumps against his tongue as he swallows.
“It’s good,” Shane nods truthfully.
Ilya huffs a laugh. “Swiss chocolate,” he shrugs, and Shane lets him get away with the dismissal because he sees the tension leave Ilya’s shoulders and he likes how their tongues both taste like chocolate when they kiss a few minutes later.
They both have contracts which stipulate no dangerous sports or activities. Of any kind. None. They even list what activities are considered dangerous, because yes, hockey players are known to miss those kinds of nuances in a contract every now and then. Unsurprisingly, skiing is one of them.
It means they don’t find themselves on the slopes on the third day of their vacation. But being inactive for almost three days is too much for either of the pro athletes, so when Shane suggests the local ice skating lake he’d seen advertised in a forgotten brochure tucked away in the welcome packet, Ilya jumps at the opportunity. They both do, really, because this is the longest Shane has been off the ice in months and he misses it, as lame as that sounds. He spends almost 90% of his life playing hockey, training for hockey, or thinking about hockey, and yet he can’t go three days without slipping on a pair of skates?
It’s something he should probably address. It certainly doesn’t bode well for retirement.
The lake is picturesque in a microsoft background kind of way - it almost doesn’t look real. The snow-capped mountains behind create a fake kind of backdrop to the small mountain-town community built around the lake, colourful huts draped in fairy lights like the perfect kind of christmas market holding both tourist-trap concessions as well as the skate rental kiosk and helpful tour guides offering local adventures into the mountains. The two hockey players resist the commercial offerings, despite Ilya’s interest in the stall displaying some of the tackiest Christmas decorations Shane has ever seen, and manage to rent their skates with little to no issue. They know their sizes after all, even if the public skates are incredibly different from their own high-end branded ones back home.
But as soon as Shane steps out onto the ice, he sinks into it, heavy and present in the best way. It’s like a wave crashing over his body, engulfing all the thoughts and feelings until it's just him and the ice under his blades. Being on the ice is so easy, so natural. It seems to bypass all the usual synapses that over-activate whenever he’s on solid ground. The ice is simple. If he moves a certain way, the ice will respond. If he cuts a certain direction, his muscles will react, tipping his body enough to even out the balance and send him in the right direction.
It’s all the same even on this foreign lake in unfamiliar skates. He leans the same way, drops his shoulder low to change direction, shoves his blade outwards to stop abruptly and send ice spraying in Ilya’s face just as he intended. He laughs when Ilya shoots a glare his way, only to notice a kid just behind Ilya watching the two of them intently. The kid is probably only a little older than Hayden’s twins, still wobbling on his feet like he isn’t quite sure if the ice is worth trusting yet. He’s got dark hair like Shane, but it hugs his head in tight curls that remind him of Ilya so strongly it makes the breath catch in Shane’s lungs.
“Hey, do you want me to help you?”
He isn’t sure what makes him say it, isn’t sure why he’s even branching out like this, but something about the kid’s expression makes Shane think of lonely afternoons spent with his ass on the ice more than its off it, and he can’t help but think what would have happened if he didn’t have the kind of encouragement he got in his parents and the coaches he was lucky enough to be close to.
The kid nods before his mother even reacts. Shane waits until she gives the all clear, switching to French when he realizes that’s easier for them, even with his weird québécois-isms.
“Okay, let me see how tight your skates are,” Shane offers before he even starts with the moving part - he’s seen too many broken ankles to let it go. Once he’s re-tied the kid’s skates, he stands straight again. “My name’s Shane,” he introduces himself.
“Noah,” the kid replies, confident despite his age. Like Ilya, his brain supplies unhelpfully. Now he’s thinking what a miniature Ilya would be like and that’s not something for right now - or, like, ever, Shane scolds himself mentally.
“Okay, how about we try some basic maneuvers, yeah?” Shane offers in French, waiting until Noah nods before he directs him towards the center of the lake.
Noah is a fast learner, and they’re soon gliding along beside each other with very little assistance from Shane. He even manages to get Noah changing direction without a helping hand, much to the delight of the small boy who gets bold enough at the end to try one of Shane’s hockey stops before it's time for him and his mother to leave.
Shane had been so distracted by the boy that he missed the utterly devastated looks Ilya shot his way as he watched on. Shane didn’t catch how Ilya melted at the image of him and the small child, didn’t notice the glassy eyes attentive and blinking a little too quick, only clocked the adoration splayed over Ilya’s face once they were back together at the center of the ice and Ilya grabbed for his waist before Shane could get a word out, their mouths meeting in a brief, scorching kiss.
“ШаняShanya,” Ilya purrs hot in the chill of the air.
“What?” Shane was a little breathless, something in Ilya’s eyes searing, blistering. And Ilya just rests his forehead against Shane’s, chuckling quietly, gravely, charmed and exasperated in equal measure.
“You have no idea what you do to me.”
It sends something electric through him, zipping from his scalp all the way to his toes, white hot. Even after all this time.
Shane kisses Ilya again bravely, recklessly. He grins against Ilya’s lips when the other man lets out a surprised noise. It’s exhilarating and intoxicating, being able to do this in public. Shane could get addicted to this, could easily find himself drunk on it, unable to give it up.
“я тебя люблюI love you,” he says quietly in the way he’s been practicing. He’s sure he butchers the words, but the look he gets from Ilya makes it worth it.
“I love you,” Ilya replies, and neither of them mention the catch in his throat, but Shane still brushes a thumb along Ilya’s cheekbone gently before he pulls back, grinning now.
“I bet I’m faster around the lake,” he suggests, eyes glinting with the challenge, knowing Ilya won’t be able to resist.
“моя любовьmy love,” Ilya’s mouth tugs into a dangerous smirk, “and what do I win in this bet?”
Shane is already moving towards the edge of the lake, readying himself for their race. He sends a wink over his shoulder, nothing else needs to be said.
And if they both ultimately wind up with exactly what they wanted, then who’s to say who won in the end.
(It was Shane. And he’ll never be able to look at a hot tub in the same way again.)
Shane has always known Ilya is more extroverted than him.
It's not really a hard feat, but still.
Ilya is more extraverted than most people he knows, actually. He’s always so happy to talk to anyone, is always the life of a party, can always be located right in the middle of any situation because he puts himself there - or maybe people just gravitate towards him and Ilya finds himself in the center of it all like a sun orbited by planets not as bright and brilliant as him.
It’s something Shane really loves about the other man. It takes all the pressure off of him, makes it easy to exist in a crowd when he knows Ilya will handle any kind of social interaction that Shane isn’t in the mood for or is too overwhelmed to navigate correctly.
He loves it. But it sometimes still surprises him how easy it is for Ilya to make friends literally anywhere they go.
This time it's the couple in the chalet next door. He’d bumped into them on the way to the local bakery and somehow Ilya had worked out the two women spoke Russian, so that had been it. They quickly became fast friends, and chatting animatedly about the quality of the pastries had turned into a full on plan to meet at the brewery in town that evening for drinks.
Shane is… concerned.
Being a couple in fleeting, stolen moments is all well and good, but spending prolonged time with anyone here who could recognize them is risky. Dangerous.
Shane isn’t used to this. He doesn’t know how to do this. And maybe that’s part of it - maybe he’s more nervous about the idea of being Ilya Rozanov’s boyfriend in front of other people than he is about the repercussions if their life back in the States finds out. Shane knows he’s a private person by nature, has always been, so the whole couple thing was always going to be a little strange for him. He didn’t do PDA even with Rose, when that was completely expected of him.
And that really is the only experience he’s had with being in an adult relationship at all. So he doesn’t exactly have a baseline. Doesn’t really know how he’s supposed to act. Which is stressful because Shane likes to know how he’s supposed to behave before he goes into a new social situation - at least likes to know the basic rules.
But right now he has nothing.
How is a closeted gay hockey player supposed to behave with his secret hockey player boyfriend in a foreign country with an unfamiliar couple on what could possibly be considered a double date?
Maybe he should google it.
Unsurprisingly, google gives him nothing for this very niche and very stressful situation. Absolutely useless.
So Shane is left to grit his teeth and step forth into the unknown, placing his trust fully in the assurances Ilya has given him that Elena and Rimantė are people they can trust, and very excited to meet another couple on their winter vacation.
The brewery is busy for a weekday evening; but this close to Christmas, the entirety of the small town is clearly in a festive mood. There’s a mix of locals and tourists scattered amongst the holiday decor, tinsel strung up between wooden beams and native firs flashing with twinkling lights that catch silver ornaments as the cold air from the front door swinging open rushes into the room every few minutes. The chatter is loud, making the large room feel like it's buzzing, humming, vibrating like a swarm of bees.
Shane glances at Ilya who’s already scanning the crowd. When he spots their neighbours, Ilya grabs Shane’s hand and drags him through the throng of people towards a back corner. The couple have managed to snag a table beside the fireplace that’s crackling gently, flames flickering lazily around the fresh wood that’s just been thrown on. It smells familiar, comforting. Shane takes a deep breath in as they approach.
The taller of the two women stands to greet them, smiling easily as she first kisses Ilya on each cheek before moving to Shane. He braces himself for the European greeting, but the woman offers a hand instead. Her grip is firm when Shane takes it.
“Shane, it is good to meet you,” her nose creases charmingly as a dimple appears in one cheek, “I’m Elena. This is my wife, Rimantė,” she gestures to the dark haired woman sitting behind her who waves at them. Shane responds politely, then has a moment of panic when he goes to sit on the couch opposite the two women because Ilya has sat himself down almost in the middle, meaning Shane has no choice but sit pressed against his side.
He tries to perch on the edge of the couch, like that will somehow put a respectable distance between them - a very platonic, totally not-gay distance - except Ilya wraps an arm around his waist and tugs him back so he’s beside him, shoulder to chest, knees knocking together, Ilya’s chin almost against Shane’s ear.
Shane holds his breath, holds the smoke from the fire in his lungs, feels like it’s burning him from the inside out. But Elena and Rimantė don’t blink at the action. No one around them has even glanced over in their direction. The noise and the movement continue uninterrupted.
The world doesn’t end because Ilya has his hand curled gently near Shane’s hip, his stubble ghosting over Shane’s skin as he asks the women a question about their vacation.
Gradually, Shane lets out his breath. Ilya squeezes his waist, just once; an encouragement, a reward. He feels the tension in his shoulders seep out, draining through his limbs. His chest unclenches, just a little.
“What’s good here?” Ilya asks, grabbing a menu from the table and peering at the list of beers.
Elena chuckles. “This is Europe, all of it is good.” She winks when she meets Shane’s eye and he can’t help but snort. Ilya’s chest rumbles with his own laugh.
“I will get first round,” Ilya offers, untangling himself from Shane so he can stand. They rattle off their order to him - Shane doesn’t bother telling him what he wants, Ilya already knows he prefers his beer as light as possible, and won’t drink more than two this evening. A brush of fingertips to Shane’s forearm, and then Ilya is winding his way towards the bar.
Elena throws her arm across the back of their own couch, behind Rimantė who adjusts to the movement without fuss. The two women are only a little older than he and Ilya, but they move with each other like puzzle pieces fitting together - fluid, effortless. They have done this a thousand times, have spent countless hours learning each other, molding themselves around each other so a shift doesn’t cause friction, so a move never becomes disjointed.
Something twinges beneath his ribs. Shane wonders if he and Ilya could ever get there. He hopes so, one day. Maybe. When they retire, perhaps, and they can be together for real, uninterrupted. Maybe then.
But they’ll be old by that point. Maybe they won’t be as malleable; maybe the adjustments will be too severe, their beings permanently set like fired pottery. They won’t be able to slot together like two pieces of a whole, not fully at least.
He swallows dryly, wrenching himself from his thoughts.
“How long have you two been together?” He asks. It’s not the question he originally wanted to go with, but that one just slips out.
Elena hums. “Since university,” she flicks her gaze over to Rimantė who nods.
“Yes,” her accent is much thicker, her voice softer than her wife’s. “Seventeen years. We met in the first week of lectures.”
“We argued about statistics.”
Shane’s eyebrows raise in surprise.
Elena laughs, continuing, “I was wrong, of course. But I liked to make her angry.” She flashes a grin at the other woman who rolls her eyes fondly. The familiarity of the interaction makes Shane shake his head.
“Your Ilya does this too?” Rimantė asks perceptively.
Shane blinks, clears his throat. “Oh, er, yeah actually, he does.” His Ilya.
“What do I do?” Ilya returns with his hands full, somehow balancing four pint glasses in varying shades, handing the two ladies theirs before setting down the darkest in front of his space and the lightest in front of Shane.
“Shane says you like to make him angry.”
Ilya nods happily, settling back next to Shane and running his hand down the line of Shane’s back. The casual touch seems to leech any remaining tension from him and Shane takes a sip of his beer as he watches Ilya smile.
“Yes, winding Shane up is very fun. He is like Злой котёнокan angry kitten.”
Shane recognizes the phrase at this point, so he elbows Ilya for good measure which only makes his boyfriend laugh.
“See?” The Russian gestures.
“Careful Ilya, a Котёнокkitten can bite.” Rimantė looks at her own wife as she says it, and Shane feels like he should look away from their shared moment. But then the dark haired woman turns to him and grins wickedly. “Isn’t that right Shane?” She does everything but wink and their partners are helpless to respond, Elena too amused and Ilya too taken aback, and Shane just laughs.
Oh, he likes this, having an ally.
“Damn right,” he replies, still laughing, risking a quick glance at Ilya who’s hiding his grin with his glass but nothing can dim the pride shining in his eyes.
The Europeans drink like fish. Ilya is delighted to have found people who can keep up with him. Shane’s just glad the women can hold their alcohol. He hates having to take care of sloppy drunks. As the designated driver almost always, the responsibility falls on Shane more often than not whenever he goes out with his teammates. So this is nice, being able to sit there and enjoy the conversation that flows easily without having to worry about how he’s going to wrangle everyone into the car when the night ends.
And when they eventually wrap up their evening, Shane receives a hug from both women which he gladly returns, as well as both their contact information so they can keep in touch.
“See, was not so bad,” Ilya teases once they’re alone back at the chalet. He pulls Shane towards him, presses his lips to Shane’s temple. His breath smells like beer, his nose cold against Shane’s skin.
“Not so bad,” Shane agrees. His arms come up to circle Ilya’s waist, fingers knotting in the back of Ilya’s knit sweater. It’s scratchy, the fibers rough under his touch, the kind of thing Shane hates to wear.
He’d bought it months ago hoping he could get over the texture thing, but as soon as he’d held it he’d known it wouldn’t work. Ilya found it in the back of his closet last time he was over at Shane’s apartment and Shane hadn’t realized he’d stolen it until he put it on this morning.
“Is that my sweater?”
“Is too scratchy for you, моя любовьmy love. Should not let a Ralph Lauren jumper go to waste, yes?”
Shane still isn’t sure how Ilya had known that was why the thing was shoved out of sight.
“Do you think we’ll ever be like them?” He mumbles the question into Ilya’s neck. The other man hums in confusion.
“What do you mean?”
Shane shrugs. “I don’t know, in sync, or something?”
There’s a pause where Ilya is probably trying to understand him, or maybe just trying to find a way to answer, and Shane regrets the question as the silence drags until Ilya places a finger under his chin and lifts his face to meet his gaze.
“You think we are not like them?” He asks softly. There’s no accusation, but Shane still feels bad, still feels his cheeks heat a little.
“No, I don’t know,” he shrugs again. “They’re just so… together, and we, I don’t know, we don’t act like that. We can’t, back home.” He sighs, frustrated. “I shouldn’t have said anything, just, forget it-”
Ilya cut him off with a gentle press of lips to his own. “моя любовьmy love,” he murmurs, “we are our own thing. Not better or worse, just ours. When we are together, I steal your clothes and you tell me off for leaving kitchen cupboards open. When we are apart, I remind you to eat your protein bars before practice and you tell me to take my medicine.”
He’s right, of course. There are hundreds of little moments that are their own version of harmonizing - maybe more like gears aligning than pieces locking together, constantly rotating away but coming back together just as seamlessly each time. The way Shane lines their shoes up without thinking, or Ilya sends him a photo without Shane needing to tell him he’s feeling lonely. They make it work, when they're together and when they’re hundreds of miles apart.
“ШаняShanya,” Ilya smiles then, kisses the tip of Shane’s nose, “we are already like old married couple.”
And Shane laughs, tips his head forward so their foreheads are resting together. “Yeah, I guess we are.”
“Old married couple who still has lots of sex,” Ilya snickers, laughing louder when Shane groans and tries to pull away.
“You ruined the moment.”
“Ah, no, impossible.”
“Oh yeah?”
Ilya smiles soft again, those blue eyes bright like sea glass, like sun hitting water from miles away. “Yes.” He doesn’t bother to explain, but Shane thinks he understands anyway.
The trip isn’t long - they only get a short winter break from the MLH and with transatlantic flights and travel back to their respective cities, they don’t get more than four days there really - but the chalet sticks with Shane. He can't seem to forget the peace they’d found in that small mountain town, the small slice of normalcy they’d never been permitted before.
If he’s honest, he also can’t stop thinking about those sliding doors either. They really were amazing.
So it's probably inevitable, really, all things considered, that Shane buys a plot of land only a few miles away from the chalet and hires the same architect to get to work on drawing up designs for their own place.
He surprises Ilya with the first drafts in early June, as soon as the off season starts.
Ilya’s only additions to the design are bunk beds in one of the guest rooms, and childproofing locks and outlet covers throughout the home.
“In case small Pikes come to stay,” Ilya defends nonchalantly, and Shane adds the changes to his list for the architect with a knowing smile.
Hayden has a fucking field day when he finds out.