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Shane looked around the bar from his seat in the large booth the team had staked a claim on, searching for the dark blond curls he could usually find in a blink in a crowd, for the hazel eyes that were so prompt to find him wherever he was. It was as easy as breathing to find each other at any moment, but not now, in this overfilled bar, with the stuffy atmosphere and the bass pounding louder and louder as time passed.
No Ilya at their tables. No Ilya at the bar, surrounded by flirty women trying to sweet-talk him to their place, his hotel room, or even just a quiet corner. Shane used to be jealous of them, but not anymore. If anything, now it made him hot, knowing he was the one leaving with the gorgeous man they were trying to get their hands on. Ilya was his now, in more ways than one.
As he left the team's booth, he nodded at Bood. Bood nodded back, still listening to what Wyatt and Dykstra were saying.
Shane was going to look for his husband; he would come back soon.
He scanned the bar once more, then made his way to visit the bathroom (for Ilya but not only). When he failed to find him there, he knew Ilya could only be outside. Shane smirked as he palmed his pocket and the little secret it held. Ilya would face a logistical contingency soon, and if he wasn't back yet, he hadn't been gone for long.
Satisfied, perhaps more than he should, Shane walked to the door, half a dozen chirps ready on the tip of his tongue to tease his husband.
He stepped outside, the frigid air hit him like a wall and stunned him for a brief moment. Once the shock wore off, he resumed his hunt. The road was mostly silent and empty at this hour. People were back in the warmth of their home, or chasing a bit of company in places like the lively bar behind his back. There were no smokers either, despite Shane certainty of finding at least one. Strange. Until two young women came from the small alleyway along the bar a few steps down from the door on the left, giggling and talking way too fast about meeting 'one of their favs' and how lucky they were as they half ran back into the bar. Shane pulled the door open for them without thinking about it. He didn't listen to their thanks, nor did he notice their charming smiles. He had a new goal in mind.
Shane sneaked up to it, the faint smoke scent on the women's clothes enough of a tell. A single glance into the alleyway told him what he needed to know: it was the rendezvous point for anyone needing a smoke, ready to brave the cold, but smart enough to take shelter in the dimly lit path to escape the wind.
Ilya stood there. Tall and broad and beautiful.
And not alone.
*
Ilya knew he should quit, especially since a pack lasted him long enough for the last few cigarettes to taste stale, but the idea of not smoking at all was strange. Besides, escaping Shane's vigilance was a fun game. He was an expert at escaping his husband's pretty eyes to have one.
Sometimes, half the cigarette burnt itself to ashes while he spoke to other smokers.
More than the nicotine, more than the soothing routine of the gestures—tap the pack to pull one out, grab it between his lips, search his pants pocket for his lighter, the flame, the long inhale, pluck it away with two fingers—it was the encounters, the people he found outside, lost in thoughts or not at all, ready to exchange a few words or walled up in their silence. They were the true appeal.
Several tattoo artists, office workers by the dozens, a few travelers, a florist, two conspiracy theorists, a dude making stupidly elaborate sculptures in chocolate once... His personal collection of peculiar encounters.
The smoking corner outside a bar or a club was a bubble, a world of its own he couldn't convince himself to give up entirely.
Tonight was no exception.
Escaping Shane's gaze had been easy, given how packed the bar was; finding the quiet corner away from the biting wind had been easy, too. Two friends, one a marketing intern at a fashion magazine, the other a web designer just beginning her career, were there already, and they started talking before he could fish his cigarette pack out of his pocket. Hockey fans.
After a tense moment, they asked if he was who they thought he was, as if saying his name out loud would make him disappear in a cloud of smoke. He confirmed with a rakish grin, and of course he agreed to a selfie that quickly turned into several. They were fun and cute, speaking over each other about the game the Centaurs won a few earlier. They watched in another bar, then came here to celebrate, they said.
They chatted while finishing their cigarettes, then ran back inside to the warmth, giggling and talking about the lucky encounter and how it was fate they didn't quit smoking last year as they swore they would.
Ilya watched them go, a tender smile on his lips, always happy to meet fans like them. Lively and chatty, but also respectful, greeting first and foremost, and asking for pics instead of assuming it was okay to take them.
Now that some calm was back in the tiny alleyway, he took his cigarette pack out from his jeans pocket, and the gestures were like scoring during a game: muscle memory.
Hold the pack with his right hand, tap it against the back of his left hand, grab the first cigarette poking out between his lips, pulling it out of the pack. Put the pack back in his pocket, get the lighter—
Wait.
He patted his pockets, then went back, this time doing so methodically, one pocket after the other, taking the cigarette pack out and checking in this pocket, just in case he missed it with the pack in the way, but nothing. Could he have misplaced his lighter? He was sure he had it earlier, when he was preparing to sneak out.
"Need help?"
The deep, velvety voice coming from a few steps behind startled him a little. He turned at once, almost as fast as he would on the ice, only to face a tall guy, as tall as he was and almost as broad, leaning casually against the alleyway's wall, a lit cigarette between his lips. He was standing in the darkest shadows of their corner. The two cute fans from before kept Ilya's attention as soon as he got there; he never noticed the third smoker.
He appeared to be around Ilya's age, with dark hair just long enough to be artfully tousled that seemed soft to touch, his olive colored skin probably just as soft. His washed-out blue eyes looked otherworldly in contrast to his hair and skin, so lightly colored they made Ilya's own blue look dark in comparison.
As Ilya kept silent, observing, the man nodded toward him. "Looks like you lost something. Need help?" He held up his own lighter between two fingers, like one would a cigarette. Ilya nodded, the shadow of a grin back on his lips.
This was another thing he couldn't explain to Shane, because Shane would not get it.
That simple way of bonding with a stranger for a fleeting moment over a shared addiction, over something simple and yet essential to your day, something that didn't require stats or years of knowledge born of careful observation and diligent study. Nothing like what hockey was to Shane; like anything was to Shane, as soon as it piqued his curiosity.
Ilya took a step forward and extended his hand to grab the lighter, but the stranger pulled it, swift and playful, his full lips curling into a grin around his cigarette. "Let me."
Ilya considered and decided in a blink. He knew how fast lighters tended to disappear as soon as they left your hand; he had proof of that tonight, but it was worse around other smokers. So might as well, as he wasn't sure where he had misplaced his. And if he went inside to look for it, Shane would catch him and not let him escape.
All part of their silent game, and Ilya was not about to change the rules. He took another step toward the handsome stranger and leaned slightly forward, cigarette still between his lips. The lighter's owner tried to make it work, the familiar scratching echoing in the narrow alleyway, but no flame showed up after several tries. Only glowing sparks, casting a shy orange gleam between them, nothing close to a flame, or something hot and fiery enough to light Ilya's cigarette.
"Is okay. Mine should be inside. I will find it," Ilya offered when nothing seemed to work.
As Ilya made to turn around, the man put his hand on Ilya's forearm, the touch as light as the sparkles from his defective lighter had been a moment before, and slowly shook his head, his pale blue eyes anchored in Ilya's darker ones as soon as he looked back.
"No need. Here, we can—" He took the step forward this time, invading Ilya's space as the hand he put on Ilya's forearm to stop him from walking away crawled up Ilya's arm, fingertips tracing the muscles underneath the soft fabric of his shirt. As soon as he was half in Ilya's arms, he took a long drag of his cigarette, the tip burning bright red in the dark alleyway.
He leaned forward, the burning tip of his cigarette coming close to Ilya's.
*
As he secretly watched Ilya try to find his lighter, as the confusion got clearer on his face the longer he looked for it, Shane pondered if he should be ashamed of the warm satisfaction and contentment blooming in his chest. He decided he shouldn't. It was their game after all, and nothing in the tacit rules said it was forbidden to take Ilya's lighter if he left it unattended. All fair and square.
He was debating how long he was going to let him look for it, deciding if he should give it back or just keep it, when the stranger came out of the shadows and offered a light.
Shane froze. The guy was handsome, there was no denying it. Tall, broad, dressed in black fitting jeans and an equally dark and fitted button down shirt, the first three buttons undone, his tousled dark hair begging to be tousled some more, otherworldly light blue eyes... Shane had no doubt it was easy for him to find company if he didn't feel like going home alone.
Just as he considered that, just as something angry and nasty growled low in his chest, Handsome Stranger got a red plastic lighter out of his pocket, holding it between two long, elegant fingers. Because, of course, he had to have pretty hands. It kind of ruined Shane's plan, but it was probably within the rules. Nothing was ever said about borrowing light from someone else after all. His triumphant smile was back soon, though, as the lighter obviously took Shane's side, refusing to produce any fire, assuring no cigarette would be smoked thanks to it.
The joy was short-lived.
Shane was certain he had never moved that fast, on or off the ice.
The hand on the man's chest was gentle but firm, the push careful but self-assured.
Shane could allow a lot, but nearly kissing a stranger in a dark alleyway was way beyond the proverbial line he drew the limit at. "Here," Shane said, slipping into the narrow space between Ilya and the handsome stranger with pretty blue eyes.
As he spoke, Shane lit the lighter, the yellow and blue flame dancing in the protective cradle of his hand, his brown eyes searching for Ilya's blue ones. He presented the fire like an offering, shielding Ilya from the stranger who offered to light his cigarette in a way that made the angry and nasty something in Shane's chest roar and lash out; in a way that suddenly made him regret not smoking, if only to share the eroticism of the act.
It had looked so intimate from the entry of the alleyway, a couple of meters away, being so close to someone, close enough to share an embrace, breath connecting to someone else's through cinder and tobacco, close enough to kiss. It even looked like a kiss, from the right angle. Then both smokers would pluck their cigarettes between their index and middle fingers, exhale the smoke to the side, lean forward just enough to share a long, actual hungry kiss and—
The image hit Shane, hard and unescapable, stealing his breath for a second. He pressed more against Ilya, not feeling the tingling burn of the hot sparkwheel against his thumb as he held the lighter closer to Ilya's cigarette.
Ilya's eyes never left Shane's as he closed the distance, putting the tip of the cigarette to the flame, inhaling deeply. Shane reveled in the attention.
Ilya's gorgeous, half-lidded eyes were on him and him only, his pretty lips loose around the cigarette, forming half of that smirk that still did things to Shane after all those years, making Shane want to pull the foul stick of tobacco away and kiss him, claim him under the eyes of that stranger who was still too close, too handsome, too confident, too much of what Shane would never be, not only because of the cigarette. The way he held himself, the ease with which he moved and connected to a stranger, to Ilya, like it was something simple, an everyday thing as easy as getting groceries down the street…
Ilya took a long drag of his cigarette, the tip burning bright red for a second or two before fading to a dull orange. Shane snuffed the lighter off as Ilya took the cigarette between two fingers, pulled it away from his mouth, and exhaled the smoke as far to the side as he could without breaking eye contact with his husband.
Shane knew what that smirk meant, knew he would be teased later, endlessly, because of what had happened in this dark alleyway, but at the moment, he didn't care. Ilya's eyes were on him, and on him alone; he was the only one allowed to give this to Ilya, to be that close to him and grant him that small dose of guilty pleasure; the only one to admire the way Ilya made smoking something sensual and sinful.
They stood, unmoving, as Ilya took another drag, as long as the first one, his eyes never leaving Shane. The more he looked, the more Shane read of Ilya's desire to corner him against the wall, to claim him with a hungry kiss tasting of beer and cigarette, and Shane knew he wouldn't protest if he did. He never did, but tonight, he would be more willing than usual.
He barely registered the shuffling of boots behind them; the stranger moving away, putting some proper distance between them, one he always should have kept. Shane didn't spare him a glance. His eyes stayed on Ilya, always, as his husband took drag after drag of the cigarette, making a show of it in the dark alleyway, as if smoking could be anything but a disgusting habit.
And it was! Shane knew that, of course, it was terrible for your lungs, your mouth, your teeth, your breath... But in that dimly lit corner, in the cover of the alleyway, in the secret of the night, he was forced to admit that Ilya made it look appealing; the sensual way his fingers moved around the cigarette; the eroticism of his lips gently closing around the filter; his eyes half closing like they did when he was about to take Shane's cock into his mouth...
But then it was over.
Ilya extended his hand and put out the cigarette against the brick wall, where a thick layer of soot confirmed the habit of many smokers before him, still not breaking eye contact. Shane slipped Ilya's lighter in his jeans pocket, staking a loud claim for Ilya to see. Ilya's smirk widened. He took Shane's hand and entwined their fingers, leading him out of the alleyway, back to the bar and their teammates.
Still. As they were about to turn into the street to get to the door, Shane looked behind him, just to be sure.
He was greeted by a satisfied smirk, the handsome stranger looking him right in the eye. Another cigarette dangled from his lips. He slowly raised his hands holding a black lighter, and smirked. With a flick of his thumb, the lighter came to life, the flame strong and tall.
Shane smirked back.
Tonight he won. Just like always.