Archive of Our Own

Shane wasn't really tipsy. His balance was just a bit off and his fine motor control wasn't up to its usual speed. A pleasant warmth coursed through his limbs. It felt nice, especially under the ache of exertion from the night's All-Star game. 

The elevator dinged, letting him out at the hotel bar. A blast of air conditioning hit him, cooling the fresh sweat that coated him in a thin film. Florida heat was really something else. It sank into his bones until it seemed to come from inside.

Ilya had texted him twenty minutes ago, telling him that he was on his way back to their hotel room. He must have lost track of time. When Shane had last seen him at 1am, he'd been well on his way to drunk. 

They had a flight to catch in the morning, and it was now close to 3am. So Shane was going to drag him upstairs for at least a few hours of sleep. 

The bar was quiet and mostly deserted. A long hallway led towards the bigger room from the elevator bay. One of the American goalies meandered past Shane on his way out, giving him a queasy grin and a salute. He smelled like beer.

Shane rolled his eyes. He hoped Ilya wasn't too drunk. He could carry his husband to the elevator if he had to, but he'd prefer not to throw out his back tonight. The doors closed behind the goalie, who would hopefully hold on to the contents of his stomach until he was back in his room.

Shane was just about to round the corner into the bar when someone inside spoke.

"You guys are married now, right?"

It took Shane a moment to place the loud, drunken voice. That was Dennis Hanson, a blond, bulky defenseman with a love for tequila and a grin that didn't reach his light brown eyes, who'd played for the Metros for a few seasons. 

"Yes," Ilya replied. "For almost a year now."

His words slurred a bit, but Shane still heard the smile in his voice. He had to be preening, his face lit up with the simple, baffled delight that still hit him when he realized all over again that they were husbands now.

Shane wasn't sure what made him pause. But his feet stopped walking. He was still well out of sight of the bar. There was a big tropical plant in front of him, its broad, deep green leaves shielding him from view.

"Wow," Hanson said. A glass clinked. "And you're, like, happy with him?"

Ilya, in his inebriated state, didn't seem to notice the audible skepticism. "Oh yes. Is almost over… well… overwhel—" He chuckled. "Too big sometimes."

Shane leaned against the wall, listening. Ilya was speaking quite freely to some guy he didn't even know. His tolerance for alcohol was pretty high— or well, higher than Shane's— but he had to be a special combination of drunk/tired to chat like this with an ex-Metro. (Though, to be fair, Hanson had long moved on to different teams by the time of the FanMail video.)

Hanson laughed too. A scrape of glass against wood; perhaps he was refilling his drink. "Didn't think you'd ever go for Hollander. I mean, you could've had anyone."

Ilya scoffed lightly, for once dismissing his own attractiveness. "I am lucky that Shane wanted me back."

Shane stared at the tropical plant without really seeing its big, dark leaves. Lucky? If anyone was lucky here, it was him.

If he'd gotten together with anyone but Rose, for example, he wasn't at all sure what would've happened. She'd been so kind, so warm and gentle as she'd helped him navigate their horribly awkward break-up talk under the dim restaurant lights. She hadn't owed him anything— in fact, she would've been well within her rights to snap at him in frustrated hurt— but she'd given him the space, the permission, to process what Ilya meant to him.

Maybe he would've gotten there eventually even without Rose's help. But then Ilya would have been hurting longer.

Fuck, Ilya. Sometimes Shane still saw his gutted look, there on the couch in his house, his blue eyes crestfallen, semen drying on his stomach. Shane was so fucking lucky that Ilya had taken him back. And he hadn't even been properly angry.

"Yeah. Lucky," Hanson said. He chuckled. "He must be really good in bed."

"…He is," Ilya said, after a suspicious pause. "How would you know? Are you hitting on my husband?"

"No, no. Shane is not my type." Hanson slurped down an audible mouthful of whatever he was drinking. "Too much dick."

Ilya snorted. "Fair enough."

A bar stool creaked. "And too much…" Hanson paused. He said, "Well, everything else."

Silence. Then, slowly: "What?"

Hanson laughed. "Fuck, Rozanov, how drunk are you?"

"A normal amount," Ilya said. "Is All-Star weekend. Tradition."

"I'm saying," Hanson explained with exaggerated slowness, "that you must be having some crazy sex to make up for all the shit he's got going on."

Ilya was silent, then he let out a satisfied sigh as his mouth detached from a bottle with a faint pop. Shane hoped that what he'd just chugged was water, or at least soda. "What shit?" he asked, confused.

"Oh, you know." More clinking glass. "He's, well, he's pretty boring."

If Shane hadn't been a little tipsy himself, he wouldn't have reacted at all. As it was, he flinched. His body just did it on its own, even though his mind wasn't surprised by Hanson's assessment.

Shane had been called boring before. Too many times to count, really. What others saw as fussy and peculiar was the intricate system that worked for him, that carved him into the most skilled hockey player of several generations. He didn't owe anyone an explanation. His stats spoke for themselves.

But… it was just… Shane shook his head. He stared hard at the damn plant, clenching his jaw. He did not feel hurt. That would've been stupid. It just… it sounded different than when Ilya said it.

Hanson was still talking, pensive now. "Allergic to fun, I guess. He doesn't drink, doesn't party…" He snorted. "He does yoga, for fuck's sake."

"Yes, he does," Ilya said, unperturbed. "He's very flexible."

Stunned silence. It stretched on for a few seconds too many. Then Hanson laughed uneasily.

Shane crept closer. His feet moved soundlessly across the gleaming, polished floor. He stuck to the wall and ventured forward until he could see Ilya and Hanson. They were sitting at the bar, their backs half-turned to him and the elevator bay.

From Shane's angle, it looked like the room was empty except for them. Perhaps a bartender was still around, taking stock in the back. Hanson was red-faced and sweaty. The years since he'd played for the Metros hadn't been kind to him. He was still tall and well-built, but there was a slight, sagging puffiness to his face that spoke of too much partying and too little sleep.

Ilya was leaning against the bar. His cheeks were pink, his eyes glassy, but he looked a bit more alert. There was a tall bottle of clear liquid in front of him— Shane squinted, trying to see the label. It did look like water.

"So, what happened?" Hanson said. He took a sip from his bottle—the amber color looked like beer, but there was no carbonation, so it was probably tequila. Only Dennis Hanson would be drinking tequila straight from a bottle. "Did you loosen him up?"

Ilya chuckled. "Not really. Is other way, I think." He frowned, his nose wrinkling as he tried to put English words to what he was trying to say. "He has… tightened me?"

"Too much information, dude," Hanson said, grinning. "But women are in mourning, I heard. They can't believe you've taken your dick off the market."

"Market?" Ilya repeated. He shook his head like he was trying to get water out of his ears. "Where did you hear?"

"Oh, just… people talk." Hanson shrugged. "You're a legend in the sack, man. Fuck—" He cackled, tilting his bottle at Ilya in a sort of salute. "And so is Shane, apparently. He has to be, for you to put up with all that."

Shane glanced around at what he could see of the room through the plant. It looked… well, it looked like a bunch of rowdy hockey players had partied in it. Several spills gleamed on the floor. A few of the pictures on the walls were askew.

There was a random jersey discarded on a table. A bunch of half-empty bottles were clustered around it. Liquid was dripping off one dangling sleeve onto the floor. Tomorrow, Shane would wait out the worst of the hangovers and then pull aside his teammates, remind them to be more considerate even in the midst of celebrating.

Ilya rubbed his eyes, then frowned at Hanson. "All that?" he repeated, less confused now, heading towards annoyance.

Sweat darkened a V down the back of Hanson's t-shirt and shone on his face. "I just mean… he's such a control freak. The nagging must be endless."

Ilya frowned harder. His habitual smirk was long gone. "Nagging?"

"Complaining," Hanson explained, like Ilya just didn't know the word. "Don't drive so fast, don't stay out too late, pick up your dishes…"

"Ah," Ilya said. He leaned back, bracing one elbow on top of the bar, and just looked at Hanson for a moment. A muscle twitched in his cheek. He…

He was angry, Shane realized, with dim surprise. He'd heard Hanson loud and clear and was fucking furious about what he'd said.

Despite Ilya's reputation, it was hard to make him truly mad. He got a kick out of being a pain in everyone's ass, and he was a master at chirping. But moments of irritation, once expressed, fizzled out fast.

Real anger came rarely, and was slow to ignite. When it did, Ilya's face closed down, disappearing under a blank mask. He went cold, but was ready to burn hotter at a moment's notice, to hurl cutting words or dismiss someone entirely with a disdainful stare.

"I get it," Ilya said. The corners of his mouth lifted. "I get it now. I'm sorry, Dennis."

Hanson shook his head, waving him off. "It's okay, dude. English is hard."

"No, you misunderstand," Ilya said slowly. He caught Hanson's eyes with his shuttered gaze. "I am sorry that you don't know what is like when someone wants you to be safe and live in nice home."

The bottle paused halfway to Hanson's mouth. He looked— he looked stupid, Shane thought, with a sudden rush of disgust. His lips pursed to receive the bottle, his glazed eyes going wider in his slack face as his tequila-soaked brain processed.

"Hey, fuck you," he said at last, more baffled than pissed off. "I have plenty of… I've been with many… I've always…"

Ilya let him stammer for a moment, then said, "Uh-huh," and drank more water.

Shane could hear some rummaging behind the scenes—personnel on their night shift, sorting through bottles and bags of snacks. The electric hum and rumble of a dishwasher came from the back room. Did the hotel have security personnel? Probably. And the staff would call them if this escalated, and they would break it up.

He hadn't realized he'd crept closer again until one a big, sagging leaf brushed his shin. Tension hummed through his limbs. Shane made himself take a step back. This wasn't going to turn into a fight.

Even Dennis Hanson wasn't dumb enough to hit Ilya in his pathetically drunk state. And if he did, Ilya was more than capable of handling himself. Staff would call security, and Shane wouldn't need to burst through the poor plant to defend his husband.

The hostile silence itched under Shane's skin. He couldn't see most of Hanson's face, but he could picture his baffled look as he slowly realized that they were not two friends shooting the shit together, and he was not just ribbing a coworker about his marriage. No, he'd just pole-vaulted to the top of Ilya Rozanov's surprisingly short shit list.

"I'm just saying, man," Hanson said at last, louder, almost angry. He'd clenched his big hands. Fading bruises decorated his knuckles. "Everyone's talking about it. How did Shane Hollander of all people marry the league slut? No offense."

"None taken," Ilya said. His half-smile was guarded, mocking. "You talk very much about Shane for someone who does not like him."

He looked at Hanson through half-lidded eyes. With his broad shoulders and messy hair, he put Shane in mind of a large predator, maybe a lion, lazily surveying the small critter he'd cornered.

Ilya nudged Hanson's fist on the bar with his water bottle. "Maybe you do want to fuck him, hmm?"

"No," Hanson snapped. He reared back on his bar stool. "He was… he was fucking unbearable when I played for the Metros. Always on our asses about showing up to practice on time, and working out right, and staying focused, like we were little kids—"

"Oh yes, terrible," Ilya said dryly. "He led the team to several Stanley Cups. A bad captain."

"That's not the point." Hanson slammed his bottle down on the bar. His neck had gone redder. The sweat stains on his shirt were spreading. "Shane is just… he's so weird. His fucking diet, and he never went out with us, and he's always got that weird fucking look on his face…"

Ilya's eyes glittered. His jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck cording tight. Behind the plant, Shane winced.

But the dull sound of fists on flesh didn't come. Ilya controlled himself, blew a slow sigh out through his nose. The moment passed. Shane exhaled too. The fading bite of adrenaline prickled under his skin.

"So… what?" Ilya asked coldly. He was beautiful in his anger. The scowl suited his blue eyes. The wild golden nest of his curls gleamed in the light. "Because his face is not like cartoon, like the rest of you North Americans, he is weird?"

Hanson grinned nastily. A white spot of spittle was stuck in the corner of his mouth. His sweaty face was gleeful, delighted that at least a part of his diatribe had gotten a rise out of Ilya.

"Look, Rozanov," he said, "I don't mean anything by it. You've got to admit your relationship is insane. Here you are, looking like a fucking…"

He tilted his bottle at Ilya, searching for words in his alcohol-soaked head. "Like a model," he said at last. "Yeah, you're an asshole, but you're funny, you're charming…"

Ilya raised his eyebrows, unimpressed. "Maybe you want to fuck me," he said.

"…and you get with Shane?" Hanson laughed. "They call him the hockey robot, did you know that?"

Ilya sighed. He put his bottle down on the bar with a decisive clank.

Hanson's smirk dimmed. Shane watched a drop of sweat roll down his neck. The bar stool groaned under the big defenseman's weight as he shifted backwards.

"I did know that," Ilya said calmly. "So far, nobody has been dumb enough to do it while I am there."

The rummaging in the back room had stopped. The dishwasher rumbled on. The cyclical sound of sloshing water was interrupted by a dull rhythmic clank. A piece of cutlery, maybe, knocked loose by the currents and now banging against a nearby glass…

"I call Shane many things," Ilya said. "Pet names, that is the term. It is odd, no? Shane isn't my pet, and I am not his. In Russian, this is laskovoye prozvishche."

He cocked his head. He hadn't moved from his seat, but Shane almost thought he was circling Hanson, coolly assessing, looking for soft places to bury his knuckles.

"Translation would be 'affectionate nickname,' perhaps. Much better than 'pet name'. You were right, Hanson." Ilya smiled, mocking. "English is hard sometimes."

Dennis Hanson's mouth opened slowly, then closed again. He made a faint choking noise.

"Anyway, I call Shane many things." Ilya's voice was calm, measured. "Sladkiy. Sweetheart. Dorogoy, dear. But do you know my favorite? Is not even strictly romantic. You can say it to family, too. It's solnyshko."

Ilya said it slowly. His mouth wrapped around each precise syllable, giving Hanson a chance to follow. He let a pause stretch between them. From the hard, flinty gleam of his eyes, he knew exactly how awkward it felt. "Do you know what it means?"

"…No," Hanson said. He tried to laugh again, but it came out as a cowed croak. "I don't speak Russ—"

"You should," Ilya interrupted. "Is beautiful language. Although…"

He looked at Hanson's puffy face as if the man was something he'd found stuck to the bottom of his shoe. "There are six cases, so… maybe your head will explode. Then your poor teacher has to clean up." He made a 'tsk' noise under his breath, shaking his head. "Unfair to them. So better not."

Hanson bristled. Even his ears were blood-flushed now, a deep, unhealthy pink. "You callin' me stupid?"

"Yes," Ilya said impatiently. "Keep up. Is not the point. Solnyshko means 'little sun.'"

A lump had formed in Shane's throat. His heart raced. He was reeling, suddenly unmoored by the realization that he'd been standing here for several minutes, listening. It was past 3am, they had to sleep, they had a flight tomorrow…

He'd just meant to pick Ilya up from the bar, coax him to bed. And now he was hiding behind this plant, bludgeoned by the unashamed force of Ilya's words.

"You see, it can get dark in here," Ilya said. He brushed his fingertips against his temple. His eyes were hypnotic, compelling, not letting Hanson come up for air. "Is not always a good place to be. You know about our charity? You should look it up. Maybe it'd be good for you."

Shane shut his eyes. Fuck. Even mid-rant— or whatever this was— Ilya had clocked the heavy drinking and the burst capillaries in Hanson's face.

"So I told Shane," Ilya said. "Before we got married. Because all this," he waved towards his head, "is not his job. He cannot take the pills for me, or go to therapy. It shouldn't be his job. This is on our website, too. But Shane…"

Ilya shook his head. He tugged his lower lip between his teeth, his throat working as he swallowed. From the slow way he inhaled, Shane could hear how he had to steady himself. He knew the sound Ilya's breaths made when too much feeling clogged his throat.

"He makes it his job," Ilya said. "He doesn't care about 'should'."

Then he chuckled, sniffed a little. "We are maybe too… what is the word? Codependent?" His voice was lighter now. "I have a bad day, I tell him to go to barbecue alone—he invites our team over. My phone has alarm for the pills—his does, too. I think bad things about myself, but I try to stop because I know he does not want me to."

Ilya slid off his stool. He only stumbled for a second, then steadied himself against the bar. Hanson was taller than him like this, but somehow, under Ilya's direct, hard-edged stare, the big defenseman looked… shrunken. Diminished.

"So yes, I am lucky," Ilya said. He spread his hands at his sides, a friendly 'you've got me' gesture. "And I don't put up with Shane. I keep house clean because he likes it. His peace is important, so I stop smoking. He fucks me better than anyone, so I take my dick off market." Ilya smiled, or at any rate bared his teeth. "He is my control freak."

Goosebumps rose on Shane's skin. His heart ached, his arms painfully empty. He… he needed to hold Ilya right now, and instead he was stuck out of sight. He needed his fist in Hanson's face as an afterthought, and his husband in his arms.

They were close now. Ilya had stepped far into Hanson's space, almost in between his legs. It might have looked intimate to anyone else.

"I say, I don't want to be burden, he says, You're not heavy." Ilya was merciless, pinning Hanson in place, his voice silk-smooth and deceptively soft. "Do you know what that is?"

Slowly, Hanson shook his head. He hadn't moved a muscle. Shane wouldn't have been surprised if he had stopped breathing altogether.

"A gift," Ilya said. "So I call him solnyshko. But there is nothing little about Shane. Or about how he loves me."

He paused, pensive, frowning. "I should just call him solntse. Sun. No 'little.' Yes," he nodded, warming to the idea.

The tension didn't ease away so much as it snapped. Shane almost expected to feel his ears pop. Ilya took a step back and clapped Hanson on the shoulder. "I will do this," he said, bright and friendly. "Thank you for suggestion."

Hanson gaped at him, his mouth unattractively open. He was clutching the bottle of tequila like a lifeline, though he made no move to drink. The dishwasher clanked on. Color stained Ilya's cheeks; he was at least still tipsy, but clear-eyed.

"Dude," Hanson croaked, finally. "He's got you whipped."

It was such a weak come-back that Shane almost laughed. A pathetic insult delivered by a man who had no idea what half the things that Ilya had just told him meant. Which was really just… sad.

"Yes," Ilya said, calm and proud. "Now we understand each other."

He leaned over, retrieving his jersey. Shane hadn't seen that he'd dropped it on a chair. He hooked his finger into the tag and slung it over his shoulder. He gave Hanson a polite nod.

Hanson sputtered for a moment. His shoulders had crept up towards his ears. "Wow," he said, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. "I never thought anyone would want Shane, let alone say… all that."

He turned towards Ilya, letting Shane see more of his face. His bloodshot eyes flickered across Ilya's features, searching for a foothold.

He laughed, strangled with discomfort. "Are you sure you're talking about Sha—"

Even with alcohol in his blood, Ilya moved quickly. Before Shane could so much as blink, he had a hand clenched in Hanson's shirt, pulling him half off the bar stool.

"Hollander," Ilya said, steel-edged and dangerous. He didn't even have to duck to avoid Hanson's uncoordinated flail. He twisted his fist, using his leverage to shake Hanson a little. "You will call him Hollander. You are not his friend. You are not so lucky."

They were nose to nose, close enough that Ilya could probably smell the alcohol on Hanson's shaky breaths. There was a muted pop of fabric as several seams strained hard.

"Next time I hear you call him Shane, I feed you your teeth. One by one. Yes?"

Ilya waited, then let go. Blood returned to his pale knuckles. Hanson swayed forward, almost taking a head-first dive off his seat.

He clung to the bar, though, and managed to stay upright. "You—" He pointed a shaky finger at Ilya. "You're a fucking psycho, Rozanov, you know that?"

"I do," Ilya said, unoffended. "Drink up," and he nudged the rest of his water towards Hanson. "And go to bed. You probably won't remember this. How's that for little kid treatment?"

Just like he hadn't known why he'd paused before going in, Shane didn't really understand why his feet carried him back to the elevator. Why he took it by himself, and didn't wait for Ilya in the corridor. The doors closed, then the cabin was moving, chauffeuring him back up to their floor.

He stepped back in a trance, leaning against the metal wall.

There was a hum in his limbs. Shane listened to his heartbeat, a quick rhythm not unlike his fourth or fifth shift on the ice. The floor numbers ticked past on the digital display. His thoughts were fast, half-formed, passing by too quick for him to grasp.

He'd been in their hotel room for perhaps five minutes. Then Ilya opened the door, almost falling inside. He staggered, then steadied himself against the wall.

"Tricky floor," he muttered. But he caught the door before it could slam behind him, and eased it shut quietly.

Shane stood there, caught, halfway out of his t-shirt. He'd kicked off his shoes and shorts on autopilot. He hadn't really planned to get into bed and pretend to sleep, but he hadn't not thought about it either.

He felt very aware of the carpet under his socks. Its fibers pressed stiffly against the soles of his feet. The A/C hummed, spreading cool air. The room was quiet, though a faint rush of traffic still came through the soundproofing of the windows.

"Hey," Ilya said, when he spotted Shane. He'd toed off his shoes and was still holding on to his discarded jersey. The smile that lit up his face was bright and fond, blurry with tiredness. "I did not wake you?"

"No, no," Shane said. Why was his voice so loud? He pulled the t-shirt all the way off, then let it dangle awkwardly from one hand. "I was…"

Ilya paused. He stood just a few paces away, right under the A/C unit, and its breeze stirred some of his curls. He only looked at Shane for a second or two. Then his face fell, a frown appearing between his eyebrows.

"You heard," he said. It wasn't a question. "Me and Hanson."

Shane couldn't help but laugh a little. Flat affect, his ass. Even half-drunk and tired, Ilya could read him like a book.

"Fuck," Ilya said. He came to Shane quickly, yanked off his shirt without looking where it fell. Then his arms were around Shane, warm and safe and familiar.

Shane let out a sigh. It felt like his first full exhale in a while. He tucked his chin against Ilya's bare shoulder, settled his lips to the big muscle there. Ilya smelled like the bar. A faint scent of alcohol clung to his hair.

It felt so good to hold him like this. Some instinct that'd clamored at the back of Shane's brain went quiet and sated. Ilya's necklace was trapped between them, digging gently into Shane's skin.

Ilya's t-shirt was crumpled on the floor along with his jersey. Shane stared at the pile of fabric, his heart squeezing painfully. Ilya had torn off his shirt so fast. He knew Shane liked skin-to-skin contact when he was upset.

…Was he upset? Shane wasn't quite sure. He had to be, right? The shit Hanson had said wasn't new. People called him uptight all the time. Rigid. Controlling. It wasn't that it never bothered him. But…

"I'm sorry, lyubimyy. That you heard." Ilya's voice was thick. He kissed Shane's shoulder, then his neck, his ear. His lips left small damp spots that cooled quickly.

Shane shook his head. It was his own fault, really, for eavesdropping. "It's okay," he said, but Ilya just hummed, a small, crestfallen noise, and ran his palm down Shane's back.

Shane's own words echoed in his ears. It was only then that he found them to be true.

The realization flowed over him like a foamy wave at the beach: He wasn't upset. Not really. Not in that deep, gnawing way that might've made him spiral a few years ago.

What Hanson thought of him didn't matter.

The bitter taste at the back of his throat dissolved. Shane huffed, almost laughing again. It was baffling, freeing, to realize that he did not have to care. Not anymore; and he probably never had.

He didn't have to force a shot of hard liquor down his throat at the next too-loud party. There was no need to stare at his face in the bathroom mirror, trying to find the specific micro-expression that people found so off-putting.

He wouldn't torment himself over this, because he didn't care. He didn't care. And how could he, really, when his husband's arms were around him, his breath gently brushing the shell of his ear?

Shane kissed Ilya's shoulder, letting him feel the curve of his lips against his skin. "I'm fine," he said. He rubbed his thumb down the valley of Ilya's spine. "It's really okay."

"Is not," Ilya said. He squeezed Shane's ribs. "I should have hit him. Shut him up sooner."

Shane's smile widened. "Tomorrow's headline: Rozanov gets thrown out of hotel after bar brawl." He jostled Ilya a little. "And I like your knuckles un-bruised."

Ilya didn't laugh. He was rigid against Shane, his breath shallow. He was… not shaking, really. But there was a brittle tension in their embrace, a thin buzz not unlike the near-inaudible electric hum of a muted TV.

"Hey," Shane said. He tried to pull back, get a glimpse of Ilya's face. "Hey. Ilya…"

"No," Ilya said, a half-hearted protest. He held on tight for another moment, then let Shane maneuver him.

Shane skimmed his lips over the gentle rise of Ilya's cheekbone, then nudged their foreheads together. Sweaty curls pressed against Shane's skin. Ilya's breath brushed his neck. His gorgeous eyes were almost shut, just thin glittering slits remaining.

Shane couldn't think of the precise words that would make it better. So he just said, "Ilya," softly, coaxing.

Ilya shivered. He shifted on his feet, leaning harder into Shane, a softening without words. "Come here," Shane said.

On the edge of the bed, with Ilya's weight in his lap, Shane felt them click. They joked sometimes that Ilya was Shane's favorite weighted blanket. This was what he'd waited for all day, through the game and the interviews and the party. Just the two of them, close and private.

"I hate it," Ilya bit out, finally, after several aborted breaths, "when people… talk about you that way."

Shane had his hands on Ilya's waist. His broad palms covered Ilya's flanks just where the protection of his ribs ended, where Ilya's body was most vulnerable. He was warm under Shane's hands.

Ilya sat hunched over, looking at something to the left of Shane's chin. He was… much more furious than Shane had thought. His eyes glittered dangerously, his jaw clenched tight. Perhaps the alcohol made it harder to push the anger down and away.

"Hanson didn't know what the fuck he—" Ilya cut himself off. His nostrils flared around a deep, angry breath. "The things he said? I wanted to fucking… Shane, he knows nothing about you."

"He doesn't," Shane agreed. He dug his thumbnails gently into Ilya's abs, trying to ground him. "Honestly, I never liked him. His opinion isn't relevant."

"Then he should not give it!" Ilya said hotly. "Who does he think— how did he even make it to All-Stars? He is—" He flung a hand out towards the door. "He is stupid. He has problems. He was drinking tequila, Shane, out of a fucking bottle…"

Ilya cut himself off, blinking hard, then made a noise that was almost a growl. It had to be frustrating to be so pissed off, but unable to put it into precise words. Shane didn't doubt that if his own fledgling Russian were better, Ilya would have been ranting fluently, freely, with a lot more angry gesturing.

"Yeah, he has issues," Shane said. Ilya was squeezing him with his thighs, probably without realizing it. It was… more endearing—and hotter—than Shane would've liked to admit, having Ilya on top of him, all but vibrating with righteous fury. "He always drank a lot, but…"

"All these fucking… people," Ilya snapped. He shut his eyes for a moment, then shook his head, scoffing. "The hockey robot. I'll punch every one of them. They do not know you. And I—"

Ilya's hands were suddenly on his face, cradling Shane's jaw between his palms. His skin was sweaty. He scowled down at Shane's lap. Color burned high in his cheeks.

"I want to…" Ilya licked his lips. "I want to shout about how good you are. Buy plane and have a… banner up in the sky." He traced unsteady fingertips high over Shane's face, where Shane knew his freckles were more pronounced after a bit of Florida sunshine. "I wish they all knew. But I also—"

He took a deep breath. His face twisted. "I don't want them to know you. Not like I do. Hanson is going to forget what I said. He won't know for long. And… I'm glad."

Ilya smiled, small and pained. He finally met Shane's eyes. "I am selfish, you see. Want you all to myself."

"Ilya," Shane said. He wrapped one hand around Ilya's left wrist, pulled his touch far enough away to press a kiss to the calluses in his palm. "It's okay. I'm okay. I don't care what people say."

"You do," Ilya said. His frown looked etched in. His pulse raced under Shane's fingertips.

Shane shook his head. "Not for long," he insisted. He squeezed Ilya's wrist, trying to make him understand.

Ilya's lips were pressed shut, thin and unhappy. Shane shook him a little, half-exasperated with his stubborn husband who somehow thought it was his fault that Hanson had run his mouth.

"Ilya. How the fuck am I meant to even think about this asshole when you—"

A little shiver went down his back. He swallowed hard. "When you said all those things down there? While you were drunk and speaking your second language?"

The shiver seemed to travel onward from Shane's body. Ilya sucked in a sharp breath, a fine tremor running through him, too. He leaned down, almost knocking his forehead into Shane's nose.

Ilya's mouth smeared against his cheek, his chin. Shane turned his head and then they were kissing, sudden and fervent. Their lips slid wetly against each other, shooting sparks down Shane's back.

Ilya tasted mostly like water and himself. A faint hint of beer, perhaps. He groaned quietly, a noise that Shane felt more than heard. Finally, some of the tension in him unspooled. He slumped against Shane, more of his weight settling on Shane's thighs.

"I am not sorry that you heard that," Ilya breathed. His lips moved ticklishly against Shane's mouth. "Just about the other parts."

"Don't be," Shane said. His hands had found their way onto Ilya's skin. He stroked Ilya's broad back, counting his vertebrae with his fingertips. "It's not your fault. And who gives a fuck about Dennis Hanson when…"

He laughed a little. He gripped Ilya's shoulders tight, firm deep pressure, until Ilya looked at him. "I don't care. I can't. Not when you look at me like this."

Ilya's lips parted. His gaze flickered over Shane's face. There was something raw and startled in his eyes, like coming up for air.

"Like what?" he asked. The words were almost soundless, formed more by his lips than his throat.

Shane stretched his spine until he could nudge their faces together again. He pressed his cheek to Ilya's, nosed against his temple, and ended up whispering against the fine hairs of Ilya's eyebrow.

"Like you love me."

"I think I will just always look at you," Ilya said a little while later. He'd settled half on top of Shane, his head tucked under Shane's chin, so his voice reverberated through both of them. "If it means you can't think about assholes."

They'd made out for a while, trading lazy pecks until Shane felt like his whole face was buzzing from the sweetness of Ilya's kisses. Then he'd had made Ilya take a pre-emptive Advil and firmly put both of them to bed.

Shane had thought Ilya had fallen asleep. His breathing had deepened, one of his feet twitching slightly in that way that meant he was close to sleep. He was sprawled across the bed like a big cat, his limbs flung out haphazardly, his ribs rising and falling gently.

A corner of Shane's brain was fretting about the late hour. Some conversations were worth having, even past 3am, but they'd both be destroyed on their morning flight… There might be reporters trying to get an early-morning snapshot, and then fans and their shy selfie requests at the airport. If he and Ilya both looked hungover in the photos…

Well, what then? Shane thought, exasperated. This was what people meant when they called him uptight. Who fucking cared if Shane Hollander had purplish bags under his eyes the morning after a game?

There were few things that Shane loved as much as the heavy, precious weight of Ilya's head on his chest. Hair tickled his neck as he pressed his cheek more firmly to Ilya's curls.

"Always, huh?" he said. "Might be hard to score goals that way. You know, at your job."

"Hmm, no," Ilya said, sleepy but decisive. "The puck is where you are, because you steal it always, easy."

Shane chuckled softly. He pulled the sheet that covered them both a little higher over Ilya's shoulder. The small piece of directionless anxiety thinned out, like paint diluted by water.

He shut his eyes. Shane had been right to turn the A/C down; Ilya was a furnace, his skin so warm that a thin film of sweat stuck them together. Maybe they'd bait each other out of bed with the promise of a quick, shared shower tomorrow morning…

At ass o'clock, after far too little sleep. Shane wrinkled his nose, then made his face relax and smooth out. They'd sleep on the damn plane, and if some gossip rag printed a think piece about Shane's under-eye bags, then so be it. The nebulous specter of his golden boy image would survive.

The darkness behind his lids was gray-tinted and welcoming. Ilya's breathing was a steady anchor. Where might Dennis Hanson be now? Still down at the bar, or perhaps staggering back to his room. Alone, unlike Shane…

"Is perfect plan for next season," Ilya mumbled a little while later, when Shane's thoughts had just begun to fuzz pleasantly. "I have to text Wiebe."

Shane groped around with one clumsy hand until he had his palm over Ilya's eyes. "Not now," he said, disgruntled.

Ilya's chuckle was raspy and deep. He nudged Shane's hand away, but not before a quick kiss to his thumb. "Okay, okay."

He tucked his face deeper into Shane's neck, his lips coming to rest against his clavicle. He moved a little, an undulating, full-body squirm. He'd been limp before, but now he went boneless, melting against Shane with a long, satisfied sigh.

It was a movement as familiar to Shane as the back of his own hand. How often had Shane felt that little stretch? He smiled to himself. His heart fluttered, warm and close.

"Ya tebya lyublyu," he said. His tired tongue made a mess of the words, only preserving the sound of the vowels.

"Mmm." Ilya's fingers twitched a little against Shane's hip. "Y' tozhe."