Work Text:
The Major League Hockey Awards were being held in Las Vegas for reasons that remained unclear to everyone involved.
Hockey belonged in places with ice.
Las Vegas belonged in places with poor impulse control.
The ballroom glittered under chandeliers the size of small planets. Players sat at tables dressed in tuxedos they clearly hated. Executives wandered around congratulating each other for existing. Reporters hunted quotes like predators stalking prey.
And Shane Hollander was trapped backstage with Ilya Rozanov.
Which, frankly, felt unfair.
Shane had spent six months successfully avoiding thinking about Ilya.
That was technically a lie.
He had spent six months thinking about Ilya constantly while pretending not to.
There was a difference.
The difference was mostly psychological.
Unfortunately, Shane's brain seemed determined to betray him the moment he saw him again.
Ilya looked exactly the same.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Curly light-brown hair. Blue eyes.
The kind of smile that suggested trouble was not merely a possibility but a personal hobby.
A minute later they walked onto the stage together.
The audience applauded immediately. Of course they did.
The biggest rivalry in hockey.
Boston versus Montreal. Rozanov versus Hollander.
Fire versus ice. Chaos versus organization.
A publicist somewhere had probably spent weeks inventing those descriptions.
A few minutes later Ilya jokingly said:
"Hey, before we give out the next award, can I get a selfie with you?"
The audience cheered.
League marketing had apparently discovered social media.
Shane hated social media. Specifically, he hated social media whenever it involved him.
Ilya moved closer. Much closer.
His hand landed lightly against Shane's back.
The gesture was casual. Friendly. Harmless.
The camera flashed. Click.
For a second Shane looked toward the screen displaying the image.
The photo was ridiculous.
Ilya looked delighted. Shane looked caught off guard.
They looked…
No.
He wasn't finishing that thought.
The selfie disappeared from the screen as the ceremony continued.
Shane assumed that was the end of it.
It was not.
The first sign of trouble arrived four minutes later.
A publicist approached them backstage holding a phone.
"Oh my God."
Those words rarely introduced anything positive.
"What?" Shane asked.
The woman held up the screen.
"The selfie."
Ilya looked, then immediately burst out laughing.
"Oh, this is excellent."
Shane accepted the phone. His stomach dropped.
The picture had already been posted.
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@IlyaRozanov_81
📸: [photo attached]
Survived 3 minutes on stage with Shane Hollander without starting fight. Personal growth. 😁 🏆
#MLHAwards #ShaneHollander
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Below the post:
42,000 likes. And climbing.
"What?"
"Very successful tweet." Ilya said proudly.
"It has forty-two thousand likes."
"Forty-three now."
"How?"
Ilya shrugged.
"People appreciate quality content."
The publicist laughed.
"Everybody loves it."
Nobody should have loved it. Unfortunately everybody did.
Within ten minutes another publicist appeared.
Then another. Then a reporter. Then a photographer. Then two league executives.
Every single one of them had the selfie open on their phones.
"Look at this."
"You guys broke the internet."
"This is adorable."
"Fans are obsessed."
"Best picture of the night."
"Look at the way you're smiling at each other."
Shane wanted to throw himself into a decorative fountain.
The worst part was that nobody seemed to realize how absurd this was.
They all thought the picture represented friendship.
Friendship.
The word started becoming physically painful.
Because friendship generally required communication.
Communication generally required speaking.
And Ilya Rozanov had apparently forgotten both concepts existed.
Within minutes, the selfie was on every screen.
One publicist held it up like it was a newborn child.
“They love it.” she said.
“Who is ‘they’?” Shane asked.
“Everyone.”
“That’s not a group.”
“It is now.”
Another publicist appeared. “This is the cutest rivalry moment of the season.”
Shane blinked slowly. “It is not a rivalry moment.”
“It’s literally both of you smiling at each other.”
“I am smiling because there is a camera in my face.”
“And I am smiling because I am always smiling.” Ilya added helpfully.
“That is not helping.” Shane muttered.
Another publicist approached.
"Oh my God, look."
Not again.
She turned the screen toward them.
The selfie had already become a meme.
One version showed them with a heart drawn between their heads.
Another compared them to an old married couple.
A third simply said:
WHEN YOUR BEST FRIEND FINALLY AGREES TO TAKE A PICTURE ( ◡̀_◡́)ᕤ
Ilya nearly choked laughing. Shane considered homicide.
Somewhere, a sports analyst was calling it “unexpected emotional transparency between elite competitors”.
Shane heard that sentence and briefly considered retiring from hockey and becoming a lighthouse keeper.
At least lighthouses didn’t have Twitter.
Ilya, meanwhile, looked pleased in a way that suggested he was personally responsible for the invention of the internet.
The ceremony continued.
Awards were announced. Speeches happened. People applauded.
Through all of it, the selfie somehow became more famous.
At one point Shane noticed a reporter showing it to another reporter.
At another point he spotted two retired players discussing it.
Somewhere in America, thousands of hockey fans had apparently decided this photograph represented the peak of human achievement.
Meanwhile Shane was sitting twenty feet away from the man who hadn't answered a message in six months.
The contrast felt insulting.
Eventually the Most Valuable Player (MVP) award arrived.
The winner was unsurprising.
Ilya Rozanov.
The room erupted.
Ilya walked onstage. Accepted the trophy. Smiled.
Thanked teammates. Thanked coaches. Thanked fans.
Thanked "everyone who said I could not do something because proving people wrong is enjoyable”.
The audience laughed. Shane laughed too.
Against his will. Which was annoying.
Because even after six months, Ilya still possessed the irritating ability to make him laugh when he least wanted to.
The speech ended. The applause continued.
The ceremony finally wrapped up.
People began moving toward interviews and parties.
And Shane decided he was done. Completely done.
He spotted Ilya slipping away from the crowd and disappearing down a quieter hallway.
Perfect.
Shane followed.
The corridor was nearly empty. The noise from the ballroom faded behind them.
Ilya glanced over his shoulder. Not surprised at all.
As if he'd known Shane would come.
As if he'd been waiting.
"Hello."
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Act casual."
Ilya smiled.
"I am casual person."
"You are impossible."
"Also true."
Shane folded his arms. The frustration he'd been carrying for months surged forward.
"You know what everyone keeps showing me?"
"The selfie."
"Yes."
"Very good picture."
"It makes us look close."
"We are standing close."
"You know what I mean."
Ilya did. Shane could tell he did.
Unfortunately, he looked amused anyway.
"You haven't spoken to me in six months."
"That is exaggeration."
"It is literally not."
"Maybe five and half."
"It was six."
"Approximately six."
"Oh my God."
Ilya leaned against the wall.
Still smiling. Still irritatingly calm.
"Hollander."
"What?"
"Six months is not actually very long."
Shane stared at him.
The statement was so absurd his brain briefly stopped functioning.
"Not very long."
"No."
"It is half a year."
"Exactly."
"Exactly?"
"Half year. Not full year."
Shane laughed.
Not because anything was funny, because the alternative was screaming.
"You disappeared."
"I was busy."
"Everybody is busy."
"Hockey season."
"You think I don't know about hockey season?"
"Good point."
"I texted you."
"I know."
"You didn't answer."
"I know."
"You vanished after…"
He stopped.
Ilya's expression shifted. Only slightly, but enough.
Shane forced himself to continue.
"You vanished without explanation after we were together."
The silence stretched.
For once, Ilya didn't have a joke ready.
For once, he looked uncomfortable.
Shane hadn't expected that.
"I know." Ilya said quietly.
The answer surprised him.
No argument. No teasing.
Just that.
I know.
"You could've answered."
"Probably."
"Probably?"
"Definitely."
The corner of Ilya's mouth twitched.
Almost a smile. Almost an apology.
Not quite either.
Shane suddenly realized something.
Ilya looked embarrassed.
Not openly. Not dramatically.
But genuinely.
Which was rare enough to qualify as a scientific discovery.
Despite everything, Shane felt his anger beginning to crack, because standing here arguing with Ilya felt strangely familiar.
Comfortable, even.
Ilya studied him.
"You were really angry."
"I was."
"You still are."
"A little."
"A little?"
"Fine. A lot."
Ilya smiled.
And there it was.
The smile Shane had spent six months trying not to think about.
A terrible smile. A catastrophic smile.
A smile that should have required government regulation.
"You missed me."
"No."
"Little bit."
"No."
"Very little bit."
"No."
"Okay. Medium amount."
Shane laughed despite himself.
The traitorous sound escaped before he could stop it.
Ilya immediately looked victorious.
"There."
"I hate you."
"No."
"No?"
"You laugh too much."
"That doesn't mean anything."
"It means many things."
The conversation drifted. It always drifted with Ilya.
Arguments with him never travelled in straight lines.
One moment they were discussing abandonment.
The next they were discussing language.
"Your English got better." Shane admitted.
"Obviously."
"You actually sound better."
"I have excellent teacher."
"Who?"
"Television."
"That's concerning."
"It works."
Then somehow they started discussing Shane's father.
Because conversations with Ilya followed rules known only to him.
"Your father still reads New Yorker?"
"Yes."
"Every week?"
"Yes."
Ilya nodded thoughtfully.
"Interesting."
"It isn't."
"Wow, being boring is genetic."
Shane groaned.
"Oh my God."
"Think about it."
"No."
"Your father reads New Yorker."
"So?"
"You organize spreadsheets for fun."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
"I organize statistics."
"Exactly."
"That's different."
"Not really."
Shane laughed again. Another mistake.
Because Ilya's eyes immediately brightened.
The sight hit Shane harder than it should have.
And suddenly the anger that had carried him into the hallway felt different.
Less sharp. Less certain.
Because underneath the frustration had always been something worse.
Missing him. Wanting him.
Wondering if he'd ever hear from him again.
Ilya looked at him for a moment. Longer than before.
The teasing softened. Just a little.
"I'm glad you came."
The words caught Shane off guard.
"What?"
"I said I am glad you came."
For once there was no joke attached.
No punchline. Just the truth.
The hallway seemed strangely quiet.
Neither moved. Neither looked away.
Finally Ilya cleared his throat.
A rare sign of discomfort.
"We should continue argument later."
Shane raised an eyebrow.
"About what?"
"The genetics."
"There is no genetics argument."
"There is absolutely genetics argument."
"No."
"Strong scientific disagreement."
"You are ridiculous."
"True."
A smile spread across Ilya's face.
That familiar smile. The dangerous one.
"Come to my hotel room after the ceremony events finish."
Shane stared.
The invitation hung between them.
Simple. Direct.
Not entirely casual. Not entirely serious.
Just enough of both to make his pulse jump.
"For the genetics discussion."
"Of course."
"You're an idiot."
"Maybe."
Shane should have said no.
A sensible person would've said no.
A sensible person would've walked away.
Unfortunately, Shane had never been particularly sensible where Ilya Rozanov was concerned.
And judging by the look in Ilya's eyes, the feeling was very much mutual.
"Fine." Shane said.
Ilya's smile widened immediately.
"Excellent."
"You seem very confident."
"I am MVP."
"That's not related."
And Shane - against every logical decision he had made in the last six months - didn’t say no.
He just looked at Ilya.
And followed him when he turned and started walking again.