Work Text:
At sunrise on a summer day, with skies that are threatening rain, the first thing Shane Hollander ever says to his new husband is: "Ilya Rozanov. Hello. I'm Shane Hollander."
There's silence for a long moment as Rozanov looks him up and down before lingering on the hand Shane is stretching out to him. Rozanov's fingers twitch as his side like he wants to be holding something, but finally, he clears his throat and takes Shane's hand in a brief shake.
"Yes," is all he says. The paperwork sits on the table between them—the marriage contract, signed with Rozanov's bold signature and Shane's own, and what look like a million other documents beneath it. Brand and licensing agreements, Shane remembers, and publicity statements.
Outside the courthouse, thunder rumbles, and Rozanov lets his hand go. Shane clears his throat and casts a glance over his shoulder at the windowed door before turning back to Rozanov. Rozanov is still watching him, like he's wondering just what Shane's going to do. He's about Shane's height, with curls tousled around his head and careful hazel eyes. Shane's seen him on TV of course, but never in person like this.
He's—he's far more handsome in person than Shane could have ever imagined. Shane feels almost a little dizzy with it. He's seen Rozanov put the goal in the net in impossible ways, eyes glued to the barrier of the television screen. He's seen him do things that made Shane's breath catch with stunned admiration. But seeing him like this—
How is he seriously married to Ilya Rozanov?
"Um—thanks for agreeing to do this," Shane says. It's mostly a PR thing, he knows. The two princes of hockey, first and second in the draft, married in a whirlwind wedding! Ratings for the upcoming season were expected to be sky high. Hollander ❤️ Rozanov merchandise had been flying off the shelves. The brand deals were coming in so fast his mother could barely keep up with them.
Rozanov shrugs. "It was team's idea," he says.
"Yeah," Shane says. "Mine too. Still—they, um, say it will be really good for the sport."
Rozanov gives a nod of agreement, and Shane supposes, in the end, that at least they have that in common. They want what's best for the sport, even if it means marrying a stranger.
---
The media hadn't been allowed into the courthouse. Shane had been surprised at that. When the plan for the marriage had been put to him, he'd expected some big fancy wedding that they could advertise and capitalize on, but the PR teams of Montreal and Boston had both insisted that a simple, private courthouse wedding would provide better optics.
"Shane and Ilya prefer not to be distracted from hockey," the joint statement had read.
When they step outside, the cameras are blinding. It had started raining heavily at some point while they were signing paperwork, and the sound of the shutters thunders along with the sound of the storm. Shane looks around, and is if reading his mind—and definitely as if seeing an opportunity for a photo op—one of Montreal's PR team hands him a large umbrella.
Opening it, Shane angles it so that Rozanov won't get soaked. Rozanov shoots him a wry look.
"My knight in armour," he says, and though his voice is flat and even, Shane is pretty sure he's teasing him.
Shane blushes and shrugs a little awkwardly. "More like a black suit," he says, and Rozanov lets out a snort that sounds vaguely amused. "Um—they booked us a hotel," he says, even though he's sure Rozanov has already been told. It feels weird, to book a hotel in Ottawa when his family home is literally just a few klicks away, but he'd been told it would be easier to have a security detail there, and that this way it wouldn't cause a media frenzy for Shane's neighbours to deal with.
Besides, the PR teams had argued: it looked more romantic—Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, holed up in a hotel on their wedding night where they could be alone without any family distractions.
There are questions flying at them even faster than the rain. Someone shoves a microphone in Rozanov's face, barking question after question, and Shane can see the guardedness enter Rozanov's eyes.
Leaning in, feeling strangely protective of his new husband, Shane speaks into the microphone. "We're very excited to start this new chapter of our lives and our games together," he says.
As if sensing blood in the water—or his willingness to answer questions—the reporters zero in on him. Rozanov stands quietly by his side, and when the occasional stray question is shouted in his face, he simply nods seriously and gestures towards Shane.
"What he said," he says, a look of what could almost be relief in his eyes when he looks at Shane, like he hadn't been expecting Shane to show him such kindness, and Shane feels like—
Like maybe, in some weird way, they can make this work.
---
They don't say much of anything in the limo on the way to the hotel—the best Ottawa has to offer. Both in terms of limos and hotels. Shane makes a few offhand comments, and Rozanov gives him short responses. It feels a little awkward, but Shane supposes it could be worse.
Getting to the hotel is a relief. The ride had been quiet, but even with the partition up, Shane had felt self-conscious knowing the driver was just a few feet away. When they get to their suite, the door closed and locked, Shane feels some of the tension leave his shoulders.
There is, he notes, only one bed in the bedroom, but he supposes he should have expected that. If nothing else, it's bigger than any bed he's ever seen before, so he hopes it won't be too weird.
Rozanov wanders to the side board, where there's a collection of bottles and sparkling glasses. Silently, he pours himself a glass of something—then, after a slight hesitation, pours a second glass and turns to hand it to Shane.
Vodka, Shane realizes when he takes a sip. He nods his thanks, and Rozanov nods back before taking a long sip himself.
Shane takes a deep breath. He fiddles with the glass, turning it between his hands as he looks around the living room of their suite. The curtains are drawn wide, showing the rain that's still pouring from the grey morning sky. Lightning flashes, and then a moment later, there's a peal of thunder.
He doesn't know why, but he'd always assumed that if he ever got married, it would be sunny.
"Is good vodka," Rozanov finally says into the silence, and Shane starts a little.
He feels a rush of relief at the overture at conversation.
"Yeah," he says quickly. "I'm glad. That you like it, I mean."
Rozanov nods and takes another long sip.
"Look," Shane says. "I—don't really know what all they told you. I wish we'd had more of a chance to talk before—well, you know." Before they'd shoved them into a courthouse and had them sign papers before they could even say so much as a word to each other.
Lowering his glass, Rozanov looks at him thoughtfully. "They tell me 'marry Shane Hollander and you can play hockey in America,'" he says with a shrug. "So I say, yes."
Shane takes a deep breath. "Okay. Yeah. They told me—they told me it would be good for hockey and good for Canada," he says. "To have one of it's young prospects married to another star player. Some kind of international PR thing." They'd told him a lot of stuff, and he'd listened carefully, but it all seems like a blur right now.
Rozanov nods again. "Good for hockey, good for us," he says. "Yes, they tell me this too."
"We probably won't see much of each other during the year," Shane says. They'll be expected to do photo shoots whenever they're playing each other, of course, but other than that, the focus will be on hockey. "But—I'd like to be friends," he says. "When I agreed to marry you, I—I'm really hoping we can be friends.
Shane just wants this to work, in whatever way it can.
Rozanov smirks, and Shane thinks it's the most unguarded he's seen the other hockey player since they met.
"Friends," he says. "No more?"
"Well—" Shane clears his throat nervously. "Husbands. You know."
"Yes," Rozanov says. "I know." He glances towards the bedroom, and when he looks back at Shane, there's a look of distinct interest in his eyes. "Would you like to try being husbands now?"
Shane feels like his face is going to burn off. "You mean—" he starts, and then stops. He hadn't known what to expect. He hadn't known if Rozanov—if Ilya—would want anything to do with him outside of the publicity.
But Ilya is watching him with a question in his eyes, and Shane gets the strange feeling that maybe he wants this to work too.
"Yeah," he says, and then clears his throat. "I'd—I'd like that."