Archive of Our Own

Shane was really fucking anxious about the weather–the slight chill in the air, and he was really anxious about how much money they’d have to pay the officiant to keep his mouth shut. He was really the only loose end they had yet to tie up; the only person that wasn’t in Shane and Ilya’s trusted inner circle.

The wedding would be almost painfully simple. In Shane’s parents’ backyard they’d set up an arch with some colored flowers, rented a couple tables and chairs, and purchased a sheet cake from the nearest convenience store that Shane’s mother had decorated. The attendees were Shane’s parents (who were also the hosts), Shane’s grandparents, a couple cousins Shane was close enough to to invite, Ilya’s best friend Svetlana, Ilya’s other friend Sasha, Rose Landry and her boyfriend, and Cliff Marleau (best man to Ilya) and his wife.

Shane, after finalizing the short guest list (Ilya, bless his heart, wasn’t good with Google Sheets), had nearly cried himself to sleep in Ilya’s arms at the thought of not having his best friend since high school at his wedding. But he’d cried harder at the prospect of coming out to Hayden.

It had in fact distressed him so deeply that Ilya had had to ask him to stop thinking about it entirely. Shane could lose weeks of sleep over trying to predict Hayden’s reaction, spend hours nauseous and on the verge of tears, nearly vomit at just trying to plan out what he’d say.

In many, many ways, Shane had been more fortunate than Ilya in life, but Ilya had always had some degree of comfort in his sexuality that Shane had never had. Ilya’s attraction to men had been a source of immense stress and fear– of course. It wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination convenient for him or even good. But Ilya had always accepted it as part of himself and he’d always treated it like a fact he couldn’t change, only hide; like his hair being curly or his eyes being blue. 

Shane hadn’t been able to say the word ‘gay’ out loud until he was in his mid-twenties. He’d lived in complete and absolute denial his entire childhood, adolescence, and half of his adulthood, despite always being involved with men some way or another. His sexuality was something that he hated addressing, thinking about, poking at–it was his sleep paralysis demon and a permanent tumor in his chest. It haunted Shane in ways Ilya couldn’t even begin to imagine. 

And to be clear– to Shane, that was a good thing. He didn’t want Ilya to know what it felt like. 

When they’d gotten engaged and begun planning their wedding, the first people Shane had thought to invite were the Pikes. Then, yes, he’d nearly slipped into a very dark patch mentally trying to figure out how to break it to them.

Because what if Hayden would never see him the same way again? It caused a painful tightness in Shane’s jaw and a pressure in his head he couldn’t handle. What if Hayden cut him off? What if he’d never speak to him or to Jackie or to their children again? 

No, it was worse than that. They played on the same team. It wouldn’t be possible to never speak to Hayden again past that point. It would be worse; he’d have to go to work every day and endure seeing his ex-best friend, his ex-person, look at him with distant disgust or disappointment or something of the sort every day for the rest of his life.

It would ruin his life. It would ruin friendships, hockey, it would even taint his marriage to Ilya; he would never be able to fully lose himself in Ilya again if his stupid gay antics had cost him a  person this important to him, that he’d known since he was a literal child. There’d be a hole in his heart in the shape of Hayden Pike and Shane’s second family for the rest of his life. 

So no, the Pikes were not at Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov’s wedding. There was too much at stake. And it was everything Ilya could do to distract Shane of this fact. With flowers, with cake, with jokes, with innuendos. It was working to some extent. 

Ilya had had the pleasure of knowing every version of Shane Hollander. The cool, the stoic, the sad, the clingy, the desperate, the mad, the cynic, the lover-boy–all of them. But he’d never seen a version of Shane this comfortable showing him off. It touched Ilya so deeply he thought he’d explode.

When they walked around together, Shane wasn’t afraid to hold his hand. To press himself close to Ilya’s side, to smile at him and laugh at his jokes at an obnoxiously loud volume. Squeeze his shoulder or hug him close or look at him with those fucking eyes.

The eyes. Coffee. Firewood. Home. His mama’s arms. 

Ilya would never tell Shane this because of how badly he’d abuse it– but he’d do anything for his doe eyes. That sparkle of his soul. The gaze that alone held over seven years of their love. 

He was so lucky to even be in Shane’s life at all. He was so lucky all of his attempts at overdosing had failed miserably. That every bridge had a rail in the way, every train track had a barbed wire fence, that his body had been strong enough to let him live to today. That he’d met the love of his life so young and it’d worked out. And he was so lucky to be let into a family like Shane’s.

Yuna, with her forehead kisses and her micromanagement and her slender arms, reminded him so much of his mama. If he let his mind wander around that thought too much he’d end up crying again, and he’d already done enough of that ten minutes ago when reading aloud his vows to Shane. Way too much of it when Shane had read his, handwritten in Russian.

Svetlana had helped him, but she had told Ilya afterwards Shane had only made a couple sentence structure and grammar mistakes here and there. Then she’d run off to flirt with some of Shane’s cousins, joking about also marrying into the family. 

That was where she still was, in a tight red dress with a slit and a glass of wine in her hand. Shane had been talking to her a moment ago and had then spotted Ilya and come over, and now Shane was at his side, Ilya’s arm firmly around his waist. 

“Hi, moy lyubimyy.” He nuzzled Shane’s neck. “Are you having a good time, moye solnyshko?”

Shane smiled stupidly. “Are you drunk?”

It was eight in the morning, but he wouldn’t have been surprised.

“Drunk on love,” Ilya sighed dramatically. 

Shane rolled his eyes with affection. “How many have you had?”

Ilya jabbed Shane’s ribcage, playfully. 

“One. I am not drunk, lyubimyy.”

“Fine, sure. I believe you.”

Ilya jabbed him again. “No, I am not.”

Shane waved a hand in the air dismissively. “Dance? It’s time, isn’t it? I think we’ve mingled enough for now.”

Ilya wordlessly dragged him by the waist to the tiny little dancefloor they’d ordered online a week before the wedding, just big enough for one couple to dance comfortably while the rest watched or danced along from the grass. He pulled Shane close, taking the leading position to start with. Shane flung his arms around Ilya’s neck, biting back another smile.

The cheap speakers let out a song called Orbiter, one they’d heard in a pub on the very first night they’d been brave enough to be spotted in public together. It’d been funny; both of them trying to comment on the song while aware the people around were watching, listening–and trying to be careful not to imply anything with their ‘casual’ discussion and interpretation of the lyrics over a couple beers. But they were perfect. Fuck, they were perfect.

I look exhausted

Oh, stiff and awkward on the outside of the moment

It was like Vegas. That night on the balcony. They’d both also been wearing tuxes, just like now. And, my, that kiss, when Ilya had shoved Shane into the wall and had him with his lips.

It's not my first time bitter, drunk on a red carpet

Or my first time losing, and it won't be my last

Shane still remembered the first time he’d realized what Ilya had been talking about that night, that confrontation. The guilt that had pooled in his stomach at Ilya’s quiet fireside stories about his mother’s dreams for him.

Some will never know they're beautiful

Until the crowd points it out for them

How long ago had that been? How long ago had it been since Ilya had let Shane into a part of him no one else knew? Had it been since the cottage? It seemed inconceivable there was once a time Irina hadn’t been a frequent topic of discussion between them. That Ilya didn’t slip in a comment about his childhood with a tiny smile and a fondness in his voice reserved just for her.

But I see you through a camera flash

I look back and you laugh

And this is hard, but I feel less far

Ilya pulled Shane closer, partly interrupting their dance with a well-placed teary hug. Shane’s laugh was one of his favorite things about him. He couldn’t fucking believe this was real life. For a moment he shut his eyes and pressed his forehead against Shane’s, and it was just the two of them again.

I'm an astronaut, you're the Moon

I stare at you, I sing to you

I circle you

Two scared nineteen year-olds in a hotel room seeking comfort, seeking warmth from a simple bump of the forehead. Just a little gesture that said, I’m here. I’m going to take care of you.

By nine, the sky was already completely grey.

Shane had told Ilya about the weather forecast. But had he listened? 

Ilya was as stubborn as a fucking mule. You could whack his head against concrete and the concrete would split. He’d insisted on July 3rd specifically, and seeing as how Shane quite liked the timing as well, he’d given in. 

And just as Shane was bugging Ilya about the sky, a freezing droplet of water splashed on the bridge of his nose. 

“Oh, it’s raining.” He shut his eyes tight. “It’s raining.”

Shane had facets to him that revealed themselves only to the people he was most intimate with, which were quite few. But something about him that was abundantly clear to everyone that knew him was that he was sort of a control freak. 

Situations he had no control over got him into a bad state. They made him very anxious. And Exhibit A: at the moment he was trying not to cry as rain began to softly pour down.

“Shane. Shane,” Ilya rubbed his shoulder. “Baby, it’s okay. Just a drizzle. Nobody minds getting little bit wet, right?”

“This is a disaster.”

“It is not disaster,” Ilya cooed. “It is minor inconvenience.”

Shane groaned. “My tux is getting drenched.”

“It is okay. Come, dance with me again.”

Ilya held out his hand, and after letting out a large puff of warm air (the temperature had dropped quite a bit in the last hour or so), Shane took it.

This time, rather than do a proper, engaging dance, they did the kind that was more akin to swaying together in time with the music. The song was different now, but not any more upbeat. The time for that had been much, much earlier, after their first dance; Ilya, who was a massive fan of Bad Bunny and random 2010s pop hits, had taken care of that. Shane had been the one to pick this song.

Desert flowers wait for rain

Scattered seeds along the plains

He just lay his head on Ilya’s shoulder, while Ilya held him and breathed him in and reassured him. They moved in small, slow actions.

Storms will swell, the days will fly

I'll love you like the passing time

The rain continued in sheets, touching down upon the yard and everyone in it. Shane’s tux was, in fact, getting drenched. But he couldn’t seem to care much anymore. 

Fine, he cared a little. He hated wearing wet clothes. At the very least, the icy tongue of death that was the rain wasn’t accompanied by thunder or hail or anything actually dangerous. He was just uncomfortable. And he could deal with uncomfortable. He could manage uncomfortable.

It was made easier by his lovesickness at the present moment, with his freshly minted husband’s arms around him. Although, it was cold. Even with pants and longsleeves and some layers. 

Ilya’s thoughts were carnal. Not regular carnal; not the carnal that had been following around their relationship since it had started after filming a dumb commercial. But absolutely fucking filthy, even by his standards. 

It was so hard not to pull Shane indoors by his wet sleeve and have him right in his parents’ house’s bathroom. Especially because they were now legally married. Something he’d dreamed of for years. A wish that had lived quietly somewhere in the dark corners of his shriveled little black heart every time he’d woken up next to Shane after a hookup or every time he’d seen Shane so much as smile at him with that smile that was reserved just for him. He’d always thought he was too rough around the edges for that kind of deep, warm love he sought. The intimacy, the gentleness. 

And now he and his new husband, both famous multi-millionaires, were having a quaint backyard wedding that was something out of the stories his mother would tell him to distract him from the thunder outside on violent Moscow nights.

The most wonderful thing about it was how much time Ilya just got to exist with Shane. Hold his hand and kiss that tender spot behind his ear. He was sure the reason their guests left them mostly alone was because he was letting something leak into his gaze and he probably looked a little bit fucking insane. But he’d spent an entire lifetime bottling up his feelings, crying quietly behind closed doors, pretending not to feel a thing for Shane. They could deal with him being a bit annoying just today.

When he and Shane got back from their honeymoon he’d have to go back to default-blank-stare Ilya anyways. For the public. So it was fine. It was fine he was probably staring at Shane with his eyes wide open like Shane was a piece of meat to be devoured.

Shane, the love of his life, his boring Canadian husband, had insisted that if they were going with the date Ilya wanted, they had to have the wedding at the time Shane agreed. Which was in the morning, practically at the crack of dawn. It made his pants seem unbearably tight and the conversation stretch out way longer than he would’ve liked it to. 

They were getting on a plane to St. Augustine, Florida around four. So early because it would be an eight hour flight, spent in a first class cabin with blankets and wine and privacy. 

And of course it sounded fucking amazing. He could hardly think of anything better in the world than spending that much time with Shane cuddled up against him like a kitten, warm and wine–drunk and a little sleepy and half-watching whatever Marvel film Ilya would turn on on the little airplane screen.

Key word: hardly. Pun not intended. 

It was great that their wedding was in the summertime, because it meant they got a three-week honeymoon and because Shane certainly wouldn’t be in any proper physical condition to play hockey for at least two. If Ilya had his way, Shane wouldn’t be able to walk for two. 

Shane had started sniffling around noon. Ilya hadn’t hesitated to run in and grab a tissue box for him as soon as Shane had tugged on his sleeve and asked. The temperature must’ve dropped at least another couple degrees since the wedding had started, and people were beginning to feel it, even the women pulling on extra layers even though it clashed with most of their elegant dresses.

“It’s so fucking cold,” Shane murmured to Ilya, rubbing his palm. 

They sat next to each other at their own little ‘family’ table, Shane, Ilya, and Shane’s parents. Ilya was absolutely fucking giddy at the fact Shane was now his family. For the first time in his entire life the word didn’t make him want to blow out his brains with a gun. 

Family. He couldn’t stop saying it over and over and over in his head. It never got old. The Hollanders being his family would never get old. Sweet, gentle, mild-mannered David Hollander that reminded Ilya so much of Shane. Beautiful, confident, caring Yuna Hollander that had given the person he loved most in the entire world life. Shane, who was a perfect blend of his two parents, the most wonderful people Ilya had ever had the pleasure of knowing. 

They went over to the Hollanders’ house so often now that Ilya considered it his second home. The Hollander house was always filled with light and laughter and the scent of firewood and an abundance of embroidered throw pillows. They had movie nights and board game nights and the only yelling was when Yuna and Ilya got too competitive at Monopoly or Uno and started timing people’s turns. That was when it got loud. Loud and messy, just like it’d been in his early, early childhood.

Ilya loved it so much. If he thought too much about how lucky he was he got into a crying fit that was impossible to stop.

He rubbed Shane’s hand back.“Do you want me to go inside and get you another jacket, moye solnyshko? More tissues?”

Shane was already wearing four layers. Dress shirt, tux jacket, and two thin jackets on top of that. Both jackets were zipped up to the top.

“Mm,” Shane just hummed. “I guess more tissues.”

Ilya’s eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Shane, lyubimyy, are you feeling alright?”

“I’m okay. My nose always gets super runny when it’s this cold.”

He paused for a moment, considering something. 

“Huh. I guess we’ve never been together in weather this cold,” he settled on finally.

Summer had never been this cold, yes, but hadn’t they spent any winters together?

Ilya scanned his memories. “We’ve been together in winters.”

“Yeah, in a hotel room or in my sex condo. Never outdoors like this.”
“Are you sure you are okay? You look pale, Shane.” Ilya scooched his seat closer to Shane’s, taking his hand in his.

“I’m always like this in the cold,” Shane reassured. “Just need tissues, baby.”

Yuna and David made their way back over to the table right when Ilya rose to fetch another box, clutching plates of food for themselves and for the newlyweds.

David set down his and Yuna’s plates, looking between Ilya and Shane.

He nodded at Ilya, “Everything alright, son?”

“Grabbing tissues for my honey.” He nodded back. “Alright.”

Unfortunately, by the late afternoon it was clear something was wrong with Shane. His cheeks were flushed, and he reached absently for a tissue at least three times per every ten minutes.

Ilya had been by his side the entire day, so Shane had pushed him to go talk to the very few guests that he had invited on his end, including his soon-to-be-former Boston teammate Cliff Marleau. He watched Ilya from the corner of his peripheral vision now, chatting away animatedly with hearty laughs and big hand gestures, every couple minutes looking back in Shane’s direction just to keep an eye on him. He looked so happy. And Cliff was still crying from just being here, and from Shane and Ilya’s vows which he’d commented on tearily at least eleven thousand times at this point.

Cliff just thought this whole thing was the sweetest thing ever. After, of course, their relationship had been explained to him by Ilya–since initially walking in on them making out in a bathroom had led him to think Ilya had been cheating on Jane.

Not the sharpest crayon in the box, that was for sure. But Shane had to admit he was loyal and kind and shockingly funny. It wasn’t a surprise he was one of Ilya’s best friends. Their personalities went incredibly well together.

He’d always liked how polite and civil Cliff had been to him over the years. Never a dirty comment made or a slur uttered, neither the c nor the f-slur. Just a respectful handshake and a look of respect.

Ilya had expressed a desire to invite him and his wife over a bit more frequently now that he was aware. And when they’d discussed children Ilya had told him he wanted Cliff to be the godfather to at least one of them. 

Shane thought that that was pushing it a little, but a nice sentiment. He was just glad Ilya wasn’t completely alone when Svetlana and Sasha were in Russia, where Ilya could no longer follow with his new legal status.

As for Shane, his wedding/relationship best friend was Rose. She was the one who’d pushed him into realizing the full extent of his feelings for Ilya; Shane wasn’t sure he would’ve even had the courage to ask himself the questions that she did, and he’s not sure he would’ve been brave enough to make it to today.

Was it weird because of them being technically exes? Actually, it wasn’t. Even if at some point Rose had admitted to him she’d once been mildly in love with him and it was hard to let him go.

But it was something neither of them had ever given another thought to once Shane had let himself fully be with Ilya and Rose had found her boyfriend Julian. In fact, sometimes they forgot they even technically dated.

The fact of the matter was that even when they’d been in that strange period, they’d been so incompatible in the romantic sense that all they’d stuck to were just the things that made them such good friends. It was genuinely just like being friends but with a boyfriend-girlfriend label slapped messily on top of it. Over the months they’d been “together” they’d tried to have sex a total of three times (all of which ended before they even started) and had barely even touched, less alone kissed. 

Maybe that was why Shane had such trouble understanding social rules about exes. Why people got so upset or triggered or defensive or possessive or icked-out. He was on better terms with Rose now than he’d ever been. 

She took a seat next to him now, having abandoned Julian somewhere near the makeshift bar they’d hastily pieced together yesterday. She was particularly beautiful today, in the way a glorious sunrise was. Her strawberry blonde hair was up in a style that must’ve taken her hours to perfect and she wore a flat-necklined off the shoulder black dress that put her clavicle on full display in a way Shane knew must drive Julian mad. He’d had a talk with Julian once, who was bisexual, so he was able to explain it was the equivalent of a guy stretching his arms with a shirt a bit too short that rode up and exposed half his stomach. Shane had flushed in understanding, immediately picturing Ilya.

“How’s the happy husband doing?” she asked him, nudging with her elbow.

Shane smiled, sniffling involuntarily. He stuffed another tissue up his nose.

“He’s with his best man. He’s happy.”

Rose laughed. “No, I meant you. How are you doing?”

“Uhm, a bit congested. I think I might’ve caught something in the air.”

“How many layers are you wearing?” She poked at his sleeve. “I hope you already took all your wedding photos, ‘cause this kind of looks awful.”

He rolled his eyes affectionately. “Jules packed up her things, like, an hour ago.” 

Cliff Marleau’s wife Jules, a photographer, had been nice enough to offer to take pictures when she’d found out Ilya and Shane weren’t planning on hiring anyone for privacy reasons. 

And fuck, was Shane grateful. He wanted one framed front and center in their new Ottawa home they’d buy together, he wanted one on his nightstand, one on his dresser, and especially one in his wallet for when they’d have to be away from each other. He wanted a whole photo album he could bring out around their eventual children to show them this day and say, “look at how fit Daddy was on his wedding day. That’s when Daddy still played hockey.” Or, “your Papa looks like a Greek God, doesn’t he?”

It was the most wonderful gift any of their guests could’ve given them. It was a hundred percent his favorite, no competition. Anything Jules wanted in return for it, she could have. Including his very soul.

Right before packing up her things, she’d shown Shane just one photo, and he’d immediately fallen in love with it. 

Ilya had been playing around, and he’d lifted Shane up into his arms bridal-style (ironically enough) and spun him around until he was nearly dizzy. The picture was taken right after that, between the moment they’d stopped spinning and Ilya had put Shane down.

Both of their cheeks were flushed pink, and Ilya had this stupid cocky smile on his overwhelmed face that was turned to the side, smooshed in Shane’s cheek, kissing. Shane’s arms were around his neck and his head was thrown back laughing, like a little kid. His mouth was wide open and his eyes were scrunched and in that moment he understood that sometimes a feeling was so strong it could bleed through a photograph and through time and be captured forever right there.

He’d nearly been brought to tears. 

“I bet they’re incredible. When you get them, you’ve gotta make a group chat and send them all.” 

Shane nodded. “I will.”

“I need to show my kids Uncle Shane and Uncle Ilya’s wedding.” She gestured with her hands. “They’ll be so curious.”

Rose was funnily enough the only one that hadn’t needed some time to warm up to Ilya. She’d been shocked when Shane had told her who the object of his desires was, of course, who wouldn’t? But rather than continue to question it and struggle to come to terms with it, she’d just accepted it immediately. Around her, it was like she’d always known.

Shane had asked her about it and she’d just shrugged in response.

“I mean, you seem like a really good match. Similar, but not too much. Same ideals, same broad interests, all that crap– but he’s different enough from you that I think he’s just what you need. Someone a bit louder than you, someone a bit more reckless than you are to balance out your boring-ness,” she’d explained casually, as though this wasn’t finally putting words to something he’d thought about their relationship for years.

He hadn’t known how she’d managed to nail it down so perfectly. He loved the woman to death.

“We’ll show our kids together,” Shane replied. “Have some kind of sleepover or something.”

“Awh, Shane–!” Rose suddenly burst out, eyes lighting up. “Wouldn’t it be so exciting if we both had girls? And they could be best friends. Or–”

She gasped, as though the genius of her own idea surprised her. “We could have kids, and they could be together. Like in-love together. We could be in-laws!”

“Then Ilya and I would have to have multiple. I’m planning on setting up my first born with one of Hayden’s kids so I can piss the fuck off out of Ilya,” Shane squeezed out, laughing. “Oh my god, can you imagine them as brothers?”

Rose’s face dropped a bit. “I love Hayden. It’s such a tragedy he’ll only hear about today second-hand. I wish he could’ve been here.”

Shane stuffed another tissue up his nose, his stomach dropping. “Me too.”

Ilya had stopped their cab to the airport before it left to rush back inside last minute and fetch Shane a blanket. Ilya had ignored Shane’s insistence that he didn’t need one due to the fact he’d been quite literally shivering in his arms. 

When he slid back into the backseat–careful to check his sunglasses were on as high up as possible and his cap had every curl tucked in– Shane cuddled up to him immediately, and he draped the blanket over both of their laps. 

They were both hoping and praying the cab driver saw two giddy, newlywed husbands headed to the airport and didn’t look too closely at the rearview mirror to notice who they were exactly. 

It was fucking annoying, sneaking around like this on their wedding day. It’d always been annoying, but today in particular it was almost unbearable. All Ilya wanted to do was lift Shane’s left hand up and flash his ring in the sunlight, on the inside engraved with Hollander-Rozanov and the date both today and when they’d met, and yell about how excited he was to finally be in this position.

But he bit his tongue and twirled his own ring around his own finger, biting down that possessive, almost irrational urge he got to show off Shane to the entire planet. 

He also hated the fact that when the summertime ended they’d both have to take off their rings and hide them. That made him really fucking mad. Because why did everyone else get to show off their hot wives, but it wasn’t socially acceptable to show off his hot husband?

The ride was about an hour long, overall not too terrible. Shane had mumbled something briefly to him before passing out, and Ilya had spent the hour stroking his back or his hair, one headphone in, listening to his playlist. Or more specifically, the playlist his Shane had made him. 

Ilya was a person that liked to move to music. All of his playlists were full of pop or hiphop or reggae or rock–songs that made a person blast them in the car and blow their lungs out screaming along. 

If anybody asked him directly, he’d say his favorite artist was Bad Bunny, who he had enough love of and knowledge of to properly back. Only Shane knew it was really Taylor Swift. He’d sworn to Shane that if he told anybody he’d skin him. 

Shane listened to the most depressing fucking shit on the planet. Shane was about alternative, folk, sad country. His idea of a good time was a guy or a girl with a guitar and a face made for crying. Shane’s favorite had been soldily Phoebe Bridgers for years and while Ilya definitely appreciated her artistry, he could not for the life of him understand why anyone would want to listen to music that sad. 

Shane, bless his beautiful, golden, angel heart, didn’t understand Ilya not understanding. He would blast her in the car sometimes and hum along, and when Ilya was brought nearly to tears and requesting a different artist on aux he’d say, “What? It has a beat. You can dance to this.”

It was so adorable when Shane made him playlists. Fuck, it was so cute. He did his best to go into his sad-boy-music artists’ discographies and find their most upbeat songs, which typically still struck Ilya directly in the heart. Three words: Kevin fucking Atwater.

It was funny. People thought of Shane as the ‘soft’ one and Ilya as the ‘tough’ one, but Ilya was really the more emotionally sensitive one. He guessed he’d just been repressing his feelings so long he was only really able to express them around Shane. Shane was the only person alive who’d ever seen him cry.

He snuggled himself comfortably into Ilya’s side, and Ilya just continued his slow, reassuring motion on his back. 

“Is good you are getting sleep now,” he whispered, but it wasn’t in an I-need-privacy-way– more of a my-husband-is-sleepy-and-a-bit-sick-and-I’m-speaking-gently-and-this-is-what-comes-naturally way. 

“We will enjoy plane ride more if you are awake. Movie, some popcorn, champagne. Strawberries.” Ilya nudged him. “Are you feeling better, lyubimyy?”

“I have a bit of a migraine, but it’s manageable,” Shane mumbled. “My nose has been running like a faucet all day, it’s probably from some kind of mucus-pressure thing. I read an article about that once.”

Ilya smiled. “It will clear up, sweetheart. Give it a couple hours.”

It did not clear up. Shane was so grateful he and Ilya were in a financial position to be able to afford an isolated two-seat row in first class, because he didn’t think he’d be able to handle people staring as he sniffled and sneezed and reached for the millionth tissue and coughed and tried desperately not to smear germs into the very limited air particles in this plane. 

And of course, he was also grateful for their position because of the nature of their relationship. They’d asked to be attended to by a maximum of two stewards/stewardesses and planned on being the most respectful, sickeningly sweet passengers to ever grace this cabin and then tip a massive sum to hopefully buy their silence (if they even recognized Shane/Ilya and/or cared in any way about their relationship). 

Was it the safest plan? No. Were the both of them fucking fed up with hiding? Could they catch a break and be a bit risky just this once? Yes. 

The want to pretend they were out outweighed Shane’s paralyzing fear of being judged in this case. Maybe he was riding the adrenaline high from the wedding. 

At the airport, they mostly kept their distance. They stayed in the same general vicinity, sat pretty close to each other, but did not smile or laugh or touch or caress or hug or kiss. 

Ilya had discreetly pointed out to Shane a couple people taking pictures from across the gate, trying to hide their phones and failing miserably.

There were probably already blurry pictures on Twitter of them here together, the comments bickering about what Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov were doing catching a flight to Florida together. 

Ilya had initially wanted a more traditional honeymoon spot, but after Shane had explained his reasoning for wanting Florida he’d converted Ilya. After all, Tampa was where they’d finally stopped pretending the thing between them was just sex. 

They’d chosen St. Augustine over Tampa, though, because it was less of a hockey-hot-spot and more of a quiet area. And Shane had always wanted to visit St. Augustine. They’d be able to stay in one of those white-trimmed old inns and get waffles in the morning with old-style maple syrup and step out onto the balcony and breathe in the coastal air. 

It would be like a little taste of what regular, domestic life would be like with llya once they were in a position to live together full-time. 

“Idiot decision, to kill Black Widow,” Ilya exclaimed again, shaking his head as Avengers Endgame played out on the little screen in front of him. He popped a chip into his mouth.

“She carries whole team. She and Captain America. They killed him, too!” He scowled, remembering the ending. 

It’d been almost four hours in the air already. Ilya had wanted to watch Endgame and Infinity War again, as he always did on long flights, and then he’d promised to let Shane pick when those two were over. There was about an hour left in this one, so Shane’d begun racking his brain for what he’d pick.

His head still hurt. It was hard to think. He just nodded whenever Ilya turned to him to make a comment about the writing or lighting or cinematography, trying hard to listen fully but finding his head throbbing a bit too much to formulate a thoughtful response. 

They’d lifted up the armrest in between them, and Shane was again leaned against Ilya, holding his hand on his thigh under the blanket. 

He sneezed again, and ejected the contents of his nose onto a tissue, frowning at the bright green snot.

“Fuck, doesn’t that mean it’s infected or something? That’s bad, right?” he prodded Ilya’s shoulder. 

“Shane, love of my life, you are fine. It is some kind of cold.” Ilya mussed his hair. “You are not dying.”

“I never said I was dying. But doesn’t green mean–”

Ilya held his shoulder. “Look at me. Shane, look at me,” he said. “Shane, if something was wrong with your godly, perfect self I would be more upset than you. I would break into cockpit, take pilot controls, and get us to hospital immediately. I promise you are okay. You have a cold, lyubimyy.”

Shane fidgeted with the end of the blanket. “You think?”

“If it calms you down, moye solnyshko, we will see a doctor as soon as we land.” Ilya rubbed the palm of Shane’s hand with his thumb. 

Ilya never dismissed Shane’s fears, his paranoia. He never told him he was overreacting or being a baby or fucking developing Munchausen syndrome, just sat and held him and reassured him and took steps in his direction. Ever the listener, ever the understander. 

“I would like that,” Shane murmured. “If that’s alright. Just for peace of mind.”

“Of course, my love. Whatever you need.”

Ilya, like in 90% of situations, was in fact right. They’d quickly stopped at a clinic about twenty minutes from the airport and the doctor on call had told them what Ilya already knew: that Shane just had an aggressive common cold. 

She tapped her fingers on her keyboard, turning back to Shane, who was sitting quietly on the cot, with a smile. 

“–I’d recommend just resting for a couple days. If your throat’s bothering you, some hot tea or some soup. Maybe a mild dose of melatonin if you can’t sleep otherwise, just to force a little rest into your body.”

Shane nodded. “Nothing’s wrong, then?”

“It’ll get worse before it gets better. It’ll probably hit you hardest a couple hours from now.” Dr. Andersen flashed him a second quick reassuring smile. “Absolutely nothing wrong, though. Should be gone in maybe three days.”

Ilya rested his left hand on Shane’s knee, giving it a gentle pat. Andersen’s eyes visibly snagged on Ilya’s ring, and Shane suddenly felt much worse than he had a second ago.

He could feel her eyes rising now, searching Shane’s hand. 

“Forgive me, are you–”

Ilya jerked himself away. “Oh, yes. We are very hungry, thank you! Is our first time here, so recommendations would be appreciated!”

Andersen silently raised her eyebrows. And Shane sighed, gesturing for Ilya to come back closer.

He laced his fingers in between Ilya’s, squeezing tight. He shut his eyes for just a second. Ilya looked at him questioningly.

“No…uh,” he tried, his throat drying with every new syllable, “We are.”

He looked down at his feet.

“Married, that is.” His voice dropped into a whisper. “Newlyweds. Just this morning.”

Ilya’s eyes widened. “Shane–”

Andersen blinked. “Oh, congratulations. Wow.”

“Shane, you didn’t have to–”

“I don’t like hiding either,” Shane mumbled, “It’s okay. We can tell someone.”

His gaze moved from his husband’s to Andersen’s. “You won’t…”

She held up her hands. “No.”

Shane’s face was scrunched up in that anxious way that Ilya just found so cute. His hands were shaking, even the one in Ilya’s. 

He knew how big of a deal this was to Shane. He grasped his other hand and then pulled him into a hug, stroking his back.

“You’re fine, moye solnyshko. Everything’s alright. I’m here.” He laughed, quietly. “See, world did not explode when you told stranger we are married.”

Shane melted into him.

Shane was objectively (he would never admit this to Shane) the better hockey player. He knew that neither of them compared statistics too closely, but Shane’s were better just by a bit. That was because Shane ate better, was more disciplined, treated hockey more like a piece of him and less like a job. For the most part, he took exquisite care of his body and it showed. Every movement of Shane’s felt powerful, looked powerful, every flex of his gorgeous thick biceps. 

It was why Ilya was so comfortable joking about Shane’s weak backhand. Because it wasn’t really true, in the slightest. Ilya had been an asshole his whole life, but he’d known Shane intimately his entire life as well–and he knew things about Shane. How he got in his head sometimes about other people. How he recorded everything said to him and kept it deep inside him. Things stuck with Shane.

He would never say anything to Shane that he knew he would internalize. Never in his life.

All of that being said, where normally Ilya felt the sexy ripple of obscenely strong muscle against him every time Shane moved, Shane’s body at the moment felt like it had been deflated. Like the puffy Michelin tire guy but with no air inside of him. 

“Oh, sweetheart. Let us get you back to inn.” He pressed a hand against Shane’s forehead. Normal temperature. That was good.

Shane grumbled a bit.

“Yes,  lyubimyy, I know you are tired. This is why we must go.”

Shane crumpled forward, both his arms dangling over Ilya’s shoulders. Ilya flashed a mild smile to Anderson. 

“Thank you, eh–I will be taking from here.”

She just nodded, watching the open display. Ilya, with a grunt (Shane was carry-able, yes, but certainly not light) slid his arms under Shane and scooped him up. 

“Mmm.”

Shane always liked it when Ilya carried him. It was nice to be taken care of, as someone who’d been stuck in a leadership “role model” role his entire life. It was nice to be babied again, like when he was younger. 

Ilya tugged off Shane’s shirt for him when he vomited in the inn bathroom toilet, stroked his bare back and kissed the knobs of his spine.

“Is better that it’s going out,” Ilya reassured, “You don’t want it to stay inside you.”

“I know,” Shane croaked, spitting the last mushy bits of his lunch into the gross mess. 

He sat up and drew a deep, deep breath into his lungs. Ilya pulled him close, into his arms again. 

“Hard part is over. You are done, Shane. Go take a shower and I will clean up.”

Shane blinked away tears, “I love you.”

“I love you too, solnyshko. Go.” Ilya gently hit his shoulder. 

Never in Shane’s wildest dreams would he ever have been able to imagine this moment at any point in time over the course of his life. Ten-year-old Shane would never believe he was married to a man. Seventeen-year-old Shane would squint his eyes confusedly at the mention of the boy who’d made him a number two draft pick. Nineteen-year-old Shane would scoff at the concept of his one-night-stand with Rozanov turning into anything more. And Shane throughout his twenties would never believe someone so callous and rough around the edges and borderline insane during sex would slow down and take care of him like this. That he even felt strongly enough about Shane to give a crap if he was hurting. 

He still felt nauseous, uneasy, but the hot water repeatedly hitting his body, streaming down the shape of him, helped. Watching Ilya glance back at him with a smile while he tidied up helped. 

It was the closest he'd ever come to his heart exploding in his chest.

Shane lay there in the white sheets, tucked in, eyes closed and dark hair spread on the pillow a little. Ilya wanted to lean down and kiss every one of his freckles and try whatever he could just to ease Shane’s pain– Shane’s discomfort, even just by a little. But he figured the best way he could do that was to let Shane sleep. Recharge after having just unloaded himself in such an energy-draining way after already being exhausted for hours. 

After planting a kiss on his forehead and writing a little note for his nightstand (to let him know he’d be back soon) he closed the curtains by a bit and headed out.

It was a good opportunity to get Shane some food; a meal, yes, but also rice and white bread or any other snacks he might want along with some post-throw-up Gatorade. 

Shane was stronger than him in a lot of ways, but his immune system was fucking garbage. While he wasn’t particularly fragile when it came to catching something, he was, however, like a Victorian child when he already had a virus. It could be the mildest congestion on the planet and Shane’s body would find a way to make him suffer. Shane had told him once he’d probably gotten it from his Dad, who was almost as bad. Yuna had told them plenty of horror stories about David getting sick. 

He stopped at the nearest convenience/dollar store to grab all of the ingredients in his Sick Shane Kit™ . Food, snacks, water, Shane’s favorite Gatorade (the blue; he usually hated drinking something so ‘chemically processed’ but when he was sick the electrolytes helped a lot), chocolate (for a bit later) and a little stuffed bear with a Get-Well-Soon card stitched to its arms. He also grabbed a new pack of gum and a water for himself and was in the relatively short line to check out when a child a couple people behind caught his eye.

“Mama, please! Look how cute the giraffe is!”

The little girl tugged on her mom’s skirt, holding up a small plastic packet. She looked to be maybe eight or nine years old.

“It’s very cute,” her mother sighed, “But I know for a fact you’ll get bored of it and then ask me to finish it, hon. It’s a craft, it takes a while to do. I’m not gonna do it for you.”

“No, I swear I’ll do it!” She whined.

Ilya leaned back a little bit, raising his sunglasses as much as his cap let him. He probably looked a little bit ridiculous at the moment–definitely like a tourist. He was wearing Shane’s Captain America flip-flops, dolphin patterned swimtrunks, and a tie-dyed green shirt with a cartoon gator on it that Shane had picked out for him at the airport. It was really fucking ugly, but Ilya didn’t have the heart to tell his sniffly husband that. He’d already been upset this was happening on their wedding day.

It was great that they’d picked Florida for their honeymoon, because down here it was so warm and humid it relieved Shane for at least a little bit. Nothing compared to the cold of Ottawa. 

“You promise you won’t get bored of it after five minutes?” The mom raised an eyebrow.

Ilya finally got a good look at what the child was holding. A small white packet with a photo of a needle-felt giraffe, the text reading “Wool felting kit” and listing a short list of basic contents. 

Oh, Shane absolutely loved that kind of crap. If he were here with Ilya he would probably be like the child in this scenario, pulling on Ilya’s shirt and begging them to do it together. Ilya turned over the thought for a moment, amused. Then he promptly exited the line and turned to face the pair.

“Hello, euhm, can I ask what section you found that in?” he began, a bit awkwardly, gesturing to what the child was clutching in her hands. 

The mother opened her mouth to answer when the kid let out a shriek. 

“Are you really Ilya Rozanov?” Her eyes were wide.

Ilya cringed a little bit, the entire line plus the cashier having turned to face them. 

He readjusted his cap. “...Yes.” He sighed. “Hockey fan?”

“She loves hockey. She watches it with her dad all the time,” the mother answers, beaming. “You’re her favorite player.”

“Ah, is that so?” He looked down at her.

“Yeah. But my Daddy’s favorite is Shane Hollander even though I told him you’re like a thousand times better.”

“Ah!” He held up a finger scoldingly. “Not too much on Hollander, eh? He’s my–eh, he’s a good friend. Good person.”

She scrunched up her nose confusedly. “But don’t you hate him?”

“Nah,” Ilya grinned. “We are like this.” He twisted together his index and middle fingers. 

“So sorry to bother you,” the mother broke in. “Do you think she could get a picture with you?”

Ilya nodded. He took off his sunglasses a brief moment for the photo, posing with the kid, and then slid them back on. He then gestured again to that little white packet.

“What aisle?” he asked, gently.

When he’d been given instructions, he walked as fast as possible to avoid any other potential swarmers. A cute child was one thing, but a grown adult man with a million things to sign who was probably a shitty scalper was another.

 Poor kid, he thought with a bit of grim laughter– it was likely nobody would believe her if she told them she’d asked Ilya Rozanov himself and he’d said him and Shane Hollander were friends. She’d probably be called a liar until he and Shane finally came out at some point in the future. At least she’d be right then.

He came to a stop in the intructed aisle. 

Shane still had a migraine when he woke up. He was groggy, disoriented to the point he’d entirely forgotten where he was before his vision focused and he took a second to look at his surroundings. 

Ilya was gone, but he’d left him a note on the nightstand informing Shane he was out running an errand. At the bottom a sentence in Russian was scrawled right next to a heart and a smiley face, and Shane had seen it enough times by now to know it meant “I love you.”

Though they didn’t live together yet (they wouldn’t until Ilya’s No-Trade clause in his Bears contract expired in about three years and he'd be able to move to Canada), Ilya found ways to leave him notes all of the time. Everywhere. 

It was a bit of a game for the two of them. Ilya would hide them around Shane’s apartment every time he came over, and Shane would find them over the course of their time apart. Sometimes Ilya hid them in the fridge, sometimes in his underwear drawer, sometimes stuck them to the vent right above Shane’s bed (that had been a smart one). And no matter what Ilya wrote on each of them, they always ended with “Я тебя люблю” and a doodle.

And of course– Ilya didn’t know about this, he’d tease the crap out of Shane if he did– but Shane always saved them and in fact had them organized by date in a yellow binder he hid in a bin under his bed. 

He smiled at this one, picking it up and smoothing his fingers over the ink. He still felt like shit, but Ilya always knew how to cheer him up when his body was failing on him. 

The day they moved in together would probably be an even better day compared to today, especially considering he’d basically ruined everything for Ilya by getting fucking sick again. They’d finally mix all of their things; they’d have just one cup in the bathroom and their respective toothbrushes would lean against each other in that one cup. They’d hang up their towels next to each other and have nightstands on opposite sides of one bed. Like a real couple.

It was something they’d always struggled with. Feeling like a real couple despite…everything. At first Shane had thought it’d been because of– well, because they were gay. But Scott Hunter (who’d sent them a nice card and a gift on behalf on him and his own husband Kip) seemed to have it figured out. A bunch of gay people had it figured out. They were like them, yes, socially. A little less acceptable, a little more risky. But never less of a real couple.

It was really kind of because of the nature of their relationship, was the conclusion Shane had come to. They’d been casual for so long, in such complete and absolute denial about technically being ‘together’ for so long that it had kind of wrecked both of their perceptions of a ‘couple.’ But it was nice to find things, they agreed, that gave them that feeling. Like they were really dating (or from now on, really married). 

Shane lay there, staring up at the ceiling, until Ilya eventually scanned his keycard against the door and pushed it open. 

“Shane, lyubimyy, you are awake,” he said, his face breaking into a smile. “Are you feeling better, sweetheart?”

He strode across the room, clutching two or three plastic bags in his hands, and planted a kiss on Shane’s forehead.

“A little better. Fuck, what time is it? Why were you out so late?”

“It is like, two. We landed at twelve.”

“Why were you out so late?” repeated Shane.

“I got you a bunch of things.” Ilya held up the bag triumphantly. “I will show you.”

He spilled it out on the duvet on top of Shane. The food items tumbled out, and then the numerous (probably too numerous) amounts of little white packets.

“What are these?” Shane picked one up. 

“To keep you entertained!” Ilya beamed, and Shane wanted to eat his smile. He looked ten years old and giddy out of his mind. “See, is little animals. Comes with everything you need.”

“Ilya,” Shane breathed, grabbing his hand. He held it against his heart and tried to conjure up the most apologetic look he could. “I’m so sorry, honey, that we can’t…”

He bit his lip.

“You do not want to make little baby animals with me?” Ilya’s face deflated a bit.

“No! Of course I do. I’m saying I’m sorry I…” he paused. “I’m sorry I basically ruined our wedding night. You know. The sex.”

He spoke the next words through his teeth, mumbling. “Like, when you get married you’re supposed to have this whole,” he gestured with his hands, “whole, like, electric, insane sex. And I’m…sleeping. And throwing up. And sneezing.”

“Shane,” Ilya began gently. He grabbed Shane’s face with both hands. “Nothing to apologize for. We did not get married to have sex. We had sex all the time before marriage.”

Shane blushed red. Ilya continued.

“If is with you, I will always have good night, Shane. There is no one in the world I would rather be with. You know the thing Scott Hunter say, eh, ‘Everyone deserves sunshine?’ You are my sunshine, Shane. You are my everything,” Ilya deadpanned, “I hope you know that by now. I hope I call you that enough times a day for it to sink in for you. There is nothing on this Earth you could do that would make you ‘ruin’ anything.”

“So we will sit down,” he continued, “And we will make these little needle wool felt animals, Shane, and you will not feel bad about it. You will enjoy it as much as me.”

Shane just nodded, a little bit taken aback at the sudden declaration of love. And he felt a pit of awkwardness in his stomach right before he realized everything was different than it’d been; that it wasn’t awkward, because Ilya was his lawfully wedded husband and they were just allowed to say these things to each other now. 

Ilya, fetching a pair of scissors, began to slice a bag open. 

Shane’s cat was so much more skillfully made than Ilya’s. The proportions on his were slightly off; head and tail just a bit too big. The eyes were on a little crooked and the face he’d put on more sloppily than Shane had. Shane’s looked like it belonged on the cover of one of these packets, and Ilya’s looked like a child’s attempt at recreating one of those images.

They’d made them for each other. Ilya had made one that vaguely resembled him for Shane to keep, and Shane had done the same with the tuxedo cat he was currently tinkering away on.

Ilya had twisted a little keyring in the core of his, and Shane had taken his example and thought it a wonderful idea to keep them as keychains. They worked until the sun came up, or at least Shane did.

When he looked over to Ilya at his side, he’d dozed off with it still in his hands. Shane grabbed his head with his fingers and angled him onto his shoulder, carefully. 

And though his wasn’t finished either, he set his on his lap and shut his eyes as well. Because it would be alright just this once to not let the perfectionist tendencies win. 

There was someone here to take care of him, after all. It would be alright.