Chapter Text
Shane wakes to comforting warmth. It’s from the sunlight streaming in, the soft blend of his sheets, and the chest pressed against his back. He snuffles happily in his drowsy state, pressing back into the body behind him. The arm thrown over his waist tightens in response, and Shane giggles at the pleased rumble he hears from his companion. He lays there in a sleepy haze, the aftereffects of last night’s sexy escapades leaving his ass pleasantly sore, a need he couldn’t satisfy with Rose generously satiated. A giddy smile graces his lips as he tries and fails to remember everything that happened last night.
He’s never gotten so drunk before. JJ hadn’t been kidding when he said the champagne he kept supplying Shane with was “the good stuff.” Two glasses in and Shane had already been far past tipsy. But after his recent break-up with Rose and seeing Rozanov for the first time since running out of his house, the Russian’s hand’s all over some woman at the club, his eyes boring into Shane’s, he needed to let loose. And boy, did he let loose last night. His mouth quirks up at the memories of sloppy kisses, groping hands, and fervent moaning that are slowly coming back to him. His partner sure had been enthusiastic, not that Shane minded; he thinks he’d been more eager than them.
Not that he can currently remember who that person is.
Realization dawns on him. What he’s done is so unlike him. Sure, he had a near decade long rivals with benefits things with his supposed arch nemesis, but this is different. He’s never had a one-night stand, let alone a drunken one. He’s never even brought anyone over to his apartment for sexy times apart from Rose and Rozanov. Shane clenches his eyes shut and shakes his head as though that will help clear away the thick fog clouding his memories. Surely, he wasn’t black out drunk. At least, he doesn’t think so. He has some vague memories, and he doesn’t remember being scared or hesitant with his hookup at all.
For some reason, that makes everything worse.
His entire body tenses. Unease begins to creep in through the back of his neck. Apprehension slinks up his back and seeps into his spine. The hot tingles of regret prickle across every inch of his skin. Breathing becomes more and more difficult with every passing second. He needs to get out of here. Fast. Now. Without waking whomever pounded him into the next century. It doesn’t matter that this is his apartment, he just needs to get out of this bed so he can freak out in solitary peace.
Gulping, he stares down at the strong, tree truck-like arm encircling him. He’s really starting to freak out now. He slept with a stranger. He slept with another man. He’s never slept with another man before, expect for Rozan—
Shit.
Not daring to take a single breath, Shane carefully takes in the moles dotted here and there, the tanned skin with golden hair, and the long fingers that seem to curl almost possessively into the softest part of his stomach.
Double shit.
Trying to remain calm, Shane wets his lips with pure dread as he carefully turns in the warm embrace. His thundering heart seizes and freezes in shock and horror the very second he comes face to face with a sleeping Ilya Rozanov.
“Fuck!” Shane shouts, vaulting off the bed. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck! What the fuck?”
Rozanov startles awake. His body practically flies off the bed, gaze combing the room until it settles on Shane. “Fuck, Hollander! What is it?”
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Shane screeches. “Why are you in my room?”
With a hand resting over his heaving chest, Rozanov blinks at him a few times. “Ah... well...”
“Fuck!” Shane spins and begins pacing. “Oh my god. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my—"
“Hollander.”
“Fuck,” Shane groans again. Okay, so he had sex with Rozanov. That’s mostly fine. What’s not fine is the fact that it happened while they were both drunk, which is definitely not consensual on either of their parts, and Shane doesn’t even remember how they got back to his place, and someone could have seen them, and—
“Hollander.”
“What?” Shane asks, voice piercingly high.
“You are naked.”
Shane looks down. His entire body blushes bright red. “Fuck!” He yanks off the spare blanket at the foot of the bed to hastily cover himself “What the fuck happened last night?”
With wide eyes and an unusual expression on his face, Rozanov can’t seem to his answer him, his mouth opening and closing uselessly. His actions only increase Shane’s anxiety when the brash Russian, who always has something to say, ends up shrugging and avoiding eye contact.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Shane shrills, running a shaky hand through his hair. He jerks when his left hand gets stuck, something catching on his hair and tangling in it. He yanks his hand of his hair and peers down at it, eyes zeroing in on something. Time stops. His breathing stops. Sirens, alarms, and mayday signals start going off everywhere in his body. Everything goes blazing hot and glacial cold all at the same time.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh no.
“Rozanov,” Shane begins, hand quaking, voice trembling. “What did we do last night?”
“You are freaking out over nothing. We left the club together, we had sex. We were very drunk and we—” Rozanov abruptly stops talking in favor of staring down at his own left hand.
The sour sting of bile rises in Shane’s throat. His stomach flips like fish out of water desperate for oxygen. He’s pretty sure he’s going to throw up. “No...” he pleads quietly, desperately. “No, Rozanov—"
Rozanov looks back up at him with comically big eyes and a furrowed brow. “Hollander...”
“Fuck! It can’t be. We couldn’t have—” Shane stomps over and grasps Rozanov’s left hand in his own. His heart drops. He sees the one thing he really, really doesn’t want to. On Rozanov’s ring finger is a silver band identical to the one Shane is wearing on his own ring finger.
Suddenly, the memories come flooding back to him.
Their stare down at the club. Shane downing another two flutes of that ridiculously strong champagne. His tearful, heartbroken escape to the bathroom. Rozanov joining him. It was so reminiscent of their bathroom encounter in Vegas. Except this time, they were both drunk, they both shed a few tears, and, this time, they left the bathroom together and ended up at Shane’s apartment. Shane doesn’t remember anything that was said, just that Rozanov had taken one look at his tear-streaked face and marched right up to Shane and kissed him like the world was about to end. Everything was euphoric after that: the tender touches, the candy sweet kisses that led to an epic make out session, and then their eventual departure from the club. But before they made it to Shane’s apartment, they’d stopped. There had been a tiny church, one with a neon sign that blinked OPEN and—
The justice of the peace wearing a Montreal Metros jersey.
Fucking shitting fucking shit.
A cold sweat drips from Shane’s temple all the way down to his feet. Panic arrives like a herd of stampeding wildebeests trampling mercilessly over all his senses and the comfort zone he’s carefully cultivated over the years. His mind short-circuits and fuzzes out into a staticky haze, his vision goes blurry, his chest begins heaving, fear tingles in his fingertips and toes, a numbness so vast that Shane nearly loses himself completely settles within the depths of his bones. Everything becomes too much. Because he and Rozanov—they—they—
“We got married!” Shane shouts in horror. “We got fucking married!”
Rozanov says nothing, not reacting in the slightest, just staring at him quietly with an uncharacteristically blank look on his face.
His lack of snarky response makes Shane even more hysterical. “We got drunk married and then had celebratory sex! How are you not panicking right now?”
“Is not that bad,” Rozanov murmurs. “Could be worse.”
“How?” Shane questions in a near shriek. He wraps his arms protectively around himself and begins another round of anxious pacing, his mind in a tornadic, fretful frenzy. “How could anything possibly be worse than this?”
“We could actually be in love with each other. That would really make things awkward.”
That stops Shane dead in his tracks. He spins on his heels to glare best that he can at the other man. He stands rigidly, breath stalling in his throat at Rozanov’s words. His waterline collects the hot tears threatening to fall. “Don’t do that. Don’t you dare do that, Rozanov. You—you don’t get to do that.”
Rozanov looks defiant. “Why not? You’re the one that left. You left me and found Rose Landry.”
Something in Shane shatters. His heart shreds itself into ugly, hacked up bits. The peculiarities of that day at Rozanov’s house, the hurt Shane felt after being pampered by Rozanov only for the Russian to comment about how much he enjoys women is a knife still plunged deep in his chest. But it isn’t just hurt; it’s also regret.
“I—I’m sorry! I was—that day—it was just a lot and—”
“Is fine,” Rozanov cuts him off. “Does not matter now.”
That only increases the pain ruthlessly squeezing Shane’s chest, like a boa constrictor suffocating its prey. The faraway look on Rozanov’s face doesn’t help the situation either. Because it does matter. Because Shane regrets freaking out, he regrets leaving. It hurts to hear Rozanov say it no longer matters because it always will to Shane.
“How did this happen?” he wonders out loud, stressed to the gills, his nervous pacing starting up again. “I mean, we couldn’t have been that drunk. Were we?”
“I was determined to get very drunk last night. I do not know about you. But I did see you drinking very much champagne.”
“Fuck!”
Rozanov holds out a hand, eerily similar to how he did when Shane leapt off his lap and hightailed it out of his house. His expression is pained, his voice cautious. “Hollander—”
But that makes everything worse. Because it brings back memories of when Shane ruined everything. Things had been too intimate then, and they’re far too intimate now. There’s an explosion building in Shane’s racing mind; it’s pulsing with fear and disbelief and sheer, utter hysteria. Drunk marriage might be the worst thing that could ever possibly happen. Scratch that. It is the absolute, without a doubt worst thing that could ever happen. Shane has to figure this out. They need a solution. He has to fix this now, now, right now.
“It’s not a real marriage!” Shane halts his frantic pacing as stares at Rozanov. He’s sure he must look hysterical because he feels like he’s going insane and is about to implode. “These kinds of things don’t count, it’s not real!”
“Hollander—”
“We were both drunk! Neither of us was able to actually consent to a marriage! So, we’ll get an annulment! I’ll—I’ll call my mom and—”
“What if I do not want?”
Shane’s brain glitches. He blinks rapidly. He stares at Rozanov, stupefied. “Huh?”
“What if I refuse to sign papers?” Rozanov counters, his voice growing in firmness only to crack at the end. “What if I want to stay married?”
“Wh-what?
Naked, Rozanov rises from the bed and approaches him. Shane takes an involuntary step back, feeling completely exposed even though he’s now the only one covered up.
“You can’t be serious,” Shane mumbles, voice shaking, eyes darting all across Rozanov’s face. “We couldn't—we can’t.”
“We can.”
There’s a stinging in Shane’s chest. Memories of Rozanov with that woman in the club, of countless headlines of Rozanov seen with a new mystery woman in every city, of Rozanov sitting right across from Shane and casually speaking of his former hookup buddy, a woman, pierce the delicate outer skin of Shane’s heart and saw through it without a single ounce of pity. A mass of tears collects in his waterline. His lower lip trembles. “How can you crack jokes at a time like this?”
“I am not joking.”
“You don’t want me.”
“Hollander—"
“You talked about being with women the entire time we were having lunch,” Shane rambles brokenly before he can stop himself, his already stuttered and whirlwind like breathing increasing another few upticks. “You—you said it was nice to have a regular woman around. You kept asking me about women. You kept going on about how much you enjoy being with women.”
This makes Rozanov freeze. A stricken look passes over his face before being replaced with determined resolve. “I was trying to see if you had secret girlfriend, to see if you were interested in women at all. Obviously, you are you. You left me and found Rose Landry. You are the one who does not want me.”
“That’s not true. I do want you. I like you so much it scares me.”
Suddenly, Rozanov looks far younger than his years. He looks shy. Hopeful. Innocent. “Then why did you run away?”
Shane shivers as guilt drips icily down his neck. “Because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. Because—because I’m a man. But Rose, she helped me figure out that I’m gay. I didn’t realize it before.”
“So, you and Rose Landry are...” Rozanov trails off, looking entirely hopeful.
“We aren’t together anymore. She broke up with me because she figured out I’m far more into men than I am women,” Shane sighs heavily. “Look I’m sorry for leaving that day. I’m so sorry that I did. It was just... too much. Like, a lot changed so quickly, all at once, and I’m—I’m not good with things like that. So, I freaked out and ran away. Because it felt...intimate? Like you really cared about me. And I didn’t understand why it felt like that because I thought you thought of me as a fling. Like, just a reliable, male booty call for when you didn’t feel like having sex with a woman.”
“No. I mean, yes, maybe at first. But it has not been like that for a long time. Why do you think I invite you over? Ask you to stay? Have ginger-ale and make you tuna melt? Why do you think I said your name?”
“I don’t know,” Shane whispers.
Rozanov’s eyes are a magnet that hold Shane’s gaze unwaveringly onto his own. “Because I have feelings for you.”
Shane can do nothing but blink back tears and shake his head in disbelief.
Rozanov steps into his space and grasps both of Shane’s quaking hands in his own. He guides them to rest between their touching chests, both of their hearts hammering. “I want to stay married.”
A single tear escapes the barricade of his waterline. “Oh my god.”
“Shane—”
“I can’t—”
“Please.”
“This is crazy. We can’t—”
“Please.”
Shane’s mouth snaps shut at the helpless, pleading expression on Rozanov’s face. He thinks back to last night, remembering how much fun they had once they’d arrived at Shane’s apartment: the giggling, and the constant body contact, kiss after kiss after kiss. There had been a lot of smiling, a lot of laughing, a lot of all-around happiness, and Shane would be lying if he said he hadn’t enjoyed every second of it. The ridiculous grins on their faces, the sweet kisses they shared, the passionate and heartfelt way they had made love, the tender, precious way Rozanov had held him after their post-marriage sex. All of it, it’s everything he’s never allowed himself to want because after getting a taste, he’ll be craving it forever.
Rozanov’s forehead finds his own, the tips of their noses brush against each other ever so slightly. When the Russian speaks, his voice is watery with emotion. “Please. I love you, Shane.”
“Holy shit.”
Rozanov has gone stalk still and looks increasingly more desperate the longer Shane doesn’t say anything else. “Shane—I—"
“You love me?”
“Yes,” Rozanov answers immediately, voice firm and entirely sure sounding.
“Oh.”
Rozanov squeezes their hands and fidgets. “Shane—”
“You’re right, this is awkward.”
The Russian looks heartbroken.
But Shane is in shock. He doesn’t understand. They had boundaries. They were supposed to keep things casual. Just sex. No extras, no feelings, no saying each other’s names. All of those were unspoken rules that they were supposed to follow but both seemingly failed spectacularly. The realization fills Shane with a dangerous hope. Because maybe, just maybe, rules don’t matter anymore. Maybe things can be different.
Feeling fragile, Shane peers up at the other man with tearful eyes. “You really want to stay married?”
Rozanov has never looked as earnest as he does in the moment. Well, except for that day in Rozanov’s living room, on the couch, Shane in his lap, Shane’s name having just fallen from his lips as solemn as a wedding vow. “Yes.”
All capability that Shane has to keep it together instantly goes out the window. His knees wobble, his legs become weak and jellylike. He nearly falls to the ground, but Rozanov is there to catch him and clutches him tight against his chest, like he wants to keeps Shane pressed against his heart forever. That does it. The dam that is his ability to hold it together breaks and he starts crying. He peers down at the ring on his finger and then it’s partner, the one on Rozanov. The rings look good there. They look right. They look like everything Shane has always wanted with Rozanov but never admitted to himself until his freak out in Rozanov’s living room.
“I love you, Shane,” Rozanov says again. “I love you.”
Shane buries his tears into Rozanov’s bare chest. His mind is a mishmash of contradictory understandings. His heart shakes like a high-rise on the verge of crumbling from the force of magnitude 10 earthquake. He’s just so confused. “I don’t understand why.”
Lips land on his temple and press a tender kiss into his hair. “Because you complete me. I have been miserable since you left.”
“But I’m boring.”
Rozanov rubs a thumb across Shane’s cheek in a reverent caress. “No. You are comfort. You are sweet. You are kind. You are pure. You are so, so beautiful. When we first met, I saw these freckles and have never been able to get them out of my brain. Yes, I have been with many women, but they are not who I want. Every time I am with a beautiful woman, all I can think about is this beautiful hockey player with gorgeous freckles. I am always wishing these women were him. He is the only one I want.”
More overwhelmed tears pool in Shane’s eyes. He feels exhausted now. The roller-coaster of emotions he’s been on for the past fifteen minutes catching up on him. Lost, he looks up into the soft aquamarine pools that are Rozanov’s eyes. Subconsciously, he finds himself leaning in, closing the already narrow gap between them, as if those eyes are a lighthouse guiding him to safety.
“How are we supposed to make a marriage work?” he asks timidly, his resolve losing its potency with each passing second that Rozanov gazes at him with the most earnest of eyes. “We live in different countries.”
An arm wraps around his waist. “I will transfer to Canadian team.”
“We’re both men.”
A hand cups the back of his neck. “Gay marriage is legal in Canada.”
“We’ll ruin our careers.”
Rozanov’s forehead finds his own in a gentle kiss of contact. “We will ask your mother for help. I will make her love me.”
“We’re rivals.”
Lips flutter against his own. “Only on the ice. Everyplace else, we will be husbands.”
It’s ridiculous. It’s ludicrous. It’s just plain stupid. There’s no way this will end well. They’re going to ruin their lives, lose everything they’ve worked practically their entire lives for. It’s a situation bound to destroy them, they’re destined for doom if they don’t do something about this. Staying married is the worst decision they could both ever make.
A thumb swipes away a stray tear as it makes its way down his cheek. “Please, Shane. Let me prove it to you. Let me show you how much I love you.”
All logic melts into want. Because he wants this. He wants to be with Rozanov. He realized that the day he bolted out the door of Rozanov’s house. Rozanov makes him happier than anyone else ever could. So, yeah. He wants marriage with Ilya Rozanov and no one but Ilya Rozanov. Because he’s loved Rozanov for a long time, even though he’s never before wanted to admit it to himself. He wasn’t brave that day in Rozanov’s living room, he hadn’t been sure of things. He’s sure of things now, though, and he knows what he wants. It is, quite literally, symbolized by the twin silver bands on their wedding ring fingers. He looks into those earnest eyes again. Peace settles within him. Sunshine-like warmth spreads throughout his body. A smile tugs at the ends of his lips. Today, he’s going to be brave.
“Okay. Don’t screw this up, Rozanov. I want a marriage like my parents’, not one that will end in divorce.”
Rozanov freezes against him. He pulls back, face fixed in giddy bewilderment, eyes searching Shane’s as he tries and fails not to smile. “Hollander—” he says in a strangled voice that sounds filled with shock, relief, and pure, unbridled joy. “Shane—”
Shane smiles, surging up to lock their lips together in a sweet kiss that quickly turns desperate. Rozanov kisses him like a drowning man, clutching Shane tight against him. When their kiss breaks, Rozanov makes a small sound, burying his face in Shane’s neck, hugging the other man even closer.
Shane giggles and runs his fingers through Rozan— Ilya’s hair in a way that he’s always wanted to but never had the courage to do until now. Heart bursting, he shyly whispers, “I love you, too.”
The hitching breath he gets in return makes him smile even wider. Ilya consumes him with another sensational kiss and then begins peppering small kisses all over his face, pressing their foreheads together. “I will be good husband for you.”
Shane blushes so hard he can feel the heat emanating from his face. “My mom’s going to be so mad that we don’t have any photos.”
“I will do a thousand photoshoots for her. I will take whatever pictures she wants. We can get married again. We will be sober and can take photos. We will remember getting married.”
Fingers tracing over the mole on Ilya’s cheek, Shane smiles sweetly. “I would like that.”
Ilya’s breath stutters again, his eyes shining as he picks Shane up and tosses him on the bed before climbing up and looming over the other man. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
“Well, I mean, I think I do. I married you, didn’t I?” Shane grins cheekily as Ilya’s eyes darken.
“Yes, you did,” Ilya says, pulling at the blanket Shane still has wrapped around himself. “And I think we should celebrate again since we cannot remember every detail of last night.”
“Careful now. I naked under here, Mr. Rozanov.”
“That’s okay with me, Mr. Hollander.”
“I think you mean Mr. Hollander-Rozanov.”
Ilya instantly captures his lips again in lieu of responding with words at Shane’s last statement. Shane suspects it has something to do with the tears threatening to spill over if Ilya tries to say anything. Instead, the Russian thoroughly kisses Shane, retracing every nook and crevice with his tongue, making him feel like the luckiest man in the world.
Finally, after a bunch of grinding, moaning, and groaning, Shane tugs at Ilya, kicking the rest of the covers off. In sultry voice he says, “Come on, husband, show me how much you love me. I want to remember everything, this time.”
Eyes twinkling, Ilya pounces on him with an aroused growl.
Shane welcomes him happily.
After all, they are in their honeymoon era.