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Ilya waits patiently outside of the back entrance to Shane's condo. His real condo. Not the place he'd purchased solely for the purpose of hooking up with Ilya for the last several seasons. He was in the process of selling that one, because they didn't need it anymore.
Because they were boyfriends now.
They were boyfriends, who were exclusive, who said I love you, who were decidedly not just casually hooking up — not that it was ever actually casual between them. But because they were no longer just hooking up, that meant that Ilya was allowed to see Shane's real house.
In his hoodie pocket, Ilya's phone buzzes, but he doesn't check it. He already knows it's Shane responding to him, which means the door is going to open any second now.
Warm light floods the dark alleyway, haloing around Shane. Still, Ilya can see the imprint of his smile on his silhouette.
"Hi," Shane says, stepping aside so Ilya can squeeze past him.
"Hi," Ilya parrots. The second that the door shuts, Ilya is hooking his fingers in the front pocket of Shane's hoodie and tugging him close. Right there, too eager to even pretend he wants to climb the stairs first, Ilya kisses his boyfriend for the first time in two months. Shane's hands cup the sides of Ilya's face, humming softly as he returns it. They've gone way longer between kisses in the years they've seen each other, but this is different.
Ilya is no stranger to missing Shane. Even when he shouldn't have, there was always a little piece of him that felt like it was absent. The only time he'd ever felt completely whole was those stolen moments with Shane, tucked away in a hotel room, or Ilya's house, or Shane's sex condo. But since they'd made things official, that emptiness has multiplied.
It's no longer just a small piece of him that feels like it's missing — it's his whole other half. His entire heart is miles and miles away all of the time, and it's a constant weight that never goes away.
Except for right now, when his heart is finally right here again.
"Missed you," Ilya murmurs, the words barely comprehensible because he doesn't want to stop kissing Shane.
"Mhm," Shane hums in reply, clearly on the same page about not wanting to pull away.
As much as Ilya wants to stay here and re-memorize the feeling of Shane's mouth, he wants to do a lot more than kiss him, which means they need a bed. (Or a couch, a shower, a counter, etc. Anywhere but the staircase, really.)
"Are you going to show me your house?" Ilya asks, finding the will to break the kiss. He misses it immediately. "Seeing it on FaceTime has made me very excited."
Shane laughs softly. Now that they're fully in the light and no longer kissing, Ilya can see him properly. He saw Shane just hours ago on the ice when Boston had beaten Montreal by two points in their first game against each other in the season, but this is a different version of him.
On the ice, he's Hollander. He's Ilya's long-time rival. Here, in this private staircase, with lips glossy from Ilya's mouth, he's just Shane. His eyes are soft and warm, and his smile is something Ilya is certain is reserved for him.
On the ice, Hollander is for the entire world.
Here, Shane is just for Ilya.
"Come on," Shane says, lacing their fingers together and leading him up the steps. "Good game, by the way. I guess."
"Mm, I would say the same to you, but…"
"Fuck you," Shane huffs, and even without looking, Ilya knows he's smiling. "You know, I scored more goals than you."
"One more goal," Ilya mutters, rolling his eyes. Shane hums as they approach a door at the top of the staircase, held open by a stopper. Shane glances back, and their eyes meet for a second before he pushes open the door to his condo. They enter into a small hallway just off the kitchen, and they slip their shoes off before they walk further in.
Immediately, Ilya notices that it's just as fancy as his own house. It's clean, which comes as no shock. There's also minimal decor — just enough for the place to not look clinical, but not enough for it to really feel homey, either. It reminds Ilya of the cottage a little bit with the warm tones and the natural wood, but maybe a bit more modern.
"Wow," Ilya says as he drops his bag on the ground by the stairs, looking over at Shane. "You really do have a thing for real estate, hm?"
"You're annoying."
"Yes," Ilya agrees, looking at the large kitchen. "But you like me, anyway."
"Debatable."
Ilya's eyes cut back to Shane, amused. "Oh?" he muses. "That is not what you were saying all summer."
Shane huffs a quiet laugh. "Would you shut up and come here?"
Ilya doesn't shut up — "You are being very mean, Hollander." — but he does come here, crossing the kitchen and the dining room to meet Shane where he's leaning against the wall.
"You like me, anyway," Shane whispers, echoing Ilya's words back to him.
Ilya would love to tease him, as Shane had done to him, but he doesn't really want to. They're finally alone, and they can be themselves. So he nods, a quiet, "Yes," falling from his lips.
Shane's entire demeanor softens, melting against the wall, and he reaches for Ilya again. Instead of a kiss, though, Shane's arms curl around his shoulders, and he tucks his face into Ilya's neck.
"Missed you so much," he murmurs.
"I missed you, too," Ilya says, arms wrapping around Shane's waist tightly. He breathes him in — something fresh and clean from his post-game shower, the faint smell of deodorant. They stand there for a moment, all the heartache from the distance seeping away.
"There is important part of the house that you have not shown me yet," Ilya whispers after a while. "Should I carry you like a little— ah, what is that animal?"
"What?" Shane laughs.
"The little bear one. People hold it like a baby."
"A koala?" Shane asks, tilting back so Ilya can see the amusement on his face. "Why would you carry me?"
"Well, you are like little koala wrapped around me right now," Ilya shrugs like he isn't holding Shane equally as tight. "If I carry you, you do not have to let go."
"Fuck off," Shane huffs, smiling. He pushes Ilya away, but not that far. Their hands lock together, as if they'll drop dead if they separate completely. "Come on."
Shane leads him up the stairs and into a predictably boring bedroom. Ilya grins, glancing over at Shane. "Are you allergic to decorating?"
"Shut up."
"Is so boring in here."
"I hate you."
"No." Ilya turns to him. "You love me."
Shane's gaze turns gooey, confirming Ilya's words without an actual response. Since they've been able to say those words, not a day has passed where they don't tell each other at least once. It's freeing, Ilya thinks, to finally let these feelings live somewhere visible.
Shane steps closer, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of Ilya's hoodie. Warm hands settle on his waist. "Yeah. I do."
Ilya can't take it anymore. He kisses Shane again, his hands coming up to hold his face and tilt his head back. He's slow and methodical, taking his time to lick into his mouth. He loves kissing Shane like this — a sweet, devoted thing he could only share with someone he adores as much as he does Shane. He loves that he's allowed to kiss Shane like this now, no need to be frantic and rushed, no need to hide the true meaning behind the kiss.
"Tell me," Ilya murmurs between kisses.
"I love you," Shane says, trailing his mouth down Ilya's neck. His hands begin to push the hem of his boyfriend's hoodie up.
"Again."
"I love you."
"Mm, I cannot hear you…"
Shane huffs softly, pulling back just long enough to remove Ilya's hoodie and shirt all in one go. He leans in so that his nose brushes Ilya's. Slowly, like he's emphasizing each word, he says it again, "I. Love. You."
Ilya grins, feeling so ridiculously soft and happy. Shane lifts an eyebrow after a few seconds. "Okay, asshole, say it back."
Holding back a laugh, Ilya reaches up and smooths his thumbs over the angles of Shane's jaw. "I love you so fucking much," he says, the words coming easily.
Shane presses his palms to Ilya's chest and pushes him back onto the bed. He reaches for the hem of his own hoodie, removing it slowly. Like a performance, solely for Ilya's eyes. His clothes come off, and once he's down to his boxers, Ilya sits up and reaches for him. "Come here."
Afterwards, once they've had sex (twice) and dinner, they're settled in Shane's bed, both clad in nothing but boxers, Ilya using Shane's arm as a pillow. This mattress is somehow even more comfortable than the one at the cottage, which is saying something because that was some of the best sleep Ilya's ever gotten. That could be due to the company, though.
Shane's finger gently traces over Ilya's nose, brows, cheeks, jaw. Around the curve of his ear, down the column of his throat, along the stretch of his collarbone. His touch is soft and reverent.
A small grin pulls at Shane's lips suddenly.
"What?" Ilya mumbles, trying hard to keep his eyes open. He knows they'll have an entire day tomorrow — they both had an off day following their game, so they took advantage of it — but he still wants to pack in as many conscious seconds as possible before they're separated again.
"Nothing," Shane whispers, eyes like chocolate in the warm light of the lamp. "You're so pretty."
Ilya's eyebrows furrow, only to be quickly smoothed over by Shane's finger.
"No," Ilya hums. "That is you."
It's the truth. Shane is somehow a perfect mix of handsome and pretty — a masculine shape to him with a touch of softness. Hard muscle, a strong jaw, a firm build; gentle eyes, soft lips, an easy demeanor that makes him sweet all over. He's all man, but he's the prettiest man Ilya's ever seen.
And Ilya… well, he's attractive, yes. Even if he wanted to have some humility, he can't deny that he knows he is, objectively, attractive. But he's sharp. Angular. Hard. The softest thing about him, unbeknownst to most people, is his heart — which belongs to the softest person he knows.
Ilya isn't pretty.
But Shane doesn't seem to agree, shaking his head softly.
"I think you are," he says simply. He's looking at Ilya with such care, like he's precious. His finger traces from the end of Ilya's eyebrow, under his lower lash line, up to the bridge of his nose. "Pretty eyes; they're so bright. Colorful. I like how the left one is more green than the right. And your eyelashes are so… long. And light. I've never noticed."
"They are just eyelashes," Ilya says, not understanding what's so special about them.
"Yeah. But they're nice," Shane shrugs. His eyes flick down, his touch following, tracing the curve below Ilya's lips. "And I like the shape of your mouth. It's… cute."
"Cute."
No one has ever called him, or any of his features, cute.
"Yeah," Shane grins. "I don't know, it's just, like… pretty. A good shape."
"I know you like my mouth, Hollander, but you do not have to be a poet about it," Ilya teases, trying not to feel uncomfortable under Shane's undivided attention. He's doing nothing wrong, of course. In fact, it's very sweet, what he's saying. It's just that… Ilya has no idea how to accept it.
He's not pretty, or cute, or soft, or sweet. He can't be, because he grew up hearing those words — pretty and soft, in particular — used as insults towards men, or directed at women. And Ilya's not a woman.
And, well— neither is Shane, obviously.
But Shane is different. He defies everything Ilya ever thought about men. He's somehow strong, yet vulnerable when he allows himself to be. Handsome, yet pretty in a way that's completely unique to him. Manly, yet soft in a way Ilya was told men were not allowed to be.
To Ilya, Shane is just everything. He's the only one that can defy these standards that have been ingrained into Ilya his whole life.
"Hush," Shane laughs. "It's not poetry. It's just… I don't know. Maybe I've never let myself look close enough. But I'm seeing it now and you…"
He trails off, like he can't find the words. But Ilya is suddenly desperate to know them, even if he'll have no idea what to do with them.
"I'm…?"
"You're just pretty," Shane says, like it's something he believes to be a fact. "Pretty eyes. Pretty lips." He pinches one of Ilya's curls, a bit frizzy from air drying after their shower, and extends it before releasing to watch it bounce back into place. Shane grins.
"Pretty curls." He touches Ilya's cheek. One gentle poke, then another. "Pretty moles. Like stars."
Ilya can't wrap his head around these words, and the way Shane seems to mean them. It must show on his face, because Shane tilts his head. "Why do you look like that?"
"Like what?" Ilya asks unnecessarily. He knows exactly the face he's making, but he can't help it. This is a word that just does not fit someone like him.
"Confused," Shane says. "Or like you don't believe me."
Ilya swallows. It feels… ungrateful, maybe, to push Shane's affections away. He should just say thank you, kiss Shane, and move on. But he can't for some reason. He doesn't know how.
"I just…" Ilya shakes his head lightly, feeling stupid. Stupid for feeling this way, stupid for not knowing how to explain what he feels. "This is not a word used for men. Not really."
Shane blinks, the blank expression telling Ilya that he got it wrong. "You call me pretty," Shane says slowly.
"You are different."
"How am I different?"
Again, Ilya feels at a loss because how does he even put into words all of the ways Shane is different? He huffs, turning his face into Shane's shoulder.
His words are slightly muffled when he says, "You are just…" He raises one hand, gesturing vaguely in the air. "You."
Shane chuckles, but there's an uncertainty to it. "I don't understand what that means," he says quietly, shifting to kiss Ilya's curls.
Ilya inhales deeply, Shane's scent calming the swirl of thoughts in his head. "Words like pretty are… insults to men. Maybe is different in Canada, but how I was raised, what my father used to say… is bad to be pretty, or soft. Makes you, ah… vulnerable? Weak. Like a girl."
Shane is quiet for a moment. "But you don't think I'm weak," he says, and it's not phrased as a question. It's a statement, like he knows Ilya doesn't think that about him.
"No," Ilya still says, looking at Shane again. There's something assessing in Shane's gaze, like he's trying to help Ilya decode the underlying issue without forcing him to figure out how to put it into words. Ilya shrugs lightly. "But you are different. Like, you are pretty because you are strong. And vulnerable, sometimes. Soft is good, when it is you."
Shane hums quietly, and Ilya wonders if he's made any sense. It hardly makes sense to him, how these words that he can't stand to hear about himself, he can easily and truthfully apply them to the love of his life.
"It's not different in Canada," Shane says softly, avoiding Ilya's eyes now. "Those words are still used as insults towards men. I've been called pretty my whole life, never in a good way…"
Shane pauses for a second, exhaling a laugh. "Well, until you. But even then, I thought at first… maybe you meant it in a bad way. I thought…" he shakes his head.
Guilt curls through Ilya, and he tips his head to press a kiss to Shane's arm. "Never," he whispers. "Before I knew you, I still knew you were different. But I am sorry if I—"
"No," Shane cuts him off, smiling a little. "It's okay. I'm just saying that before you, it was an insult. I think sometimes, um, east Asian features can be a bit more… I mean, soft, I guess. People called my eyes girly. My freckles, too."
Ilya's eyebrows furrow, but he doesn't interrupt. But it's absurd to think that anything about Shane could be seen as girly or feminine. He's 200 pounds of straight muscle. He's built like the greatest hockey player of their generation, because he is. Even when they were eighteen, Shane had always been chiseled and defined and buff, and he's only gotten bigger since then.
"I kind of let it stop bothering me after I realized you meant it in a good way," Shane admits. "The word didn't feel mean anymore, even if other people meant it that way. I… like it when you call me that." His cheeks are flushed in a way that makes Ilya want to call him pretty right now.
"But basically, I grew up hearing that word in a negative way, too," Shane says before Ilya gets the chance to interrupt. Shane's thumb glides below Ilya's eye again, over one of the moles on his very upper cheekbone. "But you're different."
Ilya swallows, stuck in a weird middle ground now. He doesn't understand what Shane sees, but at the same time… he does. In a way. Because if Shane is someone that defies logic for Ilya's fucked up mentality about a word, why is it so absurd that Ilya can defy that same logic in Shane's eyes?
Ilya doesn't need to believe that he's pretty; he just needs to accept that Shane sees him that way.
"Okay," Ilya says thickly. He expects Shane to relax, to smile, to move past this conversation. But he just studies Ilya for another few seconds.
"Do you not want me to call you that?" he finally asks.
Absurdly, after everything they've just discussed, Ilya's immediate and honest answer is, "No, is okay. If it is coming from you, I do not mind, I think."
If he'd been asked before this conversation took place, Ilya never would've wanted the word pretty to be directed towards him. Before falling in love, he never would've wanted the word soft to be associated with him.
All he might've been able to think about is his father's ghost feeling disgraced at the idea of his son being so weak, like a girl — but then again, Ilya is currently lying in bed with a man, so maybe his father's ghost would have bigger issues with the situation.
Now, though. Being called pretty might not be the worst thing if the word is coming from Shane's lips. Being soft is okay if it means he gets to love and be loved by Shane. Being vulnerable isn't so bad if Shane is the one handling his heart with care.
Now, Shane smiles and relaxes, like he'd been hoping for that answer. "Okay," he whispers, leaning down to kiss Ilya. "Good."
"Mm, I am not as pretty as you, though, Hollander," Ilya says, waving a hand as if this isn't up for discussion. "I know you are so competitive, but you do not have to be with this. You have already won, and I accept this."
"Shut the fuck up," Shane snorts, rolling closer so that his upper chest presses against Ilya's face. It makes it a little hard to breathe, but there's no other way Ilya would prefer to leave this world, so he doesn't mind. He wraps his arm around Shane's torso, preventing him from rolling back.
Ilya could argue his point, if only to just point out everything that makes Shane so pretty, but for once, he shuts the fuck up. He places one kiss in the center of Shane's collarbones, closes his eyes, and lets his boyfriend hold him.