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Shane is pouting.
Now, there are some forms of The Pout™ that a person learns after spending enough time around a one Shane Hollander-Rozanov.
There is his horny pout, which only Ilya is privy to — much to the benefit of the general public because any witnesses to Shane's horny pout would have to be swiftly executed by firing squad— and is a frequently utilised expression. Shane will whip out this one when he thinks he can just bully Ilya into doing freaky shit in the bedroom with his big eyes and carefully scrunched, needy face (he's absolutely right, Ilya likes being bullied, do not save him). Most, if not all, of Shane's kinky suggestions begin with his organised folder of research and itemised spreadsheet and end with that sweet pout because Ilya can't help but tease him until it appears.
There is also his angry pout, the precious thing. Easy to earn, and a common denominator in many of the bickering happenings in their daily life. Like when Ilya destroys him at Scrabble and puts shame to his Canadian ass for forgetting how to spell ‘foreclosure’ (“Shouldn't you know how to spell that, Mr. Real Estate?”). Or when they make one of their many on-ice bets that have poor Hayes praying to the heavens for patience and Shane loses. He will sulk all the way on the drive home even after a victory, until Ilya can appease him gently with his hands and cock. Sometimes, the angry pout will transform into the horny pout, and Ilya will consider his life good and fulfilling.
Now, unfortunately, there is also his sad pout, and it's simultaneously the most endearing and horrible thing Ilya ever has to witness. He'd seen it a few times before they got together, and remembers the first time it was directed at him with crystal clarity. Up on a rooftop, smoking a cigarette and wishing he could tell the freckled drop of sunshine in his life why he was sulking against the railing. Shane's bitchy ass had resorted to familiar territory that did not suit them — a palm extended, a ‘see you next season’. And Ilya had turned around.
That face. Eyebrows set, but eyes peering up at Ilya with so much pleading, glassy and glittering in the Vegas lights. Freckles awash with light perspiration from standing around in a suit for hours, skin warm in the blue hue of the night. Mouth pressing tight, but unable to stop his bottom lip from jutting out in the saddest, most unbelievably pathetic pout Ilya had ever seen. What could Ilya have done, if not taste that pout? Lick the sadness from Shane's molars, indulge in the taste of alcohol on his tongue.
He remembers, still, thinking, do not be sad because of me, солнышко (sunshine). Feel only desire when I am near you. Sadness doesn't suit you.
He hates that pout. Not because it's an eye-sore, not at all. Shane is beautiful no matter what face he's making, even when he's in the midst of a panic attack and his complexion is terrifyingly pallid. Always handsome, always the coolness for Ilya's burning eyes.
But the reason he hates that pout is because it's usually only ever because of two reasons: Shane is upset for Ilya, or Shane is upset because of Ilya. The very nexus point, the climax, if you will, of all of Ilya's greatest fears in life — killing a moose with his Ferrari, losing the love of his life, falling too deep into depression to claw his way back out — can culminate into a singular hard truth: Shane can never, ever, ever, be sad. Especially not when it has to do with Ilya. And even though this is the aforementioned nexus point of Ilya's fucking nightmares, he has the maturity, the awareness, to know that humans get sad regardless of how to you try to prevent it. He's Exhibit A, for fuck's sake.
So, he never consciously makes Shane unhappy. Never. He'd rather stick a spork in his eye. Which leaves an awful, only slightly better alternative: Ilya accidentally saddens Shane.
Which brings him to the here and now. Because Shane is pouting, and it's his Sad Pout™.
Almost every last Centaur is pooled into a club teeming with people to the brim. It's actually quite a high-end place for a random Tuesday, even after a game, but LaPointe insisted on going and trying out some of the newer clubs in the most boring place on Earth, as if that might brighten up Ottawa's library-esque atmosphere. Ilya can take a whiff of the leather chairs on any booth and this place and it will probably smell like ink instead of vague disinfectant and booze.
They're sharing another round of victory shots in between recounts of their game against Buffalo. It's Buffalo, so it's not like any blood was shed, but there's a few days until their next game and Ilya thinks they all need to let loose. Celebrate the small wins, kind of thing. Team-bonding, confidence-building, buzzword, buzzword, buzzword.
Young is already hammered, arm draped across LaPointe's shoulders while he babbles on about traffic laws and their correlation to beavers. Haas, flushed faced and bright, is deep in conversation with Hayes about… well, probably something very nerdy, if Ilya had to guess. Harris and Barrett are off dancing somewhere, alongside many other Centaurs scattered around the place like puppies at a playground. Ilya and Bood are technically also enraptured in some riveting conversation, but Ilya's attention's long since drifted towards his husband sitting across from him, currently sulking prettily into a vodka sunrise.
“Shane,” Ilya calls, smiling as that gaze snaps up to him. Even with such loud music, Shane always has an ear attuned to Ilya's voice. “The drink is okay?”
Nodding, Shane purses his lips around the straw and drinks up the last dredges of orange liquid. Him asking for an alcoholic drink is still a novelty, but he's letting himself go every now and then, especially after a good game. But Ilya has a sneaking suspicion that Shane's desire to drink tonight is less out of celebration and more because he's trying very hard to overcompensate.
“ ‘s great,” Shane says, the monotone edge of his voice slurring. He's so cute. Ilya's chest aches a little bit. Why are you sad, sweetheart? What did I do? “Can I have another one?”
“Brother, you scored twice. You can have whatever you want,” Bood says with a lively grin.
“Not everything I want, though,” Shane mutters into his straw, morose. Too drunk to pick up on his hidden tone, Bood tips his head back and laughs. Beside him, alarm bells immediately go off inside Ilya's head, blaring so loud his ears actually ring.
Yes, okay. He fucked up. He said something, or did something; he just has to figure out what it is. Troy and Harris return from their grinding session and slip into the booth, already talking, giving Ilya time to go through his mental rolodex of the day's events.
They woke up together, had breakfast together, went on their pre-game jog that also counts as Anya's morning run. Ilya had been extra good and choked down the spirulina smoothie Shane made for both of them, so it can't be that. They bickered in the car, of course, no damn surprise there. They bickered on the ice, even less of a surprise there. Shane gave him the sweetest kiss before Ilya left for the post-game interview, and then—
Fuck. Yeah. That's when it started. Shane's sad pout has been marinating like chicken breast in buttermilk for the past few hours. Ilya distinctly recalls finding Shane immediately after the interview; they like to watch each other's press, just because they can. Clingy couple behavior, maybe, but it's nice that Ilya can glance away from the ESPN lady asking him the same boring shit and find Shane admiring him with unblinking eyes not too far away.
Shane had seemed different when Ilya got back to him. A little lost in his head, which sometimes happens, and Ilya's gentle prodding produced nothing, so he let it lie for then.
Except, maybe he shouldn't have. Maybe he should have nipped whatever that was in the butt (bud? butt? Whatever.) instead of giving it a grace period to fucking incubate in his husband's brain. Because, now, Shane is literally drinking his sorrows away right across from Ilya.
“I will get the next round,” Ilya announces, standing and rapping his knuckles on the table. To Shane, he leans down and murmurs, “Another of the same, yes?”
But Shane, oddly, shakes his head. “Something new. Please.”
Huh. Experimental tonight. Usually, that means kink sex. But Ilya highly doubts this mood is about kinky sex. Nevertheless, he kisses Shane on the top of the head, nuzzling his hair, before he heads to the bar to order another round.
He orders a Moscow Mule, which, technically, isn't new for Shane. He's had them before and liked them, but Ilya wants to give him something familiar and guaranteed to work. He has to coax answers from that pouty mouth after all.
When the bartender returns with the tray of shots and the copper mug, Ilya takes a sip of the concoction, just in case it's on the wrong side of boozy. Shane prefers not to taste the alcohol in his drinks, and luckily, this one's flavor is mild enough to pass. The table hooks as Ilya brings over the tray and sets it down in the center. Dykstra's returned from God knows where, having plopped himself in the seat beside Bood, which gives Ilya the perfect excuse to get as close to Shane as possible without alerting anyone else about The Pout.
As soon as all the drinks are off the tray and Shane has his Moscow Mule, Ilya knudges his husband's knees apart and parks his ass onto his lap.
Shane releases an adorable grunt of surprise, but quickly adjusts, winding his arms tight around Ilya's middle with no hesitation. Okay, so he isn't the sort of sad that demands space. Good. Ilya can work with this.
“I can't drink when you're on my lap,” Shane grouses, rubbing his face into Ilya's shoulder.
Grinning, Ilya shimmies sideways until he's facing the rest of the booth and Shane has some access to the table. “There you go.”
“Still can't drink.”
"Why not? You can just reach over.”
Shane's arms wind around him a little more. “I need to hold you.”
For all the romanticism that line evokes in Ilya's aged heart, it's said with such a miserable tone that he can't help but feel as though the blunder he's made today has probably cut somewhere deeper than expected. Shane's clinging, staring at his drink like it might bite him if he doesn't take a sip but refusing to make a move for it.
He looks so sad. Ilya hates that he has no idea why. Could it have been something he said in the interview? But he hadn't even been asked about Shane this time.
“My pretty boy,” Ilya croons, hiking an arm around Shane's shoulders and using a finger to turn his head so he can see his face. “Something is bothering you.”
Shane's nose scrunches. “Nope.”
“Shane.”
“Ilya.”
“Shane.”
“Ilya.”
“Harris.”
Both their heads snap away towards Barrett, who's smirking idly against Harris’ fluffy blond hair. “Sorry, I thought we were calling each other's boyfriend's names for no reason.”
“Husband, Barrett,” Ilya corrects, wiggling his ring finger smugly. “Get it right.”
A sniffle. Ilya turns back to find Shane's pout, somehow, even more pronounced than before. He's looking at Ilya with such desperate pleading that guilt immediately surges up in Ilya's chest, though he doesn't know what he's even feeling guilty about.
“Is that all?” Shane honest-to-fucking-god whines. His hands dig into Ilya's side, tucking him closer, face smushing into the crook of Ilya's neck.
“No, of course not, любимый (beloved),” Ilya tries to soothe. What’s gotten into him today? Ilya plants a kiss to his head. “You are everything. You know this.”
That doesn't work, which is maybe the most surprising thing that's happened tonight. If anything, the pout deepens. Ilya narrows his eyes a little as Shane grumpily lifts his head and releases his iron grip on Ilya's side to pick up his drink. He takes a sip, then a larger gulp when he realises he likes it. Ilya watches him, toying with his ear, cataloguing every shift in his expression like a hawk zeroing in on a mouse peeking its head out of its hidey hole.
Shit. What the fuck did he do?
He tries to think harder, watching Shane drain his drink in record time. He should probably stop him, but he's so bewildered by this strange behavior that he can only watch.
“Roz,” Bood taps the table with the gold arch of his ring, “wanna play a round of pool?”
Before Ilya can reply, Shane makes a displeased sound and immediately smacks his cup down on the table with a loud thud! in favor of wrapping his arm around Ilya again. He shucks him up higher on his lap, nuzzling the open collar of Ilya's silk shirt.
“Hollzy, are you okay?” Harris asks, leaning closer. His gentle tone coaxes Shane to look towards him with an endearing amount of determination.
“Who is Troy to you?”
Harris blinks. “Uh, my boyfriend?”
“Is that all?”
“Well, no. He's the love of my life, my best friend, my baby—”
With Barrett going increasingly red in the face, Shane turns back to Ilya with narrowed eyes and an expression that alerts Ilya to the fact that he was probably supposed to get something from that interaction. But he's at a loss for words, because he always talks about how Shane is the love of his life. He'd scream it at the heavens if he could.
Does Shane want to one-up Barrett and Harris? Is this his competitiveness kicking in?
“Shane.” Ilya can feel his own brow raising in incredulity, but he softens, cradling Shane's face and running a thumb over his beloved freckles. “You know you are my baby. My soulmate, my reason for living.”
There are many reactions to being called such sweet things, but a wail is definitely not one of them. Ilya's never actually heard Shane whine like he's been religiously wronged, but he supposes they still have plenty of room for new experiences even after being together for years.
But the sound Shane makes is unmistakably upset. A lamenting groan loud enough for the whole table to hear, a sound sober Shane would never make on pain of death.
“How is that the wrong answer?” Bood asks, bemused. Shane points a finger at him, somehow swaying even though he's literally sitting down.
“Shut your stupid handsome face, Bood.”
“What did I do?”
“Bestie nabber,” Shane hisses, the venom in his voice striking. Bood blinks.
“Huh?”
“Thief,” Shane continues in a sinister whisper. Then, cutely, he hiccups, face going blank like he offended himself. Ilya rubs his chest, trying not to smile too fondly lest Shane's offence be redirected to him.
“Which bestie did he steal, pretty?”
“Mine.”
Bood snorts. “Who, Pike? He's not my usual rodeo.”
Shane's face darkens. Before he can say anything else, Ilya decides that it's probably best that he gets him home, if only to avoid any actual homicide from being committed in this lovely club that they don't want to get banned from.
“Where do you think you're going?” Shane shoves his face close, the thunder of his expression melting to dewy softness when Ilya tries to stand. Sweet boy. If sugar were a man. If honey had a voice, a heart, and freckles.
Helpless, Ilya kisses his forehead. “Taking my husband home.”
Shane's face crumples in real time the moment Ilya says the word husband, and it's so baffling that Ilya almost falls flat on his ass while getting to his feet.
“Someone's in the doghouse,” Hayes, the ever-observant goalie and newly appointed captain of team Obvious, says.
“For saying sweet and romantic things?” Harris asked.
“Maybe Hollzy's in a roleplaying mood?” Haas offers.
“We need to kill whoever told you about roleplay.”
“I'm drinking! I know what roleplay is!”
“Who gave the child tequila?”
“Better take the mister home, Roz,” Bood cuts in, raising a fist for Ilya to bump. “Hayes and I'll make sure these dumbasses don't turn into roadkill.”
Ilya's about to return the gesture, but Shane's hand clamps down hard on his knuckles and pins Ilya's fist to his side. He's glaring at Bood so hard it's nuclear.
“Shane.” Ilya frowns, staring at his husband. This can't be a jealousy thing, because it doesn't make sense. Shane doesn't get jealous. Not anymore, anyway. Marriage has kept them both even more secure in their relationship than before, so this is not a problem for them. Hayes could smack Ilya's ass in the locker room and Shane wouldn't even blink because he's too busy watching the muscle jiggle.
So why does it feel like he's jealous of Bood?
“Let's go home, sweetheart. Come on.” Ilya sends Bood an apologetic look, but the man just waves him off with a good-natured grin. Shane stumbles, catching himself at the last second. He's not too upset to refuse Ilya's help, leaning into him as they meander out of the club and into the cool Ottawa night air. The shock of the chill sobers Shane up enough for him to walk on his own relatively well, but he still stutters every few steps on their way to the car. It's so cute, how silly he is, how he can't hold his alcohol if his life depended on it.
And yet, by the time Ilya's got him buckled in and slips behind the wheel to get them home, Shane is pouting sadly again. Staring out his window, too quiet, even for him, hands flat on his thighs because he doesn't know what to do with them or the big feelings overwhelming him. It took some time for Ilya to understand this response, the freeze-or-flight, when his first instinct against his worser emotions is to gnash his teeth, pace his cage, and bite. It took even longer for him to reconcile this response with what happened that day, all those years ago, when they spoke each other's first names like disbelieving prayers.
Ilya will bite, Shane will camouflage himself into the foliage, or take off until his lungs collapse. Right now, he's camouflaging, as if he can somehow meld into the leather passenger seat and become nothing if he just sits still and silent for long enough.
“Sweetheart,” Ilya begins, gently, reaching over the gearshift to slip his fingers between Shane's. “You're upset.”
“ ‘m not.” Shane squeezes his hand tight enough to hurt.
“You are. Tell me.”
“No.”
His tone is so petulant that it bursts a chuckle from Ilya. Fuck, he's so helpless when it comes to Shane.
He pulls up in their driveway smoothly, missing the burn of Shane's gaze on his one-handed maneuvering. Clearly, Shane's too upset to even thirst over competency displays, and that is what drives Ilya to cut the engine and press the button to lock them both inside the car.
Shane tries the handle, anyway, then turns to Ilya with a frown when the door stays shut. “Why are you holding me hostage?”
Ilya tugs their interlocked hands up and presses kisses to Shane's knuckles, appeasing, sweet. “What did I do, Hollander?” He croons. Their porch lights are the only illumination they have, spilling liquid and translucent into the windshield and glowing across Shane's sun-kissed skin. His freckles are mostly obscured, his dark eyes somehow even darker. His hair is longer than it had been on that rooftop a lifetime ago, but his waterline is just as heavy, his expression the same. The only difference is the passage of time, the age on his face that only made him more handsome to Ilya.
“What am I to you?” Shane asks again.
And maybe this whole night has been about reassurance. Ilya needs that too, sometimes, when Shane is lavishing ardent kisses to his chest, hips cradled between Ilya's thighs, whispering vows to his skin. You're mine, you're always going to be mine, no one will ever take you away from me, I have you, Ilya, always.
“Mine,” Ilya replies, breathless conviction. He kisses Shane's knuckles again. “You're mine.”
Some of the pout recedes. “In what ways?”
Ilya hums, playfully, finding the gold band warmed by Shane's skin and tracing the curve of it with his mouth. He looks up at Shane through his lashes, watches his husband's throat spasm around a hard swallow, flushed cheeks growing ruddier.
“Every way that matters.”
A pretty frown crosses Shane's brow. “That's just a cop-out, asshole.”
Oof. Someone's feisty. Ilya can't help but giggle, leaving little pecks along Shane's hand and fingers. Shane's hands are bigger than his own: wider palm, longer fingers, stronger grip, but Ilya's never known anything as gentle as them. How they cradle his face, run through his hair, pull him close. Shane has hands stronger than that of Ilya's father, but they've never once shown him pain the way the patriarch of the Rozanov family's did.
“You want a list?” Ilya teases, instead of nuzzling Shane's hand like a needy cat.
“Yes.”
It's said with such seriousness that Ilya's forced to meet Shane's gaze, and he finds it wet, glazed. Perhaps wounded, even. Ilya abandons his urge to rib and poke in favor of leaning across the gearshift, stealing a kiss from that pliant mouth in the hopes of soothing.
“My husband, my love, my heart,” he whispers, head tilting. Shane follows the movement of his lips, unwilling to part their foreheads or noses. His eyes fall closed. “My reason for living, my world. My biggest rival, the best person I know. The flame of my soul.”
“Is that all?”
Frustration simmers in Ilya's gut. A man could feel offended at his undying love declarations being brushed off so flippantly, but Shane looks so deeply upset that Ilya forces himself to inhale softly. Shane's hands are gentle, so Ilya's words must be, too.
“Shane, I cannot play guessing games.” He shakes his head, pulling back enough to look his husband in the eye. “What is it you want to hear, hm? I will tattoo it on your skin with my mouth until you are happy. Just tell me what it is.”
A pause hovers in the air between them, Shane staring down at their joined hands. It's silent as a cemetery with the car engine off, the outside world shut out of their little bubble. Dark, quiet, private. It's easier for them to talk like this, most of the time. Many of Ilya's deepest fears were confessed to Shane in the dark. They spent so long in it that there's a comfort in its familiarity. You can't fully leave it, once you've felt its embrace.
Shane doesn't say anything for so long that Ilya considers dropping it entirely until breakfast. Then, hoarse: “Would you be friends with me?”
Ilya blinks. “Sorry?”
“Don't be.”
“I— No, Shane.” He huffs a soft laugh. “You infected me with stupid Canadian politeness. What do you mean by this?”
“If we never got together, if– if you never fell for me—”
“Did the universe turn upside down?”
“Huh?”
“Did Hayden Pike get a vasectomy?”
“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”
“Ah, no. I see. Scott Hunter is into women.”
Shane frowns again. “I'm so confused.”
“We are naming impossible things, yes? World is ending, Pike stops having kids, I do not fall for you. Hypotheticals.”
With a grumble, Shane knocks his skull against the headrest of his seat. “ ‘m not gonna talk if you're just gonna make fun of me.”
“Shane, sweetheart, I am not making fun. I am pointing out the stupidity in your words.”
“It's not stupid!”
Ilya gestures to the air between them. “You think it is possible for me to not fall for you? In what life? Am I a corpse?”
“So you'd never want to be friends with me?”
This line of questioning is odd enough that Ilya has to stop and think. Not to answer, no, the answer is easy, but to figure out why there needs to be an answer at all. Why Shane would ever think that Ilya wouldn't want to be friends with him.
Suddenly, the interview he gave comes snapping to his memory like a rubber band finally released from its tension, twanging hard in his brain. Post-game, cleaned up from the shower and high off a win, he'd been cocky, his tongue loose and ready to piss some people off. He'd gotten surprisingly tame questions, but it's Buffalo, so maybe he should have expected it. And with Shane's eyes dark on his frame, he'd wanted to wrap up even faster than usual.
“… on the ice, Mr. Rozanov?”
Ilya massaged his own hips, tilting his head towards the mic shoved into his face. Bright lights burned into his retinas, harsh the way he always enjoys it. Much as the tedious nature of post-game interviews makes him snore, there's little that suits Ilya Hollander-Rozanov more than commanding attention.
“Mr. Hollander-Rozanov,” he corrected, smugly, the air of the cat who got the cream, the sugar, and the mouse.
Might be a pedantic quirk on his end, but Ilya did not spend the better part of a decade and a half hiding his love for Shane to be flippant about their names, thank you.
“Apologies. Mr. Hollander-Rozanov, would you consider close friendships to be important for chemistry on the ice?”
“It helps, yes.”
“Do you notice a significant difference between the two teams you've played for?”
Ilya quite liked this question, actually. It's no secret that he's a social man, notoriously difficult to hate because of sheer charismatic swag — his own words, of course. And he's a damn good captain where it counts, dragging two bottom-of-the-fucking-barrel teams to the playoffs with the skin of his teeth and blood-soaked calluses. Team chemistry, trust-building, was the foundation of every franchise in the league.
Boston had been a wildfire. Every one of them stout, thick oak trees with roots deep in the soil of their skills, and they shared the smoke. Burned each other until their ashes build a fortress on the ground they stood on. Ilya's boys in Boston were friends he could count on, friends he could drink with, who matched his aggressive play, who grinned and played dirty alongside him for a decade.
Ottawa was family. That was a different kind of chemistry by far.
Ilya nodded at the reporter. “Very. Neither is bad, but now it is like playing with my real brothers. Before I was a mama duck with many babies.”
That drew a soft chuckle from the mass, and Ilya chanced a glance towards Shane to find him smiling in amusement. It was a good look on him.
“Don't you think having such close interpersonal relationships might mess up the professionalism of the game?” Some other reporter asked, holding up his phone to record Ilya's answer. Ilya snorted.
“Ah, yes, Bood being my best friend affects how I shoot the puck into net. Amazing.”
“That's not what I meant, Mr. Rozanov—”
“Hollander-Rozanov.”
“I meant with the league in general. Hockey's a contact sport, it's expected for injuries to take place, but being so close with teammates would open the door for petty grudges when it's meant to be a game, wouldn't you agree?”
It almost made Ilya laugh, but he settled for fixing the man with an unimpressed, somewhat bemused smile. “If some defenceman from the other team knocks down one of my own and causes bad injury, I will kick his teeth out. Relationship does not matter in this case. This is hockey, not bull-fighting.”
“Wouldn't you be angrier if someone hurt Boodram? I imagine that would cause more problems, if he's your best friend.”
Ilya gestured at the guy incredulously. “Do you want me to clap when somebody injures my people?”
“Mr. Rozanov—”
Third strike. Ilya waved off other questions with an eye-roll, taking his leave mid-way through the press session. He found Shane standing still by the door, expression carefully neutral and eyes faraway. Ilya wondered if he was remembering the day his bell rung on the ice, when Marleau got him, and gently pulled him in by the waist with a smile that said ‘it's okay, I'm here, it won't happen again’.
Shane didn't smile back. Ilya nudged his nose. “What is it?”
A shake of his head. Maybe it was related to the accident, maybe something adjacent, but Shane squeezed his arm and hummed, so Ilya decided that it might be a better conversation for breakfast tomorrow, when Shane's had a night to mull over it.
Ilya mused on their way back to the locker room to meet with the rest of the guys for their night out. That dumbass reporter didn't realise, then, that it was Ilya's interpersonal relationship with Marleau that stopped him commiting murder that day.
Ilya in the present, sitting in the driver's seat of their very sensible car with nothing but crickets to serenade the silence between them, is realising that he may have made quite a large error in assuming it was the mention of the accident that had Shane looking so distant. Or anything else.
“What makes you think I would not be friends with you, любимый (beloved)?” Ilya ventures, trying to catch Shane's eye.
“Nevermind, it's– I know you'd be friends with me. I know that.”
It sounds a bit like Shane's trying to convince himself more than anything else. Ilya squeezes his hand.
“If we were not together — and the world was clearly fucked, because that would never happen otherwise — then of course we would be friends. Very close friends.”
Shane nods, nibbling at his bottom lip. He's sobered up from the cool air and the drive, but his freckles are still dusted with alcoholic, pink glaze, and his eyes are glassy. God, he's so lovely. Ilya dreams about biting his cheek and hearing him squawk about it for a blissful few seconds before he realises that Shane's pout hasn't eased a fraction.
It's gotten worse.
“So– So that's why? You'd only consider me your best friend if I didn't get to be your husband?” Shane rounds on him, turning sideways in his seat, eyes brows pulling in.
Ilya's heart wobbles terribly. Oh, that sweet face. “Well, no. But husband is a higher rank than best friend, no?”
“So I'm not your best friend!”
“I did not say that!”
“No, you said Bood is your best friend. Fucking Bood!”
“Marly is also my best friend, but you never had problem before.”
Shane's face falls. “Fantastic. I'm not even second place.”
“I– Shane. Sweetheart, please tell me what is bothering you about this.” Ilya stares at Shane's expression, trying to find the key behind this bewildering conversation, trying to discern where the fuck Shane's gotten the notion that he's not first place in everything in Ilya's life.
His ears ring with the bout of silence that follows. He waits, patient, because he'll always wait for Shane; it's his favorite thing.
“Can we go inside, please?” Shane finally whispers.
Ilya hesitates. “Will you run from me if I unlock these doors?”
“I really want to.”
“Ah. No. Too bad.”
Shane releases a whiny, faux sob, glaring at Ilya through pleading eyes. “Ilya…”
Ilya mocks him right back. “Shane…”
He watches Shane release his hand and whip around to the car door, pawing at the handle and trying his very best to get it to open up. It's fruitless, of course, but that doesn't stop Shane Hollander-Rozanov from trying his best to escape a locked car. He tugs, again and again, rapidly, before he gives up and thunks his forehead on the window.
“Lemme out,” he slurs.
“Why does it bother you that Bood is my best friend?”
“I don't care that he's your best friend.”
Ilya eyeballs the back of Shane's head with a deadpan expression, which Shane can't see, but he can probably feel judging by how his shoulders tense. “Mhm. That is why you did not let me fist bump him.”
Shane's breath fogs up the window. “You never fist bump me. Why does he get a fist bump?”
“I suck your dick. Only your dick. You get special treatment, Hollander.”
“I want a fist bump. I want you to fist bump me more than Bood.”
Sighing, Ilya allows those words to sit in the air for a moment while he digests. Shane is drunk, and he needs to get to bed soon or he'll pass out and Ilya doesn't want them to sleep with this thing between them unresolved. Reaching across, he sinks his fingers in the silky tresses of Shane's hair, admiring the soak of black across his own hand washed pale in the dark. Using coaxing patting motions, he gets Shane to turn back towards him, and raises a fist.
Sullen, Shane bumps his knuckles against Ilya's. But the edges of his eyes soften.
“Are you upset that I consider Bood my best friend?” Ilya asks, careful to keep any emotion from his voice. Possessiveness is hot, but he’s quite sure this brand of possessiveness isn't.
However, Shane shakes his head. “I like that you have close friends. You deserve it. Everything should be yours.”
Jesus Christ. Ilya swallows hard and ignores the flames crawling onto his cheeks. “Okay, then what is it? Tell me. Please.”
Shane stares at their fists, still pressed together. “I wish you considered me your best friend, too.”
Warmth, achy and bruising, cracks through the bones of Ilya's ribs, trickling sticky into the recesses of his heart. All at once, precious memories return to him, tinged in bright vignettes, hazy and well-loved. That first trip to the cottage, playing video games on the couch, kicking a ball in the yard, staring down the cliff of a campfire with the side of his face warmed on soft thighs. Every subsequent summer after spent in idyllic peace. Stretching across couches in silence, content in the same company. Talking about absolutely nothing, trusting with absolutely everything.
Who is Shane, if not Ilya's closest confidant? His dearest friend? His platonic and romantic soulmate?
“You do not have to wish for this,” Ilya says, croaking around the words. “You are my best friend. The very best.”
“You don't have to lie to make me feel better, Ilya,” Shane mumbles, dropping his hands into his lap, warming his fingers between his thighs. He drags his palms up and down the denim of his jeans in a self-soothing motion. “I can barely hold my liquor. ‘m not fun like Bood or Marleau.”
“Shane…”
“Can we go inside now?”
Ilya watches him closely, then nods. Unlocks the doors. His hands tremble slightly, but the striking chill of the night grounds him as he climbs out the car and follows Shane up their porch. He's calm and silent as he unlocks the door, as he toes off his shoes, as he hangs up his coat and dumps his keys in their designated bowl.
Shane is looking everywhere but at him, bracing against the wall to take off his sneakers, removing his jacket one arm at a time. He's avoiding Ilya's gaze so vehemently that his head is hanging, swaying every few steps. He's so, so sad.
Ilya can't help it. He really can't. It's an age-old habit to approach, to keep approaching even when Shane steps away, to back him into the wall, to overwhelm his space. Shane still doesn't meet his eyes, but it's okay. Ilya can see him, anyway. Clearly, lovingly, completely.
He rubs the sides of their faces together, exhaling when Shane sinks into the pressure of his warmth. Reaching down, he interlocks both their hands, and speaks quietly to Shane's alcohol-red ear.
“I trust you with everything, because I know you will be there. You will tell me the truth even when I do not want to hear it. You support me, you push me to be better.” He nuzzles Shane's ear, the hair above it, inhaling the crisp cleanliness of his scent, his shampoo, the sweat of his skin. “I love hanging out with you. I love gossiping with you. I love talking with you. You are so much fun for me. More than with anyone, more than I could think was possible for me.”
Shane's hands tighten their hold on his. He burrows into Ilya's space, inhaling shakily.
“You are what I need, what I want.” Closing his eyes, Ilya barely notices the way his own voice has gone thready, heavy, his accent thick with sincerity. But he knows Shane will. Shane always notices. “You are everything, sweetheart. My husband, my love, my most cherished friend. If there is some world where the grass is blue and I cannot feel romantic love, you are still the person who is most by my side. You always will be.”
For a moment, Ilya thinks Shane's fallen asleep on his shoulder when he goes a full minute without saying anything. He strains to listen for a snore, but instead, he hears a tiny, squeaky sniffle.
Oh, fuck, please don't tell him he made Shane cry.
“Sweetheart, are you–”
“That,” Shane whines, releasing Ilya's hands to throw his arms around his shoulders, “was so fucking sweet. Ilya.”
Thank god.
Ilya chuckles, part-relief, part-endearment, and hugs Shane close. “It was true. All of it.”
“Mmm.” Shane lifts up, pretty brown eyes entirely void of the sadness that had plagued it the whole night. It's like watching chocolate chips glisten in the sun. He pecks Ilya's nose. “Love you, bestie.”
Ilya bursts into giggles, snorting and wheezing into the downy fabric of Shane's sweatshirt. Eventually, Shane joins him, until they're both old fucks leaning against the wall of their foyer, entangled in each other's arms and gasping for breath between chortles. It's a miracle they don't wake Anya, but their girl sleeps like the dead.
What else could they be, if not the bestest of friends?
They pull themselves together enough to head upstairs and shower, although Shane's drunk ass keeps giggling and demanding fist bumps even while Ilya's trying to rinse the soap from his back. Ilya's heart is throbbing, filled to the point of spilling, the brim sore from holding back wave after wave of feeling. He considers himself more than lucky to have that. To need to massage the muscle over his heart in an attempt to ease the pain of loving, of being so thoroughly loved. To have to tuck Shane against his frame beneath the sheets, bodies clean and bare, and fight the urge to try and fuse their skins so they can be closer.
Shane passes out quickly. Practically the moment his head hits the pillow, his back soaking Ilya's front. His feet are freezing, so Ilya angles his shins down to warm his soles, ignoring the initial shock of temperature.
Their bodies move in the night. When Ilya wakes, Shane is still there despite it being far past the time he would usually leave for his morning run. Even with sleep pinching the edges of his mind, Ilya immediately understands that this is a slow morning for them (and the hangover Shane probably has definitely saps up the motivation for a run).
He plants a kiss to the top of Shane's head where it's migrated to his shoulder. Shane kisses his collarbone in reply. Last night is crystal in Ilya's mind, and he wonders how much of it Shane remembers.
His voice is hoarse when he murmurs, “We would have been best friends from the beginning, I think, if the world was kinder.”
Shane's cheek creases Ilya's chest with his smile. Ilya's too comfortable to look down and see it, but he can picture the shape perfectly.
“Yeah?”
“Mm. I always wished to be friends with you.” He strokes fingers through black locks. “I think maybe we could have been.”
“I should have bugged you more, I guess.”
“I should have opened my heart to you more.”
Shane settles a palm over Ilya's chest, squeezing the muscle like he can cup the organ beneath if he tries hard enough. “It's okay. Precious things should be guarded.”
Ilya laughs to mask the way his stomach flips. “Ah? Is this flirting? What should I do now with this precious heart since I gave it to you?”
“It's still guarded. I keep it safe next to mine.”
“So you have my heart and yours? Unromantic.”
Shane pushes up to glare at Ilya. There are pillow creases on the side of his face, and his hair is askew. He's so beautiful. “How is that unromantic?”
“Because you are hogging!”
He rolls his eyes. “Fuck's sake, it's a metaphor, asshole.”
“Ok,” Ilya says, shrugging, fighting a grin, “so metaphorically share our hearts, you unromantic hoarder.”
He expects Shane to huff and roll off him, but he's pleasantly surprised when Shane just plops back down a little more on top of him, pressing him into the mattress. He does get a huff, though, so. Small victories.
“You're so lucky you're hot,” Shane grunts against him.
“You find me hot? But—” Ilya stops, feigning a gasp, wrenching Shane up by his biceps so he can look at him in very well-demonstrated panic— “Hollander, we are best friends. This could complicate our friendship!”
“Oh my god, fuck you!”
“Hollander! We cannot!”
This time, when Shane pouts, it's the angry version, and Ilya chases him across the expanse of the bed to kiss that pout like a long-lost lover.