Archive of Our Own

The video is recorded and posted in the early hours of Sunday morning.

It starts with a close-up of Cliff Marleau’s face from an upward angle, he’s grinning wide and drenched in flickering pink club lights, before he flips to the back camera with a concentrated look on his face, tongue slipping between his teeth. Single Ladies by Beyoncé is playing and people can be heard singing (and shouting) along to the lyrics.

The footage is shaky at first and pans over the room twice before it steadies. The room is divided into a bar and dance area with the video clearly being taken from the bar and zooming in on the dancefloor where a huddle of, mostly women, have flocked together and are dancing enthusiastically, most of them singing along and acting out the lyrics cheekily.

The video zooms in further until the screen is filled up with Ilya Rozanov smack in the middle of the huddle, surrounded by dancing women without touching any of them and putting at least as much brazenness into his performance. His black dress shirt is tugged up to his elbows, showing off the muscles of his tan forearms, and the front is open, framing his abs while he’s boldly swaying his hips to the beat of the music.

The chorus comes on and every single person on the dance floor starts bolting out the words: “'Cause if you like it, then you shoulda put a ring on it. If you like it, then you shoulda put a ring on it”

The video stays focused on Rozanov who’s still dancing with his eyes mostly closed but then his gaze swivels around and seems to find Marleau watching with the camera because he winks and bolts out again: “'Cause if you like it, then you shoulda put a ring on it” moving his hips leisurely and exaggeratedly pointing to his ring finger.

The video ends with Marleau’s booming laughter and is posted to his account at half past 1 with the comment: “applications open now” and thousands of retweets and replies in the first four hours, most notably one by Ilya Rozanov himself who adds a winking emoji to his retweet.

Shane sees it for the first time on Sunday morning when he dutifully logs into his Twitter account to share a post about his new sneakers as part of his endorsement deal with Reebok.

See, he doesn’t really follow a lot of people on Twitter so his timeline is usually rather dull. Hockey news, some hockey player or another posting something irrelevant enough to not even register, the rare mention of Canadian politics that he feels he should follow to stay up to date but finds himself scrolling past anyway…

The most exciting posts, and really the only reason he scrolls through his timeline at all, are usually Ilya’s who has no filter whatsoever on social media. (That usually means pictures of him post-workout so Shane’s not complaining at all.)

He followed him back some time after the All-Star-Game in Tampa and, in a bout of paranoia, then also followed every single player he had talked to there so none of the chronically online would figure out that he just made up with the love of his life.

(They haven’t really called it that yet but that is very much what Ilya feels like to Shane and he did talk about proposing at some point during their summer together so he hopes it’s not too far off for him, either.)

So now Ilya’s retweet of Marleau’s video is staring at him from his timeline and the thumbnail alone makes Shane’s brain buffer for an embarrassingly long moment. Ilya’s post is from half an hour ago making it one of the first ones on Shane’s timeline (considering it’s half past 5 and Shane just woke up he’s guessing Ilya hasn’t gone to sleep yet.)

Just the thought of his boyfriend makes a string of text messages appear on his screen and Shane bites back a smile. He’s never known anyone who sends 10 messages back to back instead of just one coherent text but getting so many notifications is strangely endearing when Ilya is the one sending them. It’s like he’s so excited to talk to Shane that he can’t wait for him to read his words. It very much feels like a hyperactive puppy most days and from anyone else he would be annoyed after the second ring but… well, it’s Ilya. He’s always been the exception to any rule Shane has ever had.

Waiting for Ilya to reply he has watched the video.

Then watched it again.

And again.

Then only stopped watching it long enough to reply to his boyfriend.

Now he’s watching it again, for good measure, his dick twitching in his gym shorts, his heart stumbling through its beats.

Then he sees the comments.

There’s pictures and videos, too, being added to the thread of numerous women presenting the assets they would be bringing into the marriage. Some of the pictures are selfies, some are photos of them with Ilya, smirking and winking into the cameras for his fans, eyes sparkling.

There’s one tweet with an actual phone number and a montage of Ilya on the ice, partying and sweaty and shirtless in post-game interviews cutting to a very blonde very busty woman at the end who is holding her hand to her ear, thumb and pinky finger stretched out to mimic a phone.

Shane doesn’t love any of them and yet he can’t help scrolling through more and more people lusting after his boyfriend. Some of it is morbid curiosity of knowing the competition. Some of it is pride knowing that, despite the obvious competition, he gets the I love you texts at the end of his nights out. Some of it is probably also just fascination of what people are willing to share on social media to shoot their shot with someone they’ve never met.

There’s a reason he never scrolls through the replies on his own Instagram posts.

He thinks the worst ones are the ones of women who have obviously already met him, complete with photographic evidence, or claim to be part of his ‘roster’ with various years attached to the name (though he realizes with a quiet satisfaction that he sees none later than 2015), but he’s quickly reconsidering that when another tweet pops up.

He has met Miles before, obviously, and knows he’s as much of an incorrigible flirt as Ilya himself is and he knows that Ilya wouldn’t touch anything in Rose’s bubble with a ten-feet pole just because he’s still holding on to his excessive jealousy about his short stint of a failed relationship with LA’s hottest actress. (It’s kind of hot if Shane’s being honest, being wanted in that way.)

He could lie to himself and act like the tweet only bothers him because of the implications rumors like these could have for Ilya in Russia – and there’s definitely some heartburn happening over that right now – but it’s more than that.

He knows, intimately, how easy Ilya is to look at how easy it is to lust after him and he’s not even bothered with other people looking because of course they are. His boyfriend is almost egregiously good-looking and sexy as hell and just the whole damn package. Of course, he’s a fun time.

What messes him up is that none of these people actually know how easy he also is to love.

Because Ilya Rozanov – beneath all his Slavic brooding bravado – is the sweetest, kindest most perceptive man on the planet with a heart so big he has to protect it by hiding it behind chirps and assholery, wearing both like a sown on mask.

If everyone, including A-list celebrities, already loves him by just seeing the tiny pieces he decides to show the world, then they would fall to their knees if they knew how much else Ilya has to give. (Shane does on a regular basis.)

And he knows Ilya is loyal, knows that he doesn’t need to worry about anyone else taking him from him because, let’s be real, they had their chances in the 8 years it took them to actually talk and sort out the mess of their situationship and Ilya chose him anyway but –

He kind of wants the world to know that, too.

He wants everyone to know that there’s someone who has seen the dreamboat that is Ilya Rozanov – inside and out – and has locked it down, has decided that there is nothing more important and wonderful in the world than being linked to that man. He wants Ilya to know, too, that he has been chosen and that he will always be chosen because he can see the insecurity and sadness that sometimes bleeds into his eyes when they’ve been apart for too long.

So, there’s really only one thing he can do about it.

Shane’s sitting cross-legged on his hotel bed in San José clenching and unclenching his fists when his phone rings.

He’s been sitting stationary for the better part of half an hour, staring at the tiny truck symbol on the website dragging its way through Boston, and he’s is, somehow, still breathless when he answers the call.

“Shane,” Ilya starts before he can find a way to start this conversation that isn’t ‘Hi’. He sends a FaceTime request in answer and he feels his heart drop into his pants the second he sees him.

He’s sitting on that ridiculously large couch, phone angled sort of awkwardly and very close to his face, but Shane can see him carefully holding on to a small velvet box with his other hand.

“Shane –“ he says again and – Shane folds.

“In my defense, the overnight delivery to Boston was almost as expensive as standard delivery to Montreal and there’s no one at my house currently and I didn’t just want it to sit there for a week until I got back from this roadie and really, why do they even have overnight delivery for engagement rings?”

Ilya’s eyebrows rise until they’re almost hidden in the unruly curls hanging onto his forehead – he looks like he just got back from a run and Shane wants to bite him.

“So, this is engagement ring, yes?”

He splutters, indignant, “What else would it be?”

At that Ilya, the love of his fucking life, currently holding the physical manifestation of his undying and never-ending love for him in his hands, breaks out in laughter, sweaty curls flying everywhere as his shoulders are shaking with the force of it. It’s frankly a little insulting but Shane can’t help but being endeared.

Finally, he calms enough to meet his eyes again. His expression sobering.

“So, you send me engagement ring, yes? Why?”

Now it’s Shane’s turn to raise his eyebrows, confused at the question. Were there other things people did with engagement rings that he wasn’t aware of? “What do you think?” he asks.

“I think,” Ilya says slowly, his big calloused hand closing around the small jewelry box until it’s almost completely hidden, “that there is video on Twitter about applications for engagement with me and you maybe thought it was funny?”

“You think me asking you to marry me is funny?” comes Shane’s baffled reply and he’s doubly confused because Ilya looks kind of dejected right now, he isn’t laughing.

His head snaps up so fast, he almost pulls a muscle just looking at it.

“Are you asking me to marry you?” Now there’s something quietly hopeful ringing through his phone and Ilya’s eyes are shining and Shane is still a little bewildered because –

“Yes? That’s what the note says, isn’t it? In the box? Did they forget it?”

Ilya looks at the box in his hand kind of skeptically, shaking it a little as if expecting a note to clatter on the inside of it.

“I don’t know,” he answers quietly, “I haven’t opened it yet. I wanted to talk to you first in case –“

Oh. Oh. Shane’s heart breaks a little at his boyfriend’s sad puppy dog eyes.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t want you to think this was just a joke I was just –“ He takes a deep breath, letting it out again and settling into himself, a small smile on his lips as he meets Ilya’s eyes through the screen. “Obviously, I would’ve preferred to do this in person and I promise you that I will but it just felt so long until we would see each other again and I had already found the perfect ring and I just,” he glances towards the window, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “We’ve already waited so long,” he whispers, leaning closer to the camera, “With everything and… I know you’re it for me. There will never be anyone else for me in this life and I thought – why wait any longer? I want to be yours forever, I want you to be mine. I want everyone to know that there’s no open application because you are already taken. For life. I want that life with you, Ilya. I want to marry you.”

He blinks away some of the tears so he can see the curly haired man who stole his heart when he had still been a teenager. “Will you marry me, Ilya Rozanov?”

The next half an hour is a blur and Shane’s almost considering regretting doing this over the phone because he doesn’t know where to put his love, his need to touch Ilya, to kiss him, to hug him, to bite him, to crawl into his skin and live there but he can’t because Ilya Rozanov just said he would marry him. And how can he ever regret that?

How can he regret anything that led him to this?

He’s still sprawled out on his bed, fully-clothed, phone gripped in his hand and staring at the ceiling, when Hayden comes back from his run.

And, listen, he is a deeply repressed gay man who has spent most of his life acting like something he’s not. He’s good at it. But – he’s never been this happy before, he’s never had an emotion this big to hide before and so, when Hayden ask him what he’s smiling at he just says: “I just got engaged.”

It takes a minute of buffering until Hayden yelps “On the phone?!” and then jumps onto his bed in his workout clothes to give him a hug.

Boston is playing Philadelphia at home the next night and, after a hat trick in the second period their captain is, predictably, pulled into an interview right after a game and just before he has a chance to hit the shower – not that he minds. His curls are wet but not matted to his head, as if he had already run his hands through it enough times. His toned chest is glistening with sweat, rising and falling fast from the exertion of the game, and he’s sending one of his notorious winks and a chirp to the camera. As he turns around, the camera catches the light of a golden ring on his thin gold necklace, resting quietly next to his cross.

The internet collectively loses its mind.

Ilya retweets that exact snippet of him winking and turning.