Chapter Text
The problem with Shane Hollander drunk was that he wasn't mean.
Not like how Ilya had seen his father.
He wasn't angry. He wasn't sloppy in the usual way. He didn't pick fights, didn't break things, didn't start crying about his feelings.
He became enthusiastic.
"Look Ilya!" Shane shouted.
Ilya looked up from where he was trying to convince Troy that ordering another round was a terrible idea.
Shane was standing in the middle of the dance floor with Wyatt, both of them surrounded by a rapidly deteriorating conga line of drunk hockey players.
"What am I looking at Shane?”
"We started a conga line!Like the fucking-uh Adam Sandler movies~s"
Ilya stared at him.
Shane beamed the flush on his cheeks making him look younger.
Ilya knew Shane only got that look when he was plastered out of his mind. When his brain was calm and blank and syrupy.
That was when Ilya knew they had to leave.
The Kingfisher was packed, music thudding through the floor and walls, neon washing everyone's faces in shifting colors.
Scott and Kip were still at the bar, with Scott looking increasingly smug about having escaped professional hockey while Ilya reminded him every five minutes that retirement had made him boring.
"You know…." Ilya had said earlier, "some of us are still working."
Scott had smiled over his beer. "Some of us know when to quit."
"Yes you had to quit before your vision went out and your heart gave up. Poor Kip, I know he couldn’t wait for that life insurance." Ilya sad replies, paying no mind to Shane swatting his chest.
“Fuck you Rozanov!” Scott said while pointing at him with a smirk. “Fuck. You.”
Kip had been laughing so hard he'd spilled his drink.
Then Kip had somehow gotten hold of Shane in an effort to “grab napkins”.
One minute Shane had been sitting beside Ilya, politely drinking a ginger ale like. The next, Kip had appeared with a tray of brightly colored drinks.
"You have to try these."
Shane had looked suspiciously at the tiny umbrellas.
"What are they?"
"Some new drinks they’ve been trying out. I’ve been meaning to taste test them, but… work." Kip shrugged.
“How much alcohol is in these?”
"Probably a fucking ton. Wanna try them?”
And because Shane was Shane, he'd agreed. “Fuck it.”
One sip became one drink. One drink became three. Three became five.
At some point Shane had stopped asking what was in them.
Now he was dancing. Actually dancing.
Ilya watched as Shane threw his arms around Wyatt's shoulders, laughing as the entire Centaurs team snaked through the crowd in a conga line.
Troy was doing something that could generously be described as dancing.
LaPointe had both hands on Young's shoulders and was steering him like a shopping cart.
And Shane—Shane suddenly broke away.
He ran three steps, planted both hands on the floor, and did a surprisingly clean flip.
Ilya let his jaw drop. “Fucking shit Hollander."
He was surprised his husband could still shock him after all these years.
Scott laughed from the bar. “Good luck with Holly, you’ll need it.”
Shane was now attempting to teach a stranger the Centaurs' goal celebration.
“No no man, we don’t just fucking bonk our heads, it’s a light tap-no lighter.” He bonked his head against the guy. “Oh my god you’re so ass at this.”
The guy laughed in his face and Shane just laughed with him, throwing an arm around him like he was an old friend, despite being a total stranger Ilya had never seen before.
"We're leaving." Wyatt caught the look on Ilya's face.
"Take Shane outside."
"Got it."
"I'll get everyone's things and call an Uber." Wyatt nodded.
Ilya grabbed his jacket and pointed toward Shane. “And watch him."
Ilya looked toward Shane.
Shane was currently standing on a chair holding a phone away from a jumping Luca.
“Come on baby boy, get it.” He wiggled the phone.
Luca looked like he was about to fall over, clearly drunk. “Fuck off Holly.”
“Fuck on actually, come on. Don’t you want to text back-“ Shane looked at the screen.
“Derrick? Fuck kind of name is Derrick. He sounds like a deadbeat trailer park dad with a motorcycle and a musty bandanna. And he’s asking you what color your underwear is? No, nope, fuck that. I’m blocking him.”
Luca tried climbing up to stop him and Shane just pushed him away and climbed onto the table.
Wyatt sighed. “Fuck me..."
————————-
Shane stepped onto the sidewalk and inhaled deeply.
"Oh."
Wyatt glanced at him. “What?"
Shane's eyes had gone enormous. “Look."
Wyatt turned.
Across the street, enormous and glowing above the buildings, was a YSL advertisement.
And in the middle of it—
Ilya.
Perfectly styled. Impossibly handsome. Larger than life.
Shane's mouth fell open. “Oh my God."
Wyatt immediately recognized the expression.
"No."
"That's Ilya."
"I know."
"That's my Ilya."
"I know."
Shane took one step toward the street. Wyatt grabbed the back of his jacket.
"Absolutely not."
"But he's up there."
"He's in an advertisement."
"He's trapped."
"He's not trapped."
Shane looked genuinely distressed. “He looks so stunning I want to-I need to see him."
"Shane."
Behind them, Young stumbled against LaPointe.
"Whoa, shit-" Young said.
Wyatt turned instinctively. “Easy. Easy, I've got you."
It took maybe three seconds.
Three.
When Wyatt looked back—Shane was gone.
His stomach dropped.
"Shane?"
He looked down the sidewalk. Then across the street.
Then—
"Oh, fuck."
Shane was running.
Wyatt took off after him. “SHANE!"
Shane glanced over his shoulder.
His face split into a delighted grin. “Wyatt!"
"STOP!"
Shane laughed. He was moving fast. Far too fast for someone who had consumed enough neon-colored alcohol to qualify as a human glow stick.
Wyatt sprinted after him. “SHANE!"
Shane pointed toward the billboard. “Ilya!"
"YES, I SEE HIM!"
"HE'S BEAUTIFUL!"
"I KNOW!"
Shane darted across the street.
Wyatt's heart stopped.
A car horn blared.
"SHANE!"
But somehow Shane made it across after dodging a car. He didn't even slow down.
Instead, he reached the lamp post.
And climbed it.
Wyatt stopped dead. “No."
Shane's sneakers found the metal supports with absurd ease.
"Shane!" Up he went.
"GET DOWN!" Shane laughed.
He reached the top of the accessible section, pushed off—
And landed on the edge of an awning.
Wyatt stared. “What the actual fuck?"
Shane straightened.
Then, with the balance and coordination of someone who apparently had forgotten he was drunk, he walked along the awning.
"Shane, I swear to God—"
Shane sat down on the tiny ledge beneath the glowing business sign.
He looked completely delighted with himself.
Wyatt stood below him, panting. “Okay."
Shane looked down. “H-H-Hey fucker!"
"Hi." Wyatt panted
"Ilya's up there." Shane looked behind himself at the billboard.
"Yes." Wyatt wiped his brow and tried not to be sick whether that would be from the imminent wrath of his captain or the two beers he’d rather not think about.
" My fucking husband, mi-ne." Shane yelled.
"Yes."
"I want to touch his face."
"You're going to touch his face when we get back to the hotel."
Shane considered this. “Promise?"
"Promise."
Shane smiled. He the scooted father to the edge.
“Shane!” Wyatt put his arms out.
Shane leaned over. “3!2!1!”
Wyatt threw himself forward at Shane pump faked him and the. Had the audacity to laugh.
“Gotcha,” he snorted “You fucking thought.”
Wyatt straightened up again “Fuck you man!”
Then Shane looked back at the billboard.
"Ilya's very handsome."
Wyatt rubbed both hands over his face. “Yes, Shane."
"Did you know that?"
"Everybody knows that."
"I know it the most."
"Okay."
"I love his face, I want to melt into him sometimes. Just fucking bleh bleh bleh,” he made a smooshing motion with his hands. “You know?”
"Great."
"I love his—"
"Shane."
"Yeah?"
"Please come down."
Shane looked at him thoughtfully. “Can I ask you something?"
"Sure man."
"How do you get up here?" Wyatt stared at him.
"You already got up there."
"Oh."
Shane look back up at Ilya.
"How do I get down?"
Wyatt looked toward the entrance of the building. Then at the ledge. Then back at Shane.
He pulled out his phone. “Ilya is going to fucking kill me."
Shane's smile widened. “No, he won't."
"Why?"
"Because he loves me."
Wyatt gave a sharp smile then sighed. “Yeah. Mkay.”
Fortunately Ilya picked up on the first ring.
“Where are you? Uber is here.” He said sternly.
“Shane is on a billboard ledge.” Wyatt said quickly.
A few seconds passed and there was no sound coming from the other line.
Before Wyatt could even ask if everything was OK the call was disconnected.
“Fuck my life..” he called out to no one.
“Fuck his life” Shane echoed with a laugh.