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1.
March 2013
They’re resting in soft, post-coital bliss when Rozanov breaks the silence, clearing his throat and blurting:
“Would you still fuck me if I had tentacles?”
Shane whips his head around, jostling Rozanov’s arm off his side and accidentally clenching around where he's still inside of him.
“What the fuck?”
“No?” Rozanov pouts, blinking his eyes like a child caught with one hand in the cookie jar.
“Again: what the fuck?” Shane lifts off Rozanov’s cock with a little grunt so he can roll onto his other side.
“Would you, Shane Hollander, still want to fuck me, Ilya Rozanov, if I had tentacles?” Rozanov pulls off and ties the condom, tossing it onto the nightstand. Shave grimaces at the sight. At least it’s not his hotel room.
“Why would you have tentacles?”
“Does not matter.” Rozanov tosses a hand up like he’s physically brushing away the question.
“It kinda does matter, actually,” Shane hums, raising an eyebrow. “Are you cursed? Could we find a cure for the curse and give you normal hands? Or, wait, would it only be your dick that’s a tentacle? That’s an entirely different question.”
“Ah. Okay, let me think.” Rozanov purses his lips, scrunching his eyebrows as he mulls it over. “No, I was not cursed, it is not curable, but my hands turn into tentacles when I fuck,” he lays down the final terms of this asinine scenario.
Shane considers it.
Rozanov rolls onto his front, resting his head on the pillow Shane’s using and running soft fingers over Shane’s chest and stomach.
It feels nice.
They usually don’t spend more than five minutes together after they’re done. He’ll take as much post-fuck softness he can get, even if it’s while he entertains Rozanov’s idiotic question.
“I mean. Yeah, sure,” he eventually answers with an amused chuckle. “As long as your cock isn’t fucked up, I’d still wanna sleep with you.”
“Wow wow, Hollander, you love my dick so much you would put up with my octopus arms?” Rozanov hums with a teasing smile.
“Hey, wait—octopus arms are different than a couple of small tentacles–”
“No, no, no. You already admitted it! You like to have freaky tentacle sex, Hollander. Is okay. Own it.” Rozanov laughs, poking Shane’s chest.
“You’re an asshole.” Shane sits up, slapping away Rozanov’s hand when he goes to pinch his side.
“Hmm, an asshole you’d let fuck you even with octopus fingers.” He wiggles his fingers in front of Shane’s face.
Shane laughs and bats them away again, huffing as he stands.
“I’m leaving.” Shane rolls his eyes at Rozanov, sliding into his jeans and tugging on his hoodie as he makes his way across the room.
“Dream of me and my tentacle hands tonight!” He yells from the bed, cackling at his own joke.
Shane slams the door before Rozanov can clock his own smile.
2.
November 2015
They’re at Rozanov’s house in Boston and Shane is currently straddling Rozanov’s lap on his couch. They’re both shirtless and breathless and Rozanov has one hand wrapped around his head and the other shoved down his sweats and briefs, squeezing his ass in time with their kiss.
Then he pulls away, tracking the line of spit connecting their lips before it snaps.
“Would you still want to sleep with me if I made a funny noise when I came?”
Shane blinks.
Then he blinks again.
“What?” He asks breathlessly, grinding back into Rozanov’s hand to try and get him back on track.
“Would you?” Rozanov asks again, a little pout forming on his still-flushed face.
Shane huffs.
“Would I still want to sleep with you if you made weird noises in bed?” He stills his grinding, realizing Rozanov isn’t gonna let this up. What a weirdo. He can’t believe he’s so attracted to him.
“Yes. If I made a silly noise every time I came,” he nods to clarify.
“How silly are we talking?”
“Very.” Rozanov nods, chagrined, as if he isn’t making this whole thing up himself.
Shane smiles in spite of himself.
“I mean you already do–”
“Hey! I do not!”
“Uh uh uh, oh Hollander,” Shane grunts with a deep voice and awful Russian accent. “I’m gonna come, fuck, you feel soooo good–”
“How dare you! I sound rugged and sexy and manly in bed.” Rozanov pinches Shane’s nipples in retaliation, making him squeak in surprise. “Apologize. Right now.” He tweaks his nipples again, twisting them until Shane bats his hands away with a breathless and insincere apology.
“Sorry sorry sorry,” he grins at the pout on Rozanov’s face.
“Answer the question, Hollander.” He crosses his arms like a petulant toddler.
“Fine. Very silly, you said?” Shane asks, still grinning.
“Yeah, silly. And I can’t stop it, it just happens.”
“Are they loud?”
“They have to be at least a little loud. But only when I come, I make normal noises the rest of the time.” Rozanov adds.
“Are they sex sounds or random sounds? Like, are you gonna start hollering like a freight train when you come?”
“Huh.” Rozanov huffs, eyebrows scrunched again. “I think a mix of both. Silly sex sounds and silly random sounds.”
“I mean,” Shane hums in thought. He feels a little silly, but he actually starts to consider it. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Really?” Rozanov grins, eyes lighting up like Shane agreed to send nudes or have Skype sex instead of humoring his stupid hypothetical.
“Yeah, fuck it,” he huffs, unable to stop his matching smile. “You’re a good fuck, Rozanov. I can ignore a weird sound, I guess.”
“Wow Hollander, you like me so much! You love my cock, don’t you? Do anything to make me fuck you, huh?” He teases, finally restarting what he’d abruptly stopped, trailing his fingers along Shane’s waistband and dipping his fingertips into his briefs.
His cock twitches and Shane notices how Rozanov’s eyes track the movement.
“Shut the fuck up,” Shane rolls his eyes, grinding onto where Rozanov is starting to get hard again. “You don’t need me to stroke your ego, asshole.”
“Oh I can think of something better for you to stroke.” Rozanov immediately purrs.
“Jesus Christ, I walked into that one.” Shane groans.
Rozanov laughs, tapping Shane’s hip to get him to lift up. He tugs Shane’s joggers and underwear down to his thighs, immediately wrapping his fist around Shane’s mostly-hard cock.
“Fuck–” He keens, body wracked with a shiver he can’t hold back. His head tips back and he whimpers when Rozanov twists his fist on the next upstroke.
“Now who’s making the noises, huh?” He growls with a low voice.
“Literally shut the fuck up,” Shane rights his posture so he can glare half-heartedly at Rozanov.
Luckily he drops the topic and Shane gets to revel in the very not silly sounds of Rozanov’s orgasm not ten minutes later.
3.
June 2017
They’re on FaceTime catching up and discussing Ilya’s trip to the cottage next month. More than once, Shane has to bite his tongue so he doesn’t blurt out those three little words against his better judgment.
They’ve been building inside him since Tampa. It’s near agony trying to hold them back.
It grew worse after his injury, but it’s basically unbearable now after Hunter kissed a man on live TV and Ilya agreed to come to Ottawa.
It’s too soon. And he still doesn’t know how Ilya feels.
Sure, he agreed to spend a few weeks in Canada with Shane, but Shane could tell, even high on pain meds and already at a disadvantage when it comes to reading other people’s body language, that he was planning on ending things when he visited him in the hospital.
So it’s not the time to let the “I love you so fucking much, you asshole” slip out.
Though he’s decidedly distracted from his internal struggle when Ilya blurts out his next question.
First it was “How much alcohol do you have at your secret cottage and will I need to be supplying my own liquor?” and then “Will pants even be required or can I save room and pack fifty boxes of condoms instead of jeans? but then, in classic Rozanov fashion, he pulls a 180º and asks:
“Would you still want me if I became a zombie in the zombie apocalypse?’
Shane drops the plate he was drying, picking his phone back up from where he’d propped it on the counter so he can look Ilya in his stupid face.
“What?”
“You heard me, Hollander.”
“I heard you, but wanted to give you time to take back the question, Rozanov.” He raises an eyebrow.
Ilya laughs and Shane feels his heart do something weird in his chest at the sight.
“Shane, I am being real! Would you still want me if I turned into a zombie?”
“During a full on zombie apocalypse?” He ignores the rest of the dishes, walking to the island and taking a seat on a stool.
“Yes, a full on apocalypse.” Ilya nods. “End of the world, type thing.”
“What even brought this up?”
“Marlow and me are watching the new season of Walking Dead. Is pretty good, actually.”
“You watch too much TV. It’s probably rotting your brain. You’re probably already half-way to zombie status,” Shane teases, smiling at Ilya’s responding huff.
“No, I watch a normal amount of TV.” Ilya scoffs, tossing a hand flippantly. “You are an old man, only watching hockey and yoga YouTube videos.”
“Yeah, well, who has more Cups? My hockey and yoga are doing more for me than your crap TV–”
“Oh my god, Hollander. You literally only have one more Cup than me! And you’re avoiding the question.”
“If I’d still want you if you were turned into a zombie during the apocalypse?”
“Yes, duh.”
Shane rolls his eyes with a huff.
“Are we together when the apocalypse happens or do I have to go and find you?”
“Huh. Good question.” Ilya purses his lips.
“Because, I mean, it’s one thing to be with you and try to get you un-zombied or whatever, but it’s a different thing to have to travel to the States and fight other zombies or something to go to Boston and get you.”
“Would you travel for me?”
“Fuck no, Rozanov!” Shane immediately scoffs through a smile.
“Hey!” Ilya gasps, sitting up from where he’d been leisurely sprawled across his couch.
“With no cell service, no electricity, no consistent food or water source, other survivors fighting for resources, and who knows how many zombies trying to eat me?” Shane counts on his fingers. “No way. You’re on your own, Rozanov. I’m staying here with my parents and the Pikes, not crossing international borders to save your zombie ass.”
“You would choose Pike over me?!” Ilya asks indignantly, eyebrows flying up in shock.
“Oh, in a heartbeat, Ilya. No question.” Shane bites back a teasing smile.
“Shane?! You hate me?” Ilya moans dramatically, flopping back down against the cushions and holding his phone centimeters away from his face.
Shane finally laughs, unable to hold it back.
“I don’t hate you, idiot, I just wouldn’t waste my time trying to save zombie-you unless we were together when the apocalypse started! I’d probably just end up getting myself killed or turned into a zombie trying to find you.”
“Oh oh oh, but then we both could be zombies together and have zombie sex,” Ilya cheers back up.
“I’m not having zombie sex with you.”
“Pfft, you are so boring.” Ilya rolls his eyes with a little pout.
“But I guess I’d still want you if you were turned into a zombie while staying with me…” Shane shrugs. “As long as you weren’t actively trying to eat me. And you didn’t smell. And didn’t try to have zombie sex with me.”
“Aww Shane, you do like me!” Ilya coos exaggeratedly, an absolutely delighted expression on his face.
“Shut the fuck up,” Shane scoffs, but he knows he’s blushing.
“You would rescue zombie-me and hold my zombie hand and learn zombie talk to speak with zombie-me!”
“I literally only said I wouldn’t kick zombie-you out, if we were together at the start of the apocalypse. I’m not caring for your zombie ass beyond that.”
“You wound me, Shane. I am hurt.” Ilya whines, batting his best puppy-eyes at Shane.
“Fine. Not my problem.” He laughs, getting back up to finish the last of the dishes before Ilya can ask another out of pocket question.
He turns on the tap to drown out another over-dramatic groan from Ilya, only making him pout harder. The big baby. Shane can’t believe he loves him.
4.
February 2018
They’re cuddling together in Shane’s bed after Ilya dominated him both on the ice (unfortunately) and in the sheets (incredibly fortunately).
The Bears beat the Voyageurs 4-1 with Ilya scoring three of Boston’s four goals and Shane scoring Montreal’s lone goal.
Ilya claimed he was ‘scoring a double hat trick’ by making Shane come three times once they made it to his Montreal home.
Shane hates the result of tonight’s game…but he definitely does not hate the fire it brought out of his boyfriend.
He’s still floating back down to Earth when Ilya breaks the soft silence.
“Hey—hey, Shane.”
“Uh oh.” Shane smiles lazily, knowing he’s about to be presented with the weirdest hypothetical. He’s known Rozanov for almost a decade now. Shane knows his quirks like the back of his hand.
“What is uh oh? I didn’t say anything!” Ilya laughs, propping himself up on an elbow.
“I know that tone.”
“Ugh, no, just listen,” Ilya pouts, tapping Shane’s bare chest.
“What?” Shane huffs, pretending to be put out. He closes his eyes and relaxes back against the pillows, still feeling foggy and fucked out.
“Would you still love me if I were a worm?”
Shane peels open an eye to glance at Ilya. He looks very serious about a very not-serious question.
“A worm?”
“Yes.” Ilya nods, scooching closer to Shane, plastering his front to Shane’s side. “A worm. The wiggly squiggly guys. A worm.”
Shane opens both eyes, tilting his head to the side so he can look at Ilya properly.
“How would I know it’s you?”
“Um, magic.”
“There’s magic in this universe?” Shane hums.
“Yes, there is magic,” Ilya nods again.
“Then can’t I just magically turn you back into a human?”
“No.” He pouts, eyebrows crinkling.
“What? Why?”
“Because that's against the rules,” Ilya scoffs as if that was obvious to begin with.
“What rules?”
“The rules!”
“Oh, the rules you’re making up on the spot right now?” Shane bites back a laugh.
“Yes, those rules!”
“You’re impossible, Rozanov.”
“Oh my god,” Ilya sighs, flopping forward so his upper half is resting on Shane’s chest. “Just answer the question, Hollander—you think too much.”
“I can’t answer the question if I don’t know the context of the universe where you become a worm–”
“Shane Hollander. You are so boring.” Ilya lifts up again, planking over Shane’s body with his elbows on either side of Shane’s head. He leans down to nip at Shane’s lower lip.
“Hey!” Shane bats him away.
“Would you still love me if I were a worm?” Ilya repeats the question, face centimeters from Shane’s.
“I suppose…” Shane sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes in an exaggerated full circle.
“Oh? You suppose?” Ilya raises an eyebrow, leaning forward so their noses are touching.
“Yes. I suppose,” Shane chuckles, slapping his shoulder again. Ilya pulls back just enough so they can make proper eye contact. “As long as you weren’t all dirty and tracked mud throughout the house.”
“That’s your one stipulation?”
“Ooh, big word, Rozan–”
“Shut the fuck up,” Ilya growls playfully, kissing the teasing laugh off Shane’s lips. He only breaks the kiss when Shane melts into it, sighing softly.
“Yes, I would love you, even if you magically turned into a worm and I couldn’t turn you human again.” Shane repeats with a slightly teasing tone, still smiling.
“You love me,” Ilya coos happily.
“Unfortunately…”
“Asshole.” Ilya scoffs, flopping down on Shane again.
Shane laughs, wrapping his arms around him and trailing one hand up to scratch the back of Ilya’s head.
Ilya hums contentedly, relaxing until Shane is bearing his full weight.
“I do love you,” Shane whispers, still feeling butterflies in his stomach every time he says it out loud.
“I love you too, Shane.” Ilya whispers, just as reverently. “Very much.”
Shane squeezes Ilya a little tighter and pretends he isn’t tearing up at the words he truly never thought he’d get to hear Ilya say.
5.
July 2019
The cottage is immensely peaceful, wrapped in the soft glow of the sunset and sound of the television on low volume as background noise.
Shane sighs, leaning further against Ilya’s body where they’re cuddled together on the couch.
Ilya leans down to place a lingering kiss to the crown of his head, patting his lower hip with the hand that’s wrapped around his body, holding him close.
It’s the first week of summer. The start of a full month of do-nothing bliss.
Ilya teased him relentlessly for wanting to watch clips from the Voyageurs’ playoff run for their night one entertainment, but he’s fresh off the excitement of his third Stanley Cup and wants to analyze every single play to capitalize on Montreal’s momentum.
Just when on-screen Shane is about to score another goal in the fourth match of the finals, Ilya flops back dramatically, sighing and tossing his head back against the couch cushions.
“So boring!” He laments, pulling Shane down with him.
“Hey! I’m trying to wa–”
“You already watched this same clip four times,” Ilya groans, squeezing Shane tighter.
It’s actually six times. Shane doesn’t correct him, though.
“Asshole,” he chuckles, rolling his eyes as he lets Ilya pepper his head and neck with little kisses. “You’re just jealous,” he teases.
“I could never be jealous of a team with Pike on the roster.” Ilya scoffs.
“He’s literally one of the best players–”
“Blah blah blah. Do not care.” Ilya cuts him off, finishing his statement by blowing a raspberry.
“You’re a baby.” Shane huffs through his smile. He turns his attention back to the television where Comeau lines up for the faceoff, Bouchard and Waters as his wings. Shane is about to reach for the remote to fast forward past the second line’s play when Ilya huffs again.
“My Shane, would you still love me if I never win another Cup and retire in shame as the worst captain in NHL history? A hockey hero fallen from grace.”
Shane turns in Ilya’s grip so he can look up at him. Ilya’s eyes are trained on the TV but Shane can tell he’s not really watching.
“What do you mean?” He chuckles, pretty sure Ilya is still joking around.
“If I never make it to the finals again,” he gestures vaguely. “You would still love me and take care of me with all your hockey money when I make fifty dollars a year on the worst team in the League? Keep me around as your trophy wife?” His tone is light and self-depricating, but he’s still not looking down at Shane and Shane can tell he almost means it.
“Ilya.” Shane taps his cheek. “Look at me, hey?”
Ilya finally turns his attention to Shane, expression light, but eyes conveying what his tone tries to hide.
Oh. He’s serious. At least partway.
“Of course I would. Of course.” Shane frowns.
He can’t quell the little voice in the back of his head whispering that he’d be more than a little disappointed if Ilya gave up his spark and stopped trying to be the best, but he knows that his boyfriend wouldn’t grow complacent. Boston wasn’t a top team when they started. Ilya built that team into the high ranking franchise it became under his captaincy.
He can do it again with Ottawa. Shane has no doubt.
Ilya smiles softly, twitching his nose with a brush of his thumb as he takes in Shane’s words.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Yes.” Shane nods confidently. “I would still love you if you never made it to the playoffs or never won another Cup. But I know you can. You’re a really fucking good captain, Ilya. You’ll get there again.”
“Oh? I’m a great captain?” Ilya’s smile grows, eyes lighting up.
“Yeah. ‘Course,” Shane smiles back, relieved that the doubt clouding Ilya’s gaze is fading away.
“But I’d make a sexy trophy wife, da?” Ilya waggles his eyebrows exaggeratedly.
“Now you’re just fishing for compliments, Rozanov.” Shane rolls his eyes fondly.
“But I’d be so sexy wearing expensive watches and clothes from all your brand deals and going to all these fancy photoshoots as your pretty date and cooking and cleaning for you in a slutty little maid costume–”
“Oh my god! That’s never happening, Ilya!”
Ilya laughs, poking Shane’s sides until he finally bats his hands away. He tackles Shane instead, both of them tumbling sideways until he’s flat on his back on the couch, Ilya trapping him to the cushions with his full body weight.
Shane gives up trying to push him off, relaxing into the cushions and wrapping his arms around Ilya’s neck.
“I love you, Mr. Sugar Daddy,” Ilya purrs, leaning down so he can whisper into Shane’s ear.
He groans and squeezes his eyes shut, tilting his head away from his idiot boyfriend.
“Jesus Christ, never fucking say that again.” He peeks his eyes open so he can glare at Ilya, eyes rolling at his gleeful expression.
Ilya cackles, nosing across Shane’s jaw until he reaches his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip. Shane can’t help but open his mouth and accept a slow, lingering kiss.
He thinks he’d have to be six feet under to reject a kiss from Ilya.
Good thing they’re both alive and well and years away from throwing in the towel.
+1.
February 2020
It’s just past midnight and Ilya’s house is quiet in that gentle, lived in way. Shane can hear the heater running, the occasional car passing by, the sound of Ilya’s soft breaths as he sleeps beside him.
It’s that particular sound that lulls him closer to sleep, body and mind relaxing only when Ilya is near to ground him.
Shane is almost fully asleep when Ilya shifts.
“Shane?” He whispers, evidently not as asleep as Shane had thought.
Shane blinks open his eyes, sleep-addled mind missing the edge in Ilya’s voice until his eyes focus on his face.
He looks…apprehensive.
“Hey,” he frowns, blinking quickly to force himself to shake off the lingering dregs of sleep. “Ar’you okay?”
“Yes.” Ilya smiles automatically. Shane isn’t comforted.
“What’s up?” He hums, still frowning.
He watches Ilya fiddle with his engagement ring on its chain, turning it in circles and occasionally brushing his thumb over the band.
It’s only been two weeks since Shane proposed and every time he remembers Ilya said yes, he’s flooded with such wonder and gratitude.
Ilya’s not having second thoughts, is he?
He tries to catch his eye, but Ilya’s staring off somewhere over Shane’s shoulder.
“Would you still love me if I was like my mama?” He whispers. Shane can only hear him because they’re practically on top of each other.
“What?”
He understands the question but he’s not sure he understands.
“We are going to get married so I think maybe you should know this.” Ilya glances at Shane for a split second before continuing. “In case you want to say no. In case it is too much.”
“Ilya, what?” Shane lifts so he’s propped on his elbow over Ilya. He cradles his jaw with his free hand, gently pulling so Ilya tilts his face in his direction. There are tears pooling in his eyes and Shane has to choke back a wounded sound.
“In case you don’t want me if I am like…like my mama.” Ilya repeats, sounding defeated, like he already made up Shane’s mind for him.
“Like your mom? How?” Shane slowly runs his thumb across Ilya’s jaw.
“Depressed.”
“Oh. Right.” Shane nods, just barely stopping himself from flinching at Ilya’s tone.
He said it like it was a dirty word. Like just saying it caused him physical repulsion. Like it was a dirty secret instead of an illness he can’t help.
He accidentally stops moving his thumb and Ilya finally looks over at him.
“I—Ilya, yes. Yes. Of course,” Shane stutters. He wants to make sure he gets his words right. This feels important. “Of course I would still– of course I do still love you even if you’re depressed.”
Ilya blinks and one of the tears he’s been holding back slips out of his eye. Shane catches it with his thumb before it goes far.
“I don’t care if you are depressed—wait, okay that’s not the right words, fuck–” Shane takes a beat. He steadies himself with a deep breath and looks Ilya in the eyes. “I love you and want to be with you and want to be here for you no matter what, okay?”
Ilya gulps. Shane tracks the movement.
“Even if there is nothing you can do?” Ilya asks tentatively, voice breaking at the end of the question.
“Even if there is nothing I can do.” Shane nods.
“You don’t like feeling helpless,” Ilya purses his lips, eyes flitting away. Shane taps his cheek to get him to keep looking at him.
“I’ll get over it. It’s not about me, Ilya. I want to be there for you, even if you are like your mom and neither of us can do much but stick it out. I wanna stick it out with you. You’re it for me, Ilya Rozanov. I choose you. Good and bad and everything in between. I choose you.”
Ilya finally grins. It’s small and a little lopsided, but it’s there nonetheless and Shane feels his shoulders lose some of their tension with it.
“I love you,” Ilya whispers, eyes clouding over with a fresh sheen of tears.
Shane leans down and kisses each eyelid. He pulls back in time to catch Ilya’s soft smile.
“I love you, too. So fucking much.” He brushes his nose against Ilya’s before kissing his Cupid’s bow. He lets Ilya lift up to kiss him for real, licking into Shane’s mouth unhurriedly.
They kiss for a lingering minute, slow and gentle, before Shane drops back down to the mattress, using his leverage to tug Ilya on top of him so he’s cradled in the crook of Shane’s neck.
He leans forward and kisses the crown of his head.
“Sleep. We’ll talk more in the morning, yeah?”
Ilya hums his assent. “You love making plans, don’t you. Just like your mother.” He chuckles softly.
Neither of them comment on their mirrored maternal similarities.
“Goodnight, Shane.” Ilya whispers. Shane feels the soft puff of breath on his shoulder.
“Night, Ilya.” He scratches Ilya’s scalp, tangling his fingers in his hair.
He keeps running his fingers through his curls until sleep finally overtakes him and his hands still, but nevertheless stay tangled in their rightful place, cradled against the absolute love of his life—his to have and hold, in sickness and in health, till death do they part.