Archive of Our Own

A little over an hour ago, Marley and Connors dragged Ilya into a bar, ("pub, Rozy, it's a pub") called The Burren. It's farther north of Boston proper than Ilya would normally go, but apparently there's a band playing here tonight that Connors has a vested interest in, and Marley is always ready for a night out.

Once inside, Marley had made a beeline to the bar, ordered beers and a round of toxic green shots that tasted more like fake sugar than whatever alcohol was in them, then another round of shots, and another, and then disappeared with Connors into the crowd. So now, Ilya is sitting at the bar, nursing a glass of amber liquor and trying not to think about how close it is to the color of Shane's eyes when the sun hits them.

St. Patrick's Day in Boston is always "feckin' deadly", as the man who clapped Ilya's shoulder just yelled directly into his ear. His accent isn't Bostonian, American, or Canadian, but something clearly Celtic. Irish or Scottish, Ilya thinks. He has the thickest and reddest beard Ilya has ever seen, except maybe for Ryan Price. But this man has none of Price's self-conscious anxiety, the opposite really, singing loudly as he wraps an arm around Ilya's shoulders for a moment and sits on the stool next to him.

"Ah, ye lads over here treat this as a grand excuse to get drunk, don'cha ya now?" he roars over the band, who is playing something about a jar and whiskey and the whiskey being in the jar. They've repeated it many times, the entire bar, sorry, pub, yelling it, along with a phrase that doesn't seem to be in any language Ilya has ever heard.

Though, he is tipsy. More so than usual. So maybe it is in English and he just doesn't really care enough to translate right now. If he's being perfectly honest, he probably wouldn't have come out tonight if it weren't for Marley and Connors. And because this is apparently a sacred day for Irish-Americans, and "if you want to be a good captain, Rozy, you gotta come out with us, Connors has a thing for the fiddle player in this band" and Ilya just didn't have the energy to resist. Plus, Marley is still trying to get back in his good graces and Ilya likes him too well to let him stew in the guilt.

Shane has told Ilya several times that he doesn't blame Marley, so Ilya is trying not to. It's part of the game 'We all get our bell rung eventually.' It's more Ilya's fault than anyone's, really. It never would have happened if Shane hadn't been looking back at him.

Idiot boy, why would you ever think you'd be good enough for him? You'll only ruin him.

Until the man had sat down next to him in a way that left no room for argument, Ilya had been drinking whatever the bartender had been putting in front of him. Whiskey, he thinks. Good stuff, too. Ilya had started to shoot the first one before Connors looked at him like the priest had when he was seven and giggled in church.

Since Marley and Connors had headed off, Ilya has been sitting where they left him, listening to the raucous singing and dancing and clapping that has taken over the pub, searching desperately for something, anything, to replace the image of Shane's body on the ice. He hasn't found anything in the past fifteen days. Nothing has worked. At least drowning the memory in whiskey makes the world fuzzy in a softer, easier way.

His eyes find his phone again, still face down where he'd placed it when he'd first arrived. He shouldn't text him. He'd gotten him hurt. He'd been too much of a coward to break off whatever it is they're doing. He owes him the time and the distance to think, to recover. Plus, Shane probably still shouldn't be looking at screens right now, and Ilya isn't going to call him, not while he's this drunk and in public.

The man squeezes him with a burly arm, shaking him once before slamming a hand down in time with the music.

smack-smack-smack-smack

"вак фол май дэдди-о," the man sings, the unfamiliar phrase appearing in Ilya's whiskey-logged mind in Russian, which makes even less sense.

The Irish man turns and slaps Ilya's shoulder, twice this time, singing into the air above the two of them.

"Whack fol my daddy-o, there's whiskey in the jar!"

The song crashes to an end, the band bows, the fiddle player spinning in a circle. The lead singer says something about taking a break. Ilya watches as the girl Connors is making heart-eyes at sends him an ostentatious wink, sets her fiddle down, and heads off-stage.

The bearded man squeezes his shoulders one more time and gets the bartender's attention before turning to look at Ilya.

"Ye here for the holiday then?" he asks.

"Yes, kind of. Was brought here by friends," Ilya answers, raising his whiskey at Marley, who holds up his beer and starts walking over.

"Ah, deadly, then. You're not American, so?"

"Нет, Russian."

"Long way from home then. What has you here in Yankee land?"

Well, that's just…huh. That's kind of lovely, not being known. Usually everyone in Boston has seen his face, at least. It's not like he gets completely overrun every time he leaves the house, but it's become second-nature to keep his guard up. But maybe, maybe just for right now, he can relax a little. Then again, maybe it's the booze talking.

"Work, I have been here for several years. Is good city. Crazy on this holiday, I do not understand it," Ilya says.

"Aye, I'll let you in on a secret, nor do I. Isn't like this in Ireland. The lads go out for a pint or two, but nothing like this madness," he considers this for a moment. "Maybe in Dublin," he concedes to no one.

He leans close and whispers in Ilya's ear, "Between us foreign lads, I think the Americans just like drinking and are after an excuse to get steaming."

Ilya decides to play along, leaning in as well.

"Between us, I believe you are right. Though you would not know it by how easily they get drunk," Ilya says, raising both an eyebrow and his drink to the man.

The man booms with a bark of laughter so honest it shocks Ilya out of his drunken self-flagellation.

"I'll drink to that! To the famous Irish and Russian constitution!" The man drains his drink, then watches Ilya copy him.

"Colm," he says, extending his hand.

"Ilya," Ilya responds, taking his hand and shaking it. He's got a good handshake, strong.

Then from behind them there's a crash, stumbling footsteps, and Marley apologizing before Connors is clumsily draping himself over Ilya's shoulders.

"Cap, did'ya see her? She's so fuckin' pretty," he slurs slightly, arm catching around Ilya's shoulders. Ilya intercepts his hand and gets an arm around his waist, steadying him.

"Yes, Connie, I did, is very pretty, I think she likes you," he affirms, because it's true, and it's also just fun to watch his millionaire-professional-hockey-player teammates lose their composure like teenagers whenever a pretty girl smiles at them. Although, he's not much better. Freckles in a cold parking lot almost a decade ago, and now he's in a random Irish pub with daydreams of honey-deep eyes interrupted by crunching and those paralyzing seconds when Shane hadn't moved.

Easier to break it off now, he'll always leave you in the end. Kinder for him, too. Spare him the additional pain of you.

"She's so pretty! Cap! Did you see, her face, her eyes! Her hair is so pretty, and her freckles," Connie waxes less-than-poetically before laying his head on his arms on the bar, clearly overcome.

Ilya lets his hand fall between Connor's shoulder blades. Well, he misses and drops a heavy palm on his neck first. But still. He rubs comforting circles between the shoulders and chases the thoughts that scream at Connors to 'get his shit together, this is easy, just go kiss her, at least you won't cause an international incident.'

But that's his and maybe Shane's business, depending on which of Ilya's thoughts win. Connors isn't doing anything wrong, except for being a little bitch about all this. So Ilya just rubs his back, and grins at Marley around him.

"Let your quacks and newspapers be cuttin' their capers," rings out in the beautiful voice of the lead singer, accompanied by the fiddle playing around his voice in a way that makes everyone in the bar, sorry, pub, cheer and join in with a drunken roar. Next to Ilya, Colm lets out a wordless 'yeeehoooo!' and flags down the bartender.

"Have ye got poitín here?" Colm asks and, after the bartender nods at a small collection of bottles set aside from the rest, follows with, "a round for ourselves!"

The bartender cocks an eyebrow at him, and he hands her his credit card when Colm's back is turned. She moves to start pouring four tumblers of whatever Colm had ordered for them all.

"Rozy, her freckles, though, did you see?" Connors whines, turning his head so that his cheek is now on the bar, looking so forlorn Ilya almost has pity for him.

"Another lad seduced by póigíní ghréine, it happens to all of us if we're lucky," Colm says with a sympathetic glance at Connors.

"Wait, what was that word?" Marley asks, accepting his tumbler from the bartender.

"Oh, póigíní ghréine, now tha- woah," he puts his hand on Marley's, stopping him from drinking the entire drink in one, "this is for nursing, lest you want to meet the floor." He demonstrates, taking a satisfied sip of his own drink.

"'Tis never the same as back home, but of course that stuff ain't exactly legal," he laughs.

"Now, na póigíní ghréine is what we Gaeilgeoirí call freckles, but it isn't the word really, it's more of a saying, means 'little kisses from the sun.' 'ts a beautiful language, truly."

Well, now Ilya is definitely not getting Shane's face out of his mind. 'Little kisses from the sun,' fuck, and as the new whiskey-not-whiskey burns down his throat, he gives himself ten seconds to consider the beautiful freckles across that face. Under deep amber eyes, kissed by the sun, and who else deserves it more? Ilya has noticed that Shane's freckles are more pronounced after summer. Because he's spent the summer getting kissed by the sun.

Instead of Ilya.

You cannot be jealous of the fucking sun.

Fuck.

He's drunk just enough to let himself consider Shane's offer. It won't hurt to think about it for a few seconds. All alone with Shane, finally, with nowhere to rush off to, no one waiting suspiciously, no worry about being discovered, just days and nights with Shane in his arms, and as many opportunities to kiss him as Shane will allow.

Fuck. Now it's going to be impossible to say no. He has to. For both their sakes. He can't risk Shane's career, his team, his life. Ilya can survive almost anything, the last few weeks have proven that, but Shane has always been hockey, his entire life centered around it. Ilya cannot ask Shane to risk that for a mere chance at whatever Ilya wishes they could be.

No. He peels his attention away from his phone, still facedown on the bar. Marley and Connors get up and rejoin the crowd around the band, stomping off-beat but slipping easily into the communal joy that this holiday seems to foster.

Ilya turns to his right to see Colm looking him over with too-watchful eyes.

"Everything okay, boyo?" The accent does a lot of heavy lifting, Ilya would bet. He gives himself time to respond by taking a drink. It's really not bad, whatever it is. Colm raises a finger, ordering them another round.

"Fine. Is just complicated situation," he answers before he can stop himself. Fuck, maybe he's more drunk than he thought.

"Another beautiful freckled lass?"

"Yes, but is not possible," he says, draining his drink and accepting another. It makes a version of the truth easier.

"And why would that be?"

Ilya takes a second, trying to figure out how to say, 'well, I'm one of the most famous hockey players in the world and so is he and the homophobic league would end our careers, oh, and I am Russian, you know, where it is illegal to be queer,' without actually saying any of it.

"Don't mind me proddin', I'm a nosy fecker, so are we all, feel free to tell me to mind me own," he prattles on.

"No, is okay. Is just very difficult situation for both of us," Ilya answers, in spite of himself really, but if this man doesn't know who he is, and if he's careful here, maybe, maybe he could talk to someone about this. Which would be nice.

"But you're keen on her?"

"Too much," Ilya sighs, and now he's just talking. Fuck it.

"And she's sweet on you?"

"I think so," he says as the corner of his mouth pulls up slightly.

"Ye think? Jaysus, boy, why would she not, sure? Yer a good-looking lad, with good taste in drink and better taste in drinking companions. She could do plenty worse, so she could," he says with total conviction and a heavy wink. It makes Ilya chuckle, the simplicity of it. Pulls at the wish that's lived in his chest for longer than he cares to look at. Maybe? If only the world were kinder.

"Is big risk for her. For me, too. Could lose much, jobs, life. I could lose visa, be sent back to Russia. Would not be good for me there." The realities crash down around his ears as he lays them on the bar in front of them. One after another, practical reasons that they've spent seven years repeating to themselves and each other in desperation for safety.

It's never stopped either of us. And maybe this is worth it. Shane is worth it.

Colm is still talking, though. It takes Ilya a moment to find the right words from within the myriad of swirling possibilities.

"Let me ask you this, then. Any of that a guarantee?" Colm has his hand back on Ilya's shoulder.

"What."

"A dead cert, that it's the only thing that can or will happen? The job and the deporting and all."

Well, that's a new thought. Maybe it's not guaranteed to go badly. Ilya has always considered the worst: the league kicking them out, no more hockey, back to Russia. In his weakest moments, he had allowed himself to chase the other extreme, some fantastical made-up future where he kisses Shane at center ice and everyone cheers about it.

But maybe they can figure it out, a middle ground. Not the absurdist, impossible future or devastating terror. Something real - practical and achievable. Shane loves practical, lists, plans. Ilya is smart, at least more than the commentators give him credit for. Shane is fucking brilliant. And Shane has his family.

If he even wants to tell them about you. Why would he do something so stupid? You're not enough to be anything but a secret.

No. Shane invited you to the cottage. He seemed excited.

Fuck, Ilya, what are you fucking doing?

And then underneath it all, that single word, faint but strengthening by the minute.

Maybe.

"No, maybe not. I do not think so. Is very possible. But not for sure."

"Alright, well in that case, what needs to be done to fix it?"

"A lot. Is possible, but I am not sure it would work."

"Alright, then, make it safer, not completely, but yer not powerless, so."

"No, not powerless, I do not think so," Ilya says, the slight, secret smile playing around his lips again. He's never thought of it this way. Colm must be some sort of St. Patrick's Day Irish magic.

"I'm going to an arsehole here, so tell me to feck off…she worth it?"

"Yes." Immediate. No hesitation. The speed of the reply doesn't even shock him. Ilya has known that for years. Shane is worth it all. He just doesn't know if Shane feels the same way. And little scraps of Shane will always be better than nothing at all.

"Well now. What's stopping you then?" Colm says, slapping Ilya's back and making him jerk forward slightly.

"He invited me to his cottage for one or two weeks in summer." Ilya catches the pronouns half a second after they leave his mouth. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

But there's a softening around Colm's eyes, even through the alcohol haze, and the hand on his shoulder softens, no longer gripping, just centering.

"Ah, didya say yes, then?"

"No. I told her maybe."

"Text your sweetheart, you gobshite, what the hell are ye waiting for, it in writing or summin'?" Colm shakes him slightly, grinning at it all, as the fear and the worry and the doubt nibble at the edges of the bright, delicate possibility.

Maybe.

"Fine, fine, what was word you said? For веснушки? Freckles?" Ilya gives in, because apparently, whiskey-not-whiskey, Irish music, and an interminably positive man is all it takes to cut through seven years of whatever it is they've been doing.

"Na póigíní ghréine," Colm proclaims, as if that helps at all.

"I want to text to her, how do you spell?" Ilya asks.

"N-a-space-p-o-fada," Colm starts, saying something Ilya has never heard in any language, and he's pretty sure it's not just because he's drunk.

"No, no, wait," he puts his hand on Colm's arm as he continues to spell, "Colm, what is 'fada'?"

"Shite, sorry lad, an accent, for the long sound - just show me the fecking phone. Right, what are ye trying to say?"

Ilya makes sure the keyboard is taking up half the screen. Colm patiently shows Ilya how to press and hold the 'o', 'i', and 'e' keys to get what he's calling a 'fada' but Ilya thinks of as an accent. Whatever. He can call it a fada for Colm.

He drops his hands to the bar, feeling his shoulders drop several inches simultaneously. Something he's been bearing across his back since he was eighteen relaxes. Not entirely. But a little. He breathes deeply. The bar comes back into focus. As he turns, he finds Colm already smiling at him.

"Yer doing the brave thing, lad, well done. You'll both be all loved up," he says, patting Ilya's hand.

Then the phone in Ilya's hand starts to buzz over and over again. He looks down to see 'Jane' written across the top. Shane is calling him. Oh, fuck.

He looks up at Colm, for some reason nearly begging this near stranger for guidance.

"Answer it, ye fuck!"

He breathes. His thumb moves on it's own: he wants more than anything to hear Shane's voice.

"Hello?" Ilya answers.

"Ilya, what the fuck is going on?" Shane's anchoring voice comes over the speaker.

"ba moy lom chaay huig do chakt-an," Ilya pronounces carefully, apparently to Colm's satisfaction, if his beaming smile is anything to go by.

"How drunk are you? Because I ran this through Google translate and it-"

"I want to come to your cottage," Ilya says before he can talk himself out of it.

"Oh."

Then there's silence for a few seconds. More.

"I mean, if you do not-" Ilya says, remembering that Shane was high out of his mind when he had asked. Fuck. Ah, fuck, oh no. He gets up and walks out of the bar, trying not to stumble out into the crisp air.

"No, Ilya, fuck. I want you to come to my cottage, please," Shane stutters out, tripping over his words in his rush, "I just, I mean, I thought you didn't want to."

"I want to, very much," Ilya responds.

"It's just, I didn't know what was going on, so I put it through Google translate. And it said 'I would like to come to your house', and I just woke up and just..." Shane stops talking, sentence left unfinished.

"And what? Is confusing, that it did not translate right?" Ilya tries desperately to sort through his muddled, drunken thoughts.

"No, I just realized that I really want you here. I know we can't, but-" Shane starts.

"I will drive up tomorrow," Ilya offers immediately.

"Ilya, that's insane, I have a game tomorrow and one the day after," Shane starts.

"Ah, is in Ottawa, drive home after. Next one is at home. I do not have mandatory practice until Monday," Ilya says.

"You would drive five hours out of nowhere?" Shane asks, his voice suddenly quiet.

"Well, it would be difficult to get plane ticket, so I will drive, is no problem," Ilya states.

Shane is quiet for too long.

"...okay," he finally says.

"Okay?" Ilya asks, because he needs to hear it again.

"Okay. Please," he says, and Ilya feels his breath stop. Fuck. If this is all it took all along, he would have gotten drunk and tried to learn Irish sooner.

"Okay. I will stop drinking now, I will go home and sleep and get sober. I will be there three hours after game is over? Give you time to get home, yes?"

"Fuck, yes, okay, holy shit," Shane says, "please."

"I will be there, I will let you know when I leave, listen to game as I drive."

"You listen to my games?" Shane asks.

"What? Yes, Shane, I watch or listen to all of your games. I always do."

"I do too." Fuck, Ilya is not going to cry outside this bar.

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh."

They stay there, silent together, breathing across a connection facilitated by phone lines.

"Go sleep, любимый, you have game tomorrow. I will see you after," he promises.

"Okay. Fuck. Okay," Shane says, and Ilya thinks he's about to hang up, but then, "I miss you."

"I miss you too, любимый," Ilya says as it feels like he is going to choke on his own swelling heart, "I will see you tomorrow.".

"Text me when you get home, please?" Shane asks, sleep already clouding his voice.

"Of course, солнышко."

"Goodnight, Ilya."

"Goodnight, Shane."

Ilya leans his back against the black-painted wood, letting his breath exit his body as the phone disconnects. Before heading back inside, Ilya tries, but can't stop the bubbling, sunshine taste of Shane warming his entire being. He feels it start to carve out a tiny, hopeful home in his chest as he reenters the pub to corral his idiot teammates and to, somehow, thank Colm.