Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1. 

Shane wakes up thirsty. 

It’s not abrupt. Not the kind that wakes you up in the dead of the night when you’re sick. It’s the kind when the awareness floats towards his consciousness instead of dragging him there – dry mouth, the faint ache in the back of his throat, the gentle pressure of another body pressed behind him. For a moment he doesn’t move at all, laying there, trying to quietly will the feeling away. 

Ilya’s breathing is steady and deep. An arm thrown over Shane’s waist, heavy and warm, anchoring him in place. Shane can feel the heat of him seeping into his skin, burrowing there, until it sits in every fiber of his being. Can feel the solid reassurance of Ilya’s chest to his back, his knees in the back of his thighs. It still feels a little unreal sometimes, getting to wake up in his own house with someone else threaded so completely around him. 

He swallows. Still thirsty. 

Carefully – painfully carefully – he begins to untangle himself. He shifts his hips first, slow enough that the mattress barely creaks. Ilya murmurs something unintelligible into the pillow – maybe in English, maybe Russian – and tightens his arm around Shane for just a second, reflexive, before loosening it again. Shane freezes, heart in his throat, then exhales when Ilya doesn’t wake. 

He slides free, pulling the sheet back so the cool air doesn’t settle over Ilya’s exposed arms and sliver of stomach. He stands there for a second, looking down at him, highlighted by the dim streetlight outside – his curls a mess, mouth slightly open, face unguarded in the way only sleep and Shane allow him to be. 

“Be right back,” he whispers, even though Ilya can’t hear him, and he doesn’t want him to. 

The hallway creaks faintly as he makes his way downstairs. The house is quiet in the profound, middle-of-the-night way – no hum of traffic, no voices, just the soft ticking of the clock and the faint whirr of the refrigerator. Shane doesn’t bother with the overhead lights, he knows his house blind. Every corner, every step. 

The kitchen is washed in a dull amber glow from the single lightbulb over his sink, leaving shadows pooling under the counters. Shane grabs a glass from the cupboard, the clink too loud in the stillness, and winces reflexively before filling it with water. He drinks half of it, leaning against the cold metal of the fridge door, before refilling it, listening to the hushed hiss of the water. 

Instead of going back upstairs, he drifts over to the island and climbs onto one of the barstools. He sets the glass down with a gentle sound and wraps his hands around it, allowing the coolness of the glass to seep into his fingers. 

There’s something about being awake like this that he likes – alone, but not really. The house feels lived in, occupied in a way it doesn’t when he’s truly by himself. Upstairs, someone is sleeping in his bed. Someone who chose to be here. Someone who belongs here, at least for the night. 

Shane stares at the darkened window, watching his own reflection ghost back at him. His hair sticks up at the crown of his head, sleep-soft and unstyled. He looks…content. The realization settles unsteadily, surprising him with its weight. 

Behind him, a floorboard creaks. 

Shane doesn’t turn right away. He knows those footsteps. He hears the careful way they move, like the person walking towards him is still half-asleep and trying to not wake the house. 

He turns just as Ilya steps onto the tile of the kitchen.

For a split second, Ilya’s face is blank – groggy , unfocused, the neutral expression he wears by default when he’s still sitting comfortably in the in-between of awareness and sleep. He’s wearing one of Shane’s old Metros t-shirts, the hem hanging haphazardly over his hips, the collar stretched just enough to expose the sharp line of his collarbone. His curls are wild, sticking up in tufts on one side of his head, shoved flat against his jawline on the other. 

His eyes land on Shane.

The change on his face is immediate and total. 

It’s like watching the sun break through thick cloud cover. 

Ilya lights up like a fucking christmas tree. 

His eyes go bright first, crickling at the corners as his mouth curves into a wide, helpless smile. His whole posture shifts – shoulders dropping, chest opening, the rigid lines of him softening into something loose and warm and only meant for Shane. Whatever walls he carries with him during the day vanish entirely.

“Shane,” he says, voice thick with sleep and wonder and admiration. 

Shane laughs quietly, the sound slipping out of him. “Hi,” he says, spinning himself to fully face Ilya. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.” 

Ilya shakes his head, already moving closer into Shane’s space. “You were gone. I wake up, you are not there.” 

“I was thirsty,” Shane says, lifting the glass slightly. “That’s all.”

Ilya hums, letting the explanation satisfy himself completely. He stops between Shane’s knees, close enough that Shane can feel the lingering warmth and smell the faint traces of soap and sleep and him. Without hesitation, Ilya’s hands land on the soft curves of his hipbones, thumbs pressing lightly into the cotton of his sleep pants. 

Up close, his smile doesn’t fade. If anything, it deepens. 

“You are awake,” Ilya says. “In my shirt.”

Shane glances down at himself, gaze lingering on the Raiders logo plaster across his chest, then back up at Ilya’s face. “You’re wearing mine,” he deflects. 

“Yes,” Ilya says, unapologetically. “They are comfortable. Smell like you.”

Something inside Shane’s chest tightens, sharp and sweet and all at once. He reaches out, fingers brushing the hem of the shirt where it rests just above the waistline of Ilya’s boxers. 

Ilya leans in, pressing his forehead to Shane’s. Their noses brush. His smile softens, but doesn’t disappear, still glowing, open in the rare way only Shane gets to know.

“I like this,” Ilya murmurs, allowing himself a moment of vulnerable honestly. “You here. In my clothes. House quiet. No one else.” 

“Me too,” Shane says, just as quietly. 

Ilya kisses him, slow and unhurried, a gentle press of lips that feels like warm honey being poured. For once, Shane doesn’t protest. He says nothing about morning breath, or, middle of the night breath. He allows himself to be kissed and to kiss back, one hand coming up to cup Ilya’s jaw, thumb brushing absently over the lines carved there from the sheets. 

When Ilya pulls back, he doesn’t move far. He looks at Shane with bright eyes and a soft expression. Together they stay there for just a moment longer, not speaking. Shane’s back is pressed into the edge of the countertop, Ilya’s body is half in his lap. Eventually Ilya shifts, nudging Shane’s knee with his own.

“Come back to bed, solnyshko,” he says. “Is cold without you.”

Shane grins and slides off the stool, leaving the now-empty glass on the counter. He allows Ilya to grasp his hand and lead him towards the stairs, his fingers warm around his own. 

By morning, the world will return. Masks will go back on. But for now, in the middle of the night, in Shane’s kitchen in Montreal, he becomes the reason Ilya shines. 

Chapter Text

2.

Airports are designed to flatten people. 

Everything about them is designed to move you along, keep you anonymous, keep you efficient. The lights are too bright, the ceilings too high, the noise too constant. Ilya has learned to survive them by becoming smaller somehow – quieter, sharper, harder around his edges. Headphones on. Hood up. Jaw set. Eyes forward. 

Travel days are about endurance, he tells himself, not comfort. 

By the time the team clears security and funnels towards their gate, he already feels rubbed thin. His bag sits heavy on his shoulder, the strap biting into muscle. Teammates cluster in loose groups, voices overlapping, laughter echoing off glass and tile. Ilya nods when spoken to, answers when required, but his body is angled away, his mind halfway gone. 

Eventually, he slips out of the current.

The bathroom is tucked down a side corridor, far enough removed that foot traffic ebbs to a trickle. Ilya checks behind him more than once, then steps inside the single stall bathroom and locks the door. It clicks loudly, echoing around the small space. 

The fluorescent light flickers. The vent hums overhead, a dull mechanical sound that fills the silence. Ilya leans back against the door, the metal handle digging just above his hip. He exhales loudly, feeling the solidness of the wood along his spine. 

Just a minute, he tells himself. Just long enough to breathe. 

His phone vibrates in his pocket. He doesn’t need to look at it to know who it is. He fishes the rectangle out of his pocket and his mouth curves upwards in spite of himself.

Incoming FaceTime: Jane. 

Ilya answers immediately. 

The screen is filled with Shane. 

He’s curled up on the couch, knees practically to his chest, a blanket wrapped around his waist, one arm draped lazily over the back of one of the cushions. He’s wearing a sweatshirt that looks two sizes too big on him – and it is, because it’s Ilya’s – the sleeves swallowing his palms. His hair is a mess, soft and unstyled, like he’d been pulling at it absentmindedly all evening. The light in the room is low and warm, casting everything in gold. 

The contrast is almost painful.

The effect is almost instant. 

Ilya lights up like sunshine.   

It’s not subtle. Eyes going from sharp to soft with life. His posture shifting from cold and closed off to warm and inviting. The smile that breaks across his face is wide and helpless and utterly unguarded – the kind of smile that only exists because Shane does. 

“Hi,” Shane says softly, lips tilting into a soft grin. 

Ilya huffs out a quiet laugh. “Hi,” he says, warmth spilling into those two letters. “You look comfortable.”

Shane shrugs, burrowing deeper under the blanket and into the couch. “Didn’t feel like being productive after practice today.” He studies Ilya’s face through the screen, eyes wandering. “You look like you’re hiding.” 

Ilya glances around the tiny bathroom, the door still secure behind his back. “Maybe I am,” he says. “But, you know, airport bathrooms are very glamorous.” 

Shane grins, “Honestly? Kind of on brand.”

Ilya laughs – real laughter, the kind that lifts his chest and makes the corner of his eyes crease. He steps away from the door and lowers himself onto the closed toilet lid, which groans in protest. He rests his elbows on his knees so he can bring the phone closer to his face, like the proximity of the screen might make the distance between him and Shane smaller. 

“What’s wrong?” Ilya asks gently. “You never call like this.”

Shane hesitates. Shifts. Pulls the blanket tighter around his waist. “Nothing big,” he says. “Just…one of those days. I was sitting here and realized seeing your face might make this a better day.”

The words land softly, but they carry weight. 

Ilya’s smile doesn't fade. If anything, it deepens – warms, like sunlight dusting over skin. “You could have texted.”

“I know,” Shane said. “But I wanted to see you.” 

There’s something unspoken in those words. A refusal to acknowledge what they actually were to each other. Ilya swallows as Shane tilts the phone slightly, the angle allowing Ilya to see more of the living room. The lamp on the end table by the window, the half-empty coffee table, the familiar non-mess of Shane’s life laid bare for him – and only him – to see. 

“I didn’t do much today,” Shane said, breaking the silence. “Had a protein shake. Watched that documentary that you hate.”

“The one with the angry sounding narrator?” Ilya asks. 

“Yes,” Shane answers, smiling. “That one.”

“I think you just enjoy torturing me with that.” Ilya teases. 

“Only a little.”

They fall into an easy rhythm after that, the way they always do – trading small details, filling the quiet with nothing extraordinary. Ilya listens to Shane talk about nothing at all, watches the way his mouth moves, the familiar bow of his lips, the soft flutter of his eyelashes, the careful rise and fall of his chest. He memorizes him anew, like he’s afraid this version of Shane will disappear if he looks away. 

For these few minutes, Ilya lets himself sit with no armor. 

No teammates. No cameras. No expectations. Just Shane.

His Shane.  

“I miss you,” Ilya says finally, toeing the line that they’d drawn over a year ago. Even after a love confession, this feels too intimate to be saying in a public space. 

Shane’s expression shifts, a furrowed brow softening. “Yeah,” he sighs. “Me too.” 

The silence that follows that confession is comfortable. Heavy in the best way it can be. They breathe together through a screen and through distance and through everything else that works to keep them apart. Ilya opens his mouth to say something else. To take the first true step over that line.

Then–

A knock.

“Hey,” a voice calls through the door. “You almost done in there?”

Ilya’s mouth snaps shut. He flinches, his shoulders tense. His smile falters – doesn’t disappear, not yet – but it dims, like a cloud dragging across the sun. He glances at the door and then back at his phone.  

“Just one minute,” he calls. “Someone is knocking,” he says to Shane.

Shane sighs softly, “Yeah. Guess you can’t hide forever.” 

“I would like to,” Ilya admits. He really does hate travel days. 

The knock comes again, more insistent this time. 

“C’mon man, I need the bathroom,” the voice calls. 

“I said one minute,” Ilya snaps. 

He exhales and straightens, slowly pulling himself back together. His posture shifts, spine realigning, expression cooling into something more controlled. The glow doesn’t vanish at once, it disappears slowly, like a sunset dropping below the horizon. 

“I have to go,” he says.

Shane nods, but he’s still smiling so warmly. “Okay. Go back to being stoic and mysterious.”

Ilya tests the word stoic on his tongue, mentally reminding himself to ask Shane what it means. “I will call later. When I am home. I love you.” The last sentence comes out as a whisper, the words too sacred to say loud enough that a stranger could hear. 

“I’ll be here,” Shane says. “Same couch, same blanket. I love you.”

Ilya holds onto the phone call for a second longer, allowing himself to drink in Shane. Then he nods and ends the call. 

The screen goes dark and now the only face Ilya can see is his own hopelessly staring back at him. 

The bathroom snaps back into focus. The hum of the vent. The glare of the flickering light. The impatient shuffling outside the door. 

Ilya unlocks it and steps back out into the hallway, expression smooth and unreadable. The man waiting outside shoots him a glance before rushing into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. 

Ilya steps towards the terminal. No one sees the way he’d been glowing just moments before. 

And that’s how it stays. 

The sun rose in private, in a locked bathroom, during a stolen moment. And it set the moment someone knocked on the door. 

Chapter Text

3. 

Parking garages are lineal places – not quite indoors, not quite out. Concrete and shadows and echoes. Shane likes this particular Ottawa airport parking garage because it’s quiet at night, tucked next to an old building near the edge of the airport grounds. The kind that no one lingers in without reason.

Shane has a reason. 

A six-foot-three, curly-haired, obnoxious reason. 

He leans back against his car, hands shoved deep into his shorts pockets, breath mingling in the humid night air. The lights hum overhead as they cast yellowish light across the floor, painting the concrete. Somewhere above him, a car door slams. Somewhere else, an engine thrums to life. 

Shane checks his phone again, even though it hasn’t been long enough for an update. Still no messages. That’s fine. He knows this routine. They did it last summer, and the summer before. Ilya lands, takes his time getting through the terminal, keeps his head down, and texts when he gets close. 

Shane smiles to himself, anticipating that text. Anticipating the moment when Ilya appears around the corner of one of the concrete pillars, stepping back into Shane’s world where he belongs. Tired and upright, guarded and searching. 

Waiting has never bothered Shane that much. There’s something steady about it, something that feels routine. He pushes off the trunk of his car and straightens when he hears footsteps. 

They’re not hurried or hesitant. Just solid and measured and familiar.  

Shane’s heart lifts. 

Ilya appears between two of the pillars, duffle slung over one shoulder, collar of his shirt tugged to one side exposing a slice of collarbone, hair still slightly flattened from travel. His posture is familiar – contained and careful, eyes scanning the place like he’s forming a catalog. 

For a second, he doesn’t see Shane. 

Then his gaze lifts. 

It’s like watching the sun come out from behind a wall of clouds for the first time in a week. Ilya’s entire face opens in a way that Shane will never grow tired of. His eyes brighten as his mouth splits into his ridiculously wide, toothy grin, making his face look boyish. His shoulders drop and his strides widen. Whatever exhaustion clung to him from a long day of travel simply melts away. 

He’s completely lit up.

His joy is full-bodied, the complete opposite of the courtesy he offers teammates and staff. He doesn’t slow his pace when he reaches Shane. Merely drops his bag onto the concrete with a thud that reverberates through the entire structure. He steps straight into Shane’s carefully constructed bubble, arms coming up and around his shoulders, pulling him close with a quiet, relieved sound. 

Shane wraps his arms around Ilya’s broad back, feeling the solid weight of him as his fingertips twist themselves into the cotton of his Centaurs t-shirt. Ilya presses his face into Shane’s neck, feeling the warm skin in the crease of his shoulder, inhaling his scent – clean and fresh and Shane. 

“Hi,” Ilya mumbles, muffled, lips brushing against Shane’s skin.

“Hi,” Shane replies. 

They stay like that for a moment longer, swaying slightly in the thick garage air. When they finally pull apart, Ilya’s smile is still there – bright and helplessly and in love. 

“You look tired,” Shane observes, reaching up to brush a thumb along the strong line of Ilya’s jaw. 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees easily. “But now I see you, so I am fine.”

Shane snorts, “That’s not how exhaustion works.”

“It is for me,” Ilya says cheerily. 

They load the large duffle into the trunk together, hands brushing as the strap slides from Ilya’s hand into Shane’s with unhurried movements. Ilya talks the entire time – about the fight, about his team, about how disgusting the airport's coffee was. Shane listens, amused, answering when needed, content to watch the way Ilya’s hands move as he talks, animated and expressive in a way he rarely is around anyone else. 

They climb into the car, Shane behind the wheel, Ilya in the passenger seat. The engine turns over, echoing briefly through the garage as they pull out into the night. City lights streak past the windows, reflections dancing across the windshield. 

Ilya’s glow doesn’t extinguish.

He turns towards Shane almost immediately, body angling fully in his direction, one knee tucked up on the seat – the best he can – like he’s setting in instead of traveling somewhere in a car. 

“You drive nicely,” he says, watching Shane’s hands on the wheel. 

“I drive normally,” Shane corrects. 

“No,” Ilya insists. “Nicely.”

Shane shakes his head, smiling. “You’ve been on the plane too long.”

“Maybe,” Ilya says, unbothered. He reaches out and rests a hand on Shane’s thigh, warm and steady, fingers grazing and stroking. “But I am happy.” 

The word hums quietly in between them. 

As they leave the city behind, the road narrows and darkens. Streetlight thins out, replaced by long stretches of black road and the occasional passing car. Music plays softly from the car speakers – something low and unintrusive. Ilya hums along under his breath, fingers tapping gently against the smooth skin of Shane’s thigh. 

He talks about the cottage – how much he misses the quiet of it, the air, the way the mornings there feel slower. He talks about nothing at all – half-formed thoughts, small observations, memories that surface without warning. Shane responds when he needs to, but mostly he listens, swimming in the sound of Ilya’s voice. 

The happiness that rushes in with it is infectious.

At one point, Shane glances over and catches Ilya watching him, chin resting on his other hand, expression open and fond. 

“What?” Shane asks, amused. 

Ilya’s smile widens. “Nothing,” he says. “I just…like looking at you. Like this.”

“Like what?”

“Here,” Ilya says simply. “With me.”

Shane’s chest tightens. He looks back at the road, because if not, he’d look at Ilya forever. “I love you,” he whispers out.

“Ya tebya lyublyu.” Ilya says back, knowing Shane loves it when he proclaims his love in his native tongue. 

The drive stretches on, the road winding through trees, the cottage drawing closer with every mile. Ilya never stops glowing – never dims, never pulls back into himself. He laughs freely, touches Shane the entire drive, exists in a way that feels light and explosive and rare. 

When the cottage finally comes into view, dark and quiet against the treeline, Shane feels a small, contended sigh leave his body without him meaning to. He pulls into the driveway and cuts the engine. 

For a moment, neither of them move. 

The silence is thick – much like the heat outside of the car – but comfortable. The quiet is filled with the hum of cooling metal and the muted sounds of the outside world. Ilya exhales slowly, stretching before relaxing back into his seat, smiling like he’s trying to memorize this feeling. 

“This,” he says softly. “Is perfect.”

They sit a beat longer, hands still touching, before the heat in the car slowly starts to become suffocated. Shane reaches for the keys and opens his door. 

No one else is here. No one else sees the way Ilya glows in the dim light of a parking garage, or how that light carries him all the way up the winding road to the cottage.

But Shane does.

And that is more than enough.     

Chapter Text

4. 

Ilya had been waiting all day. 

The cottage had never felt this small. It was so full of anticipation that it pressed against his ribs until breathing felt like it should be optional. He’s paced the length of the living room enough times to wear an invisible groove into the floor. He stood at the window and stared out into the nothingness, then did the same at the door, staring out at the empty – save for his own car – driveway. He wanders over to the window again, tracking the light as it fades over the lake like time is deliberately moving too slowly to punish him. 

Shane won. 

The thought keeps dancing around Ilya’s head, detonating in his chest, over and over. Shane won another cup. Shane lifted it. Skated with it. Grinning and magnificent. And Ilya wasn’t there to see it – but he’s here now, waiting, hands flexed uselessly at his sides as his body waits for what’s coming. 

When headlights finally sweep across the trees, Ilya swears his heart stops. 

The car crunches up the drive. The engine stops. 

The silence that follows is unbearable. 

The door opens.

Shane steps inside.

Ilya freezes. 

He looks unreal. 

Shane’s still wearing Montreal colors under an open jacket, hair damp and curling at the nape of his neck, cheeks flushed under freckles and the scruff of a playoff beard. A very sexy combination if you were to ask Ilya. Shane's eyes are bright – still glowing with the joy of victory. 

The second he sees Ilya, he breaks.

Ilya feels it happen in his own body before he registers Shane’s face – the way his shoulder’s sag, the way his mouth curves into something soft, the way he looks at Ilya. 

Ilya doesn’t even realize he’s smiling until it hurts. 

He can’t stop it. 

He’s so full of pride and love it’s almost violent, the way it surges through his body, the way his chest feels too small to contain it. He crosses the room in three long strides and Shane meets him halfway, dropping his bag and shucking off his jacket without a second thought. 

Their mouths crash together, 

It’s not gentle. It’s not slow. It’s desperate and hungry and earned. Restraint and secrecy and distance snapping all at once. Shane makes a sound into Ilya’s mouth – low and wrecked – and Ilya swallows it whole, his hands everywhere immediately. He slides his hands up Shane’s jacket, gripping the fabric like he needs proof that Shane is actually there. Was his. 

“You did it,” Ilya breathes against Shane’s mouth in between kisses. “You – fuck – you did it. I wish I could’ve been there–” Ilya chokes out a gasp as Shane moves to mouth at his neck. 

Shane laughs, breathless, at the noise he elicits from his boyfriend. His lips graze over the sensitive skin of Ilya’s neck, the delicate shell of his ear. “I kept thinking about getting back here,” Shane quietly admits. “Kept thinking about you,” he says, rougher this time. 

This does something dangerous to Ilya.

He kisses Shane again, harder this time, a mix of lips and tongue and teeth. He backs him towards the front door without even realizing he’s doing it, only noticing when Shane’s head hits the glass panel with an audible thunk. Shane goes willingly, allowing his spine to hit the wood, hand fisting in Ilya’s t-shirt, tugging him closer like he’s trying to crawl inside his skin. 

Ilya breaks the kiss long enough to look at him. 

Shane is glowing – victory clinging to him like heat, eyes dark with it now, mouth shiny and swollen and red. Ilya’s chest aches with how much he loves him. With how much he needs to touch him, every inch of him, to make sure Shane knows how proud he is. 

“You were incredible,” Ilya says in a low voice.

Shane’s throat works, Adam's apple bobbing. Ilya wants to lick it. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” Ilya whispers. “God, yes.”

He presses his forehead to Shane’s, breathing him in, hands sliding down to Shane’s hips, gripping tight. Shane shifts instinctively, pressing closer, sliding a thigh against Ilya’s crotch. Ilya groans quietly, the sound dragged out of him like a confession. 

They kiss again, slow and deep, mouths opening, tongues gliding against each other with familiarity and want. Shane’s hands roam – over Ilya’s shoulders, down his back, nails scraping just enough to make him shiver. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Shane whispers. 

Ilya’s eyes darken, “I cannot look at you any other way, dorogoy.” 

Shane tilts his head back, the crown of it colliding with the solidness of the door behind him. Ilya noses at Shane’s chin, mouth connecting with his jaw. He plants wet kisses down the line of his throat, alternating between his tongue and his lips, lingering where he knows Shane is sensitive. Shane tilts his head further back, exposing more, his trust entirely with Ilya. 

His hands tighten where they grip Shane’s waist, his kisses turning hard enough to bruise.

Shane gasps, hips rolling forward on instinct, and Ilya swears softly against his skin as they slide together. He bites lightly, just above Shane’s collarbone, leaving him breathless, promising him more. 

Ilya pulls back to look at him again. “Bedroom?”

Shane nods. His eyes are blown wide, pupils dilated, iris’ glasses. His mouth is dark and shining, parted like he’d forgotten how to close it. He looks halfway to undone, and Ilya wasn’t near-finished with him yet. 

Ilya sweeps Shane off his feet – literally. In one fluid motion, Shane is in his arms, legs wrapped tightly around his waist, arms twisted and tangling in his curls. Ilya is mouthing at his neck again and Shane allows himself to go pliant in his arms, head lolling to the side, helpless noises falling past his bruised lips. 

They make it up the steps and across the threshold of the bedroom before clothes start to become a problem. Ilya sets Shane on his feet right there, his fingertips turning teasing as he slides them up Shane’s ribs, pulling the hem of his shirt along with them. Ilya sighs at the exposure of Shane’s smooth stomach, reveling in the feeling of his soft skin under the tips of his fingers and against the palm of his hand. He pauses his worship to fold Shane’s shirt, gently tucking in the sleeves, before setting it on top of their dresser. He discards his own shirt with minimal care, it finds a landing in the opposite corner of the room, already reaching for the planes of Shane’s chest. 

Ilya kisses at his neck, “Shane,” he hums, the sound vibrating Shane’s skin. 

His hands are planted firmly on Shane’s waist, slowly guiding him towards their – king sized – bed. The cottage around them falls away, the two falling into the heat of each other, breath ghosting over skin, fingers gliding through hair. 

Pants are untied – Shane’s neatly folded, Ilya’s thrown to join his t-shirt – followed by boxers. Ilya groans at the sight of Shane, lying beneath him, naked and panting and sweating. 

“So pretty,” Ilya murmurs, tracing a finger from Shane’s neck all the way down the length of his side. 

“Ilya, please,” Shane begs. 

“Shh,” hushes Ilya, “Patience, sweetheart. I will give you what you want.”

He captures Shane’s mouth with his own, tongue licking into his mouth. Shane’s hips buck up against his at the sensation, and their cocks slide against each other. Shane breaks the kiss, throwing his head back, whimpering at the contact. Ilya focuses on Shane’s chest, nipping and licking and kissing every inch of him. He sucks a nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking the sensitive bud. Goosebumps erupt over Shane’s skin and Ilya revels in the feeling. He reaches towards the bedside table, fingers fumbling for the drawerhandle. 

He presses a kiss to Shane’s nipple before moving to the other as his hand slides the drawer open. He feels around for the bottle of lube and finds it stashed towards the back. He hums happily, the sound vibrating Shane’s chest and traveling straight to his already-hard dick. 

He pulls away from Shane. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “Already so undone from just my mouth.” He marvels at the sight beneath him. Shane, pupils blown, lips slick, soft marks from Ilya’s mouth littering his chest, Ilya’s thighs bracketing his hips.

Shane squirms under his gaze, bucking his hips up, desperate for friction. 

Ilya smirks.  

He sets the bottle of lube next to Shane's head, opting to run his hands down his sides instead. They stop at his hips, gripping tight enough to bruise. Ilya shifts his body down, moving to now mouth at his hipbones, leaving lingering kisses before sliding to the crease of his thighs.

Shane moans at the proximity of it all. Ilya continues his work, sucking and biting, hard enough to mark, to bruise. Finally, finally, Ilya licks a stripe from the base of Shane’s dick to the tip, taking him in his mouth and swallowing him whole.    

Shane loses all restraint, hips jolting off the bed. Ilya presses a palm into his stomach, holding him down to the mattress. He hums around his cock, sending vibrations through Shane’s thighs and into his stomach. His fingers are tangled in Ilya’s curls, tugging as Ilya works his mouth up and down the length of him, sucking and licking as he brings Shane to the edge. 

“Ilya, fuck, please– you gotta– I’m gonna-” Shane makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat. 

Ilya slows his pace before pulling off, pressing a kiss to the head of Shane’s dick before smirking at him and licking his lips in the slow, deliberate way that makes Shane’s stomach turn to butterflies. 

In one, fluid motion, Ilya has Shane’s legs up over his shoulders, Shane’s knees practically against his own ears. 

Shane gasps in surprise.

Ilya reaches for the bottle of lube, uncapping it, before gently setting the cap on the nightstand. He takes his time, makes Shane watch as he drizzles a generous amount across his fingers. Shane can feel his body shiver with anticipation, simply waiting to be taken apart completely. 

“You’ve waited so long for this, yes?” Ilya asks, a finger slowly starting to circle Shane. “As long as I have?”

“Yes, fuck Ilya, yes I’ve been waiting for this.” 

“You’ve been so good, Shane. Such a good boy waiting for me.”

Shane moans at the praise. 

Ilya circles his finger faster before pressing in right to his knuckle, making Shane cry out. His hands fly up to grasp Ilya’s biceps, fingertips pressing in the muscled skin. 

“Ilya,” he groans. “Fuck, Il.”

Ilya slides one finger in and out of Shane, slowly beginning to work him open, crooking a finger inside of him. 

“So good, sweetheart,” he mutters. “So good for me,” 

As he presses a second finger in, he captures Shane’s mouth with his own, biting at his lip, clashing his tongue against Shane’s. Shane gasps, their breath mingling, as Ilya scissors his fingers, reveling as Shane begins to stretch around him. 

He goes faster now, curling and splitting his fingers inside Shane, working him open, winding him up. By the time he pushes his third finger in, Shane is grinding down onto his hand, hips working in time with Ilya. 

“Il, Ilya, I’m ready– baby, please, I’m ready.” 

Ilya slides his fingers out, slowly, deliberately taking his time, deliberately driving Shane crazy. He reaches for a tissue from the box on the nightstand, taking care to clean all three fingers before reaching towards the lube again. 

“Ilya, I’m going to die,” Shane whines. “I need you in me, now.” 

“Okay, sweetheart,” whispers Ilya in response as he coats his own dick in lube. They’d forgone condoms years ago, and Ilya wasn’t about to go back on that now.

He rests the tip of his dick against Shane, letting him feel the heaviness. Shane squirms, trying to force his hips down. Ilya covers Shane’s lips with his own at the exact moment he snaps his hips forward, pushing in. They moan into each other's mouths, breath mingling. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Ilya groans, resting his face in the gentle curve of Shane’s neck. 

His pace is tantalizingly slow, like he’s taunting Shane and rewarding him at the same time. Each thrust is accentuated by a noise and Shane’s not sure if it’s coming from him or Ilya. 

Ilya picks up his pace, hips snapping faster with each thrust. He finds Shane’s prostate, causing him to arch, emitting a muffled moan into Ilya’s skin. 

“Il- Ilya,” Shane chokes out, lips and teeth and tongue against Ilya’s arm. “Fuck, Il.”

This spurs Ilya on, his pace quickening to an impossible speed. “Fuck, Shane. So good, sweetheart. So good for me.” 

That’s what gets Shane. The praise, so delicately slotted in between Ilya’s thrusts. “Ilya, I’m going to– fuck – I’m going to cum.” 

Ilya’s pace doesn’t slow. He presses thick, open-mouthed kisses wherever he can reach. “Cum for me, dorogoy.” 

Shane comes completely undone. He falls apart under Ilya’s hands, against his skin. His cum lays hot between their stomachs. 

It only takes Ilya a few more thrusts before he’s cumming, his pace slowing as his body gives way beneath him. His body lays heavily on top of Shane, his breath fanning against the sweat cooling on Shane’s skin. 

“Congratulations, sweetheart,” he murmurs into Shane’s neck. 

Shane sighs happily, tracing a finger lazily across Ilya’s forearm. Ilya practically purrs at the touch. His dick is softening inside of Shane, but neither can find the energy within them to care. Instead, Ilya opts to press gentle, open-mouthed kisses to Shane’s neck and collarbone. 

He looks up at Shane as he continues his kissing. He thinks of this – these private moments – unseen by the world. This is his real victory, their real victory. His sunshine, burning bright and only his.

Chapter Text

5.

Ilya knows he’s home the second he walks through his own front door. 

It’s not the familiar creak of the hinge, or the smell of clean wood and linen, it’s the presence of Shane. 

Shane is standing just inside the entryway, like he’d been pacing and finally stopped when he heard the turn of the lock. His hands are shoved deep in the pockets of his – Ilya’s – hoodie, shoulders relaxed in a way that means he’s trying to look like he hasn’t been waiting. 

Ilya can’t get the door shut before Shane is there.

They don’t say anything. They don’t need to. 

Shane’s hands come up, warm and sure, cupping Ilya’s jaw, thumbs brushing along the lines of his stubble. Ilya leans into the touch without hesitation, dropping his bag wherever it wants to land, and kisses him. 

It’s not gentle.

It’s familiar and hungry. The kind of kiss that starts with relief and immediately turns into something deeper, mouths moving together like they’ve been counting the minutes apart. Shane makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, barely audible, but Ilya feels it everywhere.

He turns them, pressing Shane’s back against the open doorframe, one hand splayed between his shoulder blades, the other sliding between dark strands of hair. Shane kisses him like he always does – open, wholehearted, like he’s finally letting go. 

They break apart only because they have to breathe. 

Shane rests his forehead against Ilya’s, eyes closed, lips curved into a soft smile.

“Hi,” he whispers.

The sun is rising now, bleeding through the lines of Ilya’s face as he begins to smile. “Hi, solnyshko.” 

They kiss again, slower this time. It’s unhurried, lips brushing and lingering. Shane’s hands slide down to Ilya’s waist, thumbs hooking in his belt loops. Ilya leans into the touch as he follows the familiar path of Shane’s jaw, pressing a kiss just beneath his ear. 

Ilya wanted to tell him so many things, but he couldn’t seem to stop kissing him. It was bitter cold all around them, the air leaking in from the still open door, but Shane’s mouth was warm, so Ilya would happily stay here forever kissing Shane in the cold.

Eventually they broke apart, and Shane managed only to say, “Come inside,” before they were kissing again. 

Finally, finally, Shane took Ilya’s hand and led him inside. It was only then that Ilya realized Shane hadn’t been wearing a coat, just Ilya’s tattered hoodie.  

“I’m sorry,” Ilya said. “You must be freezing.”

“I’m fine.” 

Shane watched him remove his outerwear, chewing his lip and sliding his hands in and out of the pockets of his pants. He seemed uneasy. 

Ilya tried to kiss him again, desperate for Shane, but Shane took a step back and said, “Follow me?”

Ilya smiled his sunshine smile, “Anywhere.”

Shane let out an oddly nervous laugh, which made Ilya laugh. Then Shane took his hand again, and they walked together into Ilya’s living room where–

“What is this?” Ilya asked. The drapes were drawn across the large windows that normally looked out to the river, and the room was dark. 

Except for the glow of about a million candles. 

They were everywhere: on the tables, on the floor, on the mantel, even on the arms of the furniture. It was beautiful and…weird.

“Are you trying to burn my house down?” is what Ilya finally said. 

Shane’s lips curved up. “They’re electric. Fucking relax, Rozanov.”

Ilya’s heart started to race, but not because he was concerned about fire safety. He’d told Shane once, years ago, that one day he’d cover the dock at his cottage – their cottage? – in candles. That he’d bring Shane down there, then ask him to marry him. It had been a joke…sort of. But now he really was standing in a room full of candles and–

Shane sank to one knee in front of him. 

Ilya hand enjoyed watching Shane go to his knees in front of him many times over the years, but he knew immediately that this was different. He suddenly felt winded. And dizzy. And maybe a little queasy. 

“What is this?” he whispered again.

Shane gazed up at him, his expression steady and determined and so full of love.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”

Ilya swallowed. Why was it so hard to swallow? It was like he had no saliva at all. 

“We’ve wasted so much time,” Shane continued. “Years of denial, then years of hiding what we are to each other.”

“Shane–”

“Could you not interrupt?” Shane asked with a teasing smile. “For once in your life?”

Ilya pressed his lips together.

“I don’t have a plan for anything beyond this,” Shane confessed. “But I know what I want. There’s nothing in my life that matters more than you, Ilya.” 

He slid his hands into his pants pocket again. He had to lean awkwardly to one side to fit his fingers inside.

Then, Shane was holding a ring, pinched between his pointer and middle fingers. He was holding it into the open space between him and Ilya.

“Shane,” Ilya said again, unable to stop himself. 

“I choose you, Ilya. I promise I will always, always choose you.” Shane’s eyes began to shimmer with unshed tears. He took a deep breath and said, “Ilya Grigoryvich Rozanov, will you marry me?”

Ilya wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he realized he hadn’t said anything. He hoped it had only been a second or two, but judging by the fear that had settled in Shane’s eyes, it must have been longer. 

Finally, in a tight, trembling voice, he said, “You know my middle name.”

“It’s on Wikipedia. I kinda fell down a rabbit hole learning about the Russian tradition of using the father’s name to–”

“Yes,” Ilya interrupted.

“Sorry, I’m babbling. You know how Russian names work.”

“No,” Ilya clarified. “Yes.”

Shane stared at him with obvious confusion. Ilya nodded to the ring that was still lingering between the two of their bodies. 

“Yes,” Ilya said again. “I am saying yes to you, Hollander.”

“Oh.” Then Shane’s lips spread into a wide grin. “Yeah?” He scrambled to his feet and into Ilya’s – his fiance’s – arms. 

They kissed and Ilya said “yes” again. They kissed again and he said “of course.”

They kissed even more, and Shane said “I love you.”

By the time they finished kissing, they both had tears streaming down their cheeks. “Is this because I almost died?” Ilya teased.

“No. It’s because I almost died.”

Ilya brushed a thumb against the tears on his Shane’s face. What could he even say to that? So he said nothing.

After a long while, Shane broke the silence. “So, uhm. The ring.”

“Yes, right.” Ilya took the ring – his ring – from Shane and inspected it. 

A simple black band with a gold interior. Very classy. Very Ilya. 

He smiled at Shane, his perfect sunshine smile, and attempted to slip it onto his own finger. It didn’t quite fit.

“Shit,” Shane said, looking disappointed. “I didn’t know your ring size.”

“Is okay.” Ilya removed the ring where it was awkwardly wedged against his knuckle. “Am I supposed to wear it now? Or is it for after we are married?”

“You know,” Shane said, “I have no idea. I just thought I should have a ring for this.”

Ilya handed the small band back to Shane, then loosened and removed his necktie. He opened the top buttons of his dress shirt, then reached inside and unclasped the gold chain from around his neck. He held his palm out expectantly, waiting for his ring.

“Oh,” Shane whispered, then handed him the circle. Ilya slipped it onto the chain, nudging it until it rested against the crucifix that had belonged first to his mother. 

“Here,” Shane said, and reached for the chain.

Ilya turned his back, and Shane fastened the necklace back into its proper place. He pressed a soft kiss to Ilya’s shoulder. 

“Did you buy one for yourself?” Ilya asked. “Or is that my job?”

“I was going to buy a matching one. I just…wanted to make sure I needed it first.”

Ilya raised his eyebrows as he turned back to face Shane. “You thought I would say no?”

Shane at least had the decency to look embarrassed about it. “I don’t know. I just didn’t want to be cocky about it.” 

Ilya laughed, a little wetly because, quite frankly, he was still a mess, then moved to cradle Shane’s face in both hands. “Buy the ring, sweetheart.”

They were both half-crying as they kissed, breath stuttering as salt mixed between each press of their lips. In theory, it was a terrible kiss, but Ilya had never experienced one better. Shane Hollander was going to be his husband.

Ilya breaks the kiss, fingers delicately touching the new weight around his neck. 

His face betrays him once more – glowing, open, impossibly full of love. 

Home, Ilya thinks. This is what it looks like.

Chapter Text

+1

The rink smells the same as it always does.

Cold air, sharpened steel, rubber and sweat and the faint ghost of coffee from somewhere down the administration hallway. It’s familiar enough that Ilya barely registers it, muscle memory carrying him through the routine – bag dropped, skates out, stick taped. 

It’s just another first practice.

Except it isn’t.

Shane’s name now adorns a stall. 

Ilya stops short, one hand still on the zipper of his bag, staring at the letters like they might rearrange themselves and reveal that it’s all been a cruel joke. 

But it stays there. 

Shane Hollander

It’s in neat, block letters, between two names he’s looked at for years.

His husband. On his team. In his locker room.

Something in Ilya begins to give way. 

He knew this was real. Trades and signings don’t happen in secret. Contracts get signed and press releases go out. He’s answered the questions already, tried to keep his face neutral while reporters tried to get him to crack. To show the true excitement that lingers just beneath his practiced facade. 

None of that had prepared him for this.

He finds himself sitting in his stall, Shane’s still empty to his right. But then, Shane is there too, bending over his bag, tugging his gear free with that easy familiarity that Ilya’s grown to love. He’s laughing at something one of the guys had said – nothing loud, just that warm, bright sound, Ilya knows by heart.

It hits him square in the chest anyway. 

Shane looks at him and Ilya lights up.

God, he lights up.

Not just polite happiness. It’s full-bodied, unmistakable joy that radiates off of him like heat. His shoulders relax as his eyes crinkle at their corners – a sight that’s become much more common now that the world knows about him and Shane. 

The sun is rising, unfiltered, outside in front of everyone.

Shane’s chest fills too fast, like he’s breathing in more air than he has the space for. Love floods him with the pride and fondness sitting heavy in Ilya’s face. It’s hot and overwhelming and fierce. 

Shane’s own grin widens, helplessly, like his face knows before his brain tells him to do any different. He shifts and his eyes soften in the way that’s always been meant for Ilya.

The sunshine breaks loose, like all the clouds in the sky had suddenly evaporated, leaving all the room in the world for Ilya’s rays. 

And he can’t hide it.

Won’t hide it.

He fixes his gaze permanently on Shane, like there’s nothing else in the room worth a glance.

He slides closer without thinking, sure and deliberate, drawn by gravity. Shane meets him halfway, skates forgotten, socks still loose in his grasp.

“Hey,” Shane says, soft and steady.

“Hi,” Ilya beams, resting his head on the border of their stalls. His gaze is open and welcoming and lovesick and so soft that Shane can’t stop the heat rising in his face.     

Ilya is sure that somewhere Harris takes a picture. 

He doesn't care.   

Shane’s knee bumps his as he starts to put his gear on. Ilya is still staring.

Someone wolf whistles. 

Another voice murmurs, “Well damn, Roz.”

Ilya hears it all like it’s happening underwater. 

All he sees is Shane.

This man. His husband. The one who learned him slowly and loved him completely. The one who waited, the one who chose him every day in ways that were quiet and in ways that were brave. The one who is here now, in Ilya’s world, wearing the same colors, skating the same ice. 

Ilya dresses slowly, as if he’s in the haze of a dream. 

“You ready?” he asks Shane as he finishes tying the laces of his left skate.

Shane’s eyes flicker to Ilya’s hands, watching his fingers deftly tie loops. He nods. “With you? Always.”

Ilya’s hand lifts before he can stop.

He adjusts the collar of Shane’s practice jersey – an absentminded, intimate gesture he’s done a hundred times before with a hundred other shirts. His thumb brushes the column of Shane’s throat just once, soft and light. 

The room is still. 

Somewhere, Harris is still taking pictures. 

Coach Wiebe clears his throat. “Alright, ice in five.”

The team slowly begins getting to their feet and out onto the ice.

And on the ice, it’s better.

Ilya has always known where Shane is without looking. That hasn’t changed. What’s new is how visible it is. Every pass finds him. Every drill ends with them circling back towards each other like magnets pulling them close. Ilya’s encouragement comes easy and loud. Shane responds to it, energy crackling between them.

At one point, Shane does flub a drill – not badly, just enough to earn a friendly chirp from Bood. Before Ilya can think better of it, he skates over and taps Shane’s shin pad with his stick. 

“You’re fine,” he says instinctively, even while knowing his team – their team – means no harm.   

“I know,” Shane grins. 

They take a lap side-by-side. 

“C’mon, loverboys,” Barrett chirps from somewhere behind them.

Ilya laughs, loud and freeing, and doesn’t soften his expression. The love is finally there, written all over him and impossible to miss. Years of hidden glances and private hookups have built this, and now, finally, he doesn’t have to put it anywhere else. 

When practice finally ends, warm glances land on the pair as Ilya lands a soft kiss on Shane’s temple. The dawning realization of these two are going to drive us crazy lands among the team.

No one cares.

Shane sits in his stall, tugging his skates off, still buzzing. He looks at Ilya, eyes shining, lips curling.    

Ilya smiles back, pressing yet another kiss to Shane’s temple. 

“Seriously, guys,” someone groans. 

Ilya just laughs. So does Shane.

“Not sorry. Have the most handsome husband,” Ilya teases, looking fondly at Shane. 

Shane blushes and goes back to removing padding. 

Wiebe claps his hands. “Alright, great first practice, boys. Hollander, good work out there.”

Ilya smiles proudly at his husband. 

Later, in their home, the image of Ilya staring lovesick at Shane around the border of their stalls makes an appearance on Instagram, smattered in with other images from the day. It’s captioned first practice and it’s perfect. 

Ilya puts it on his story, tagging Shane with a heart. 

Shane smiles, soft and knowing. 

The sunshine in Ilya’s smile burns steady and bright. 

And this time, finally, it can belong to everyone.