Archive of Our Own ^beta

February 2018

The day before Valentine's Day Boston plays in Montreal.

That night, Ilya tells Marlow, "I am going to stay an extra day."

"Alright Rozy," Marlow says, a little absently, distracted by whatever dumb twitter bullshit he's reading on his phone. And then, when his mind seems to catch up, "Ohhhh, shit. Is this about Montreal Jane? Are you spending fucking Valentine's Day with Montreal fucking Jane?"

Ilya considers the merits of telling Marlow it's none of his fucking business. There is a whole list of reasons why he should do exactly that. Instead, what comes out of his mouth is "Yes."

"Holy shit, Rozy, you gonna let this girl finally make an honest man out of you? It's only been fucking years, man. I can't believe she's put up with you fucking around this long. Fuck, it's about fucking time, man."

"I am not letting her do anything," Ilya insists. Mostly because not fucking other people is a choice Ilya made for himself even before the cottage. Though it does have the benefit of the fact that Shane no longer looks like he wants to kill Ilya with his mind and/or jump off of one of Montreal's many bridges when he's reminded that Ilya sleeps with other people. Because Ilya doesn't sleep with other people now.

Apparently monogamy does solve some problems. Who'd have ever thought?

"Hey, it's fine dude. We've all noticed you don't go out on your own anymore unless we're in Montreal," Marlow says. "If that's because of Montreal Jane then good for you, man. Like I said, she's been putting up with your bullshit for years. I didn't think you had it in ya, but it's about time you let her lock that shit down and start doing normal schmoopy couple bullshit. Couldn't fucking be me though, lemme tell you that. Not unless she's like, a fucking eleven. Wait. Dude. Is she—"

"Marlow, stop talking."

"Awww don't be embarrassed, Rozy, it's okay that you're old and committed now."

"Oh my god, fuck off."

"No, really, it makes you such a good role model for the rookies. Good Boy Rozanov. Staying in instead of going out partying. Focusing on hockey. Following in the footsteps of good boy captains like Hollander and Hunter. Who'd have ever thought we'd see the day?"

"Okay, I am leaving now," Ilya says, turning to do exactly that. Comparing him to Scott fucking Hunter? Really, Marlow? "Have fun being miserable and alone with own hand!"

"Have fun with Jane!" Marlow calls after him, "Don't forget to get her flowers! Chicks love that shit!"

"Like you would fucking know!"

…

Shane's apartment in Montreal is, arguably, a lot fucking nicer than his stupid fucking sex condo.

It is, honestly, leagues ahead of the stupid fucking sex condo simply because it is not, in fact, Shane's stupid fucking sex condo.

Ilya lets himself into the building with the door code Shane had given him months ago when the preseason had started and they'd had to finally leave the comfortable privacy of the cottage, and then into the apartment itself with his own key. Because that's a thing he apparently gets to have now. Keys to Shane Hollander's fucking apartment.

He flops himself face first onto Shane's oversized couch and groans like he is the person who is suffering most in this world.

Shane ignores him for a solid thirty seconds or so, because he claimed on the phone the other day that he doesn't reward "dramatics" and so apparently now needs to be stubborn and make good on that. Even though Shane likes Ilya's dramatics. Ilya knows this. Shane would be so fucking bored without them. So Ilya ups the ante and rolls over to look at him.

"Shane, come here." He pitches his voice into something close to a whine, and makes sure his expression is particularly sad and forlorn. It is normally a very effective expression to use on Shane. "I have had very hard day. First, stupid Montreal hockey player with weak backhand beats me, and then Marlow gave me shit in the locker room. Marlow!"

Shane rolls his eyes, but he does abandon whatever the hell he'd been doing to come close enough that Ilya can grab him by the hips and drag him down onto the couch on top of him. "I don't have a weak backhand."

"No, no, only slightly mediocre," Ilya agrees.

"Fuck off," Shane says, but, again, he allows Ilya to do what he wants when Ilya kisses him, quick and easy on the lips. "Why was Marlow giving you shit?"

"For staying extra day in Montreal," Ilya says, working a hand beneath Shane's shirt. He doesn't think he's angling for anything just yet, though he reserves the right to change his mind. He just wants to feel the smooth warm skin of Shane's back, to feel him, here, with Ilya, doing stupid boyfriend shit together like talking shit and celebrating dumb commercialized holidays that Ilya might secretly be a fan of now that he has a person to celebrate them with. "He says Montreal Jane is making an honest man out of me."

"Wonders never cease, I guess," Shane says, but he's frowning. A little bit.

Ilya kisses the downward turn of his lips and is a very kind boyfriend who does not laugh at Shane. Mostly.

"Shane, you are Montreal Jane. You know this, do you not? You cannot be jealous of yourself."

"Fuck off, I'm not jealous."

"You are. You are very jealous of the made up girl in my phone who is actually you," Ilya says and kisses the point of Shane's chin. "It's good for you that I find irrational jealousy over people who do not exist very sexy."

"You're ridiculous," Shane tells him.

"Mmh," Ilya agrees, nodding. "You are fan of it though, so what does that say about you?"

"Nothing good, I'm sure," Shane says, scooting down a little until he can tuck his head beneath Ilya's chin. Ilya shifts a little to let it happen, spreading his legs so that Shane can sink into the space between them and get comfortable. "So, Marlow thinks you've settled down with Jane from Montreal?"

He sounds so bratty. It shouldn't make Ilya feel so achingly fond, but Ilya must be idiotically in love because it does.

"You are insane," He tells Shane and kisses the top of his head. "But yes. He does. Apparently they have noticed that I am not going out much anywhere but here."

He still goes out, is the thing. Maybe not as much as he used to, but he still goes with the other guys bar hopping or to clubs or out to eat or whatever. He just doesn't… go home with some stranger after. He had not realized anyone on his team was paying enough attention to realize that.

"Mmh," Shane hums, which is not really a response.

"He thinks I have finally settled down with nice Canadian girl after many many years. That I have 'finally let her lock it down,'" He does air quotes with his fingers at the last words, though Shane surely can't see them with his face still smashed into Ilya's throat. "And that we are doing 'schmoopy couple bullshit' tomorrow."

Shane hums, thoughtful, and then asks, "Does that bother you?"

"Mmmh, no. He is not wrong. I have found nice Canadian boy, though he is sometimes asshole too. And nice Canadian boy has 'locked it down' I am pretty sure. You say 'I do not want you to marry Svetlana,' and I say 'yes, Shane.' You say 'I do not want you to sleep with other people,' and I say 'Of course, Shane' and 'I was not going to anyway, Shane,' and 'Why would I fuck other people when you take my cock so well, Shane?' I would say that is pretty 'locked down,' no?"

"You suck so much."

"We will even be doing schmoopy couple bullshit tomorrow. So, really, only part that is wrong is the girl part. Though you are very pretty like girl."

"Oh my god."

"No, no, you are." Ilya guides Shane's face away from it's hiding spot, holding his chin and making a grand show of looking at his pretty, pretty face with his pretty brown eyes and his pretty freckles and his pretty mouth. "Yes. The prettiest." He rubs his thumb over Shane's lower lip. "Prettiest mouth I've ever fucked too. So pretty and pink. Imagine it with—"

"Absolutely not. No. I know that face. Whatever you're thinking, don't keep thinking it," Shane says, like whatever Ilya might have possibly been about to bring up is not something Shane Secretly An Absolute Fucking Freak In Bed Hollander would be willing to try.

Like Ilya could not convince Shane to paint his pretty mouth red and then suck Ilya's dick until the lipstick was smeared and tears ran down his face from choking on Ilya's cock.

Maybe Ilya can't. Maybe not yet. Shane's touchy enough about Montreal Jane tonight. Ilya might tease, but he's not interested in getting Shane stuck in his head and coming up with all sorts of ridiculous notions of what Ilya might want or might not be getting from Shane if Ilya brings that kind of thing up right now.

But eventually. Maybe.

"I have no idea what you are talking about. I am not thinking anything," Ilya says, blinking innocently, "I have never thought anything at all ever in my life."

"Su-ure," Ah, good, Ilya has earned Scrunched Exasperated Face Number 3.

"Kiss?" Ilya demands, puckering his lips obnoxiously because it causes Scrunched Exasperated Face Number 3 to deepen, and then to turn into Trying To Remain Annoyed and Failing, before, finally, Ilya waits him out long enough and Shane gives in and kisses him.

When he pulls away, Shane says, "Wait, are we actually doing schmoopy couple bullshit for tomorrow?" It is unfortunate that Cliff Marlow is the one who offered the term they've been using to describe this now. He can never let Marlow know. He would be too proud. Ilya can not encourage that in his friend.

"It's our first Valentines day together, why not?"

"I dunno. Are we that kind of couple?" Shane asks, like he's genuinely unsure. "Are we even a celebrating Valentines day kind of couple?"

"I guess we will find out tomorrow, won't we?"

…

Ilya wakes up the morning of February 14th to a chunk of Shane's hair in his mouth, one of Shane's elbows digging into his gut, his own arm asleep where it's trapped beneath a couple inches shy of six feet of hockey player, and the sun shining directly into his eyes.

He closes his eyes for a moment and takes the chance to revel in it. For a very long time he had not allowed himself to even consider wanting this, and then, even when he became painfully aware that he did, that he wanted this so desperately he might choke on to death on that wanting, it had seemed impossible to ever really have it.

When he's done basking, just a little bit, in the fact that this is his, he manages to extricate his arm from beneath Shane and sets his sights on something else that is his.

He kisses Shane's stomach, right beneath his bellybutton, and then, a little bit lower, scraping his teeth over the soft skin. Then he tugs Shane's underwear down just enough that he can get his mouth on Shane's cock.

Shane doesn't wake up right away, but he sighs, a little, in his sleep and his hips shift restlessly, rocking up into Ilya's mouth. Ilya digs his fingers into the meat of Shane's thighs and holds him still, taking Shane a little farther, a little deeper until he bumps against the back of his throat.

"Fuck," Shane murmurs, and then, as consciousness starts to find him, "Fuck, Ilya."

Ilya hums and looks up at Shane through his lashes. He is very aware of just what he looks like when he does that.

"Fuck," Shane says, again, and then his hands are finding their way into Ilya's hair, tangling through his curls. "Your mouth, Ilya, fuck. It's so good. You're so good. Fuck. I love you so much."

His words are still sleepily slurred around the edges, his eyes only half open as he watches Ilya, as he babbles. And he is babbling, because waking Shane up with his dick in Ilya's mouth means that neither his brain, nor his inhibitions, have had a chance to turn back on for the day.

It doesn't take much for Shane to start making little desperate noises like he's close, which is not surprising because Shane's a quick shot on a normal day, and then he's shoving at Ilya's head and saying "Fuck, I'm gonna— You gotta— Fuck—" and Ilya is swallowing him down while Shane comes with a pretty little whine that Ilya wants to etch into his mind.

He thinks he'd try to get Shane to let him record it, just so that he can hear the sound again, if it wasn't a spectacularly stupid idea when one is moderately famous and trying to hide their secret relationship from the NHL and also the rest of the world.

"Happy Valentine's day, Shane," Ilya says, perhaps a little smug as he sits up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Happy fucking Valentine's day, holy shit," Shane says, breathing heavy, letting his head fall back against the pillows with a soft little thump. "Jesus fucking Christ."

"No, my name is Ilya."

"Oh my god, you're the fucking worst," Shane complains, but he's also tugging Ilya down on top of him and getting his hand on Ilya's dick, so Ilya suspects he doesn't really mean it.

…

"People normally go on dates today, do they not?" Ilya asks, later, perched on the kitchen island, watching Shane cook breakfast from a recipe on his phone. It's all whole grain, cage free, organic vegetable filled bullshit. Boring as hell, but very Shane.

Ilya is going to sneak out and buy about seven fucking McGriddles as soon as he physically can and eat them all in front of Shane so that his boyfriend can pretend he isn't making disgusted, judgemental faces over Ilya's diet.

"We can't exactly go out on a date, Ilya," Shane says, frowning at the eggs and vegetables in the pan. Ilya doesn't think it's a displeased frown. He thinks it's an I hope I didn't fuck up these stupid fucking eggs frown.

"Really?" Ilya fakes a gasp, "I had no idea. We are in secret relationship? This is news to me, Hollander."

Shane looks at Ilya a little like he might want to strangle him but also like committing assault right this very moment would take his focus away from cooking breakfast and then he may ruin the recipe. A tragedy for Shane Hollander, truly, to fail at a recipe. Or, really, at anything.

"I know we can't go on a date, Shane," Ilya says, sliding off the counter to crowd into Shane's space, pressing up against his back and curling his arms around Shane's waist. "That is why we have inside date."

"Get off, I'm trying to cook," Shane makes a show of grumbling, but, notably, does not try to escape Ilya's grasp in any way, shape, or form. If anything, he almost seems to lean back into it.

"No," Ilya says and squeezes Shane tighter. This time Shane really does lean back into Ilya.

"So, an inside date?"

"Yes. I googled."

"You googled?" Shane sounds skeptical, even though Ilya knows that Shane knows how much Ilya loves a good google search.

Once, not that long ago, Ilya had been horrifically bored sharing a hotel room with Marlow and had searched both 'Stupid pictures of cats' and 'Shane Hollander hockey fails' and spent a solid twenty minutes annoying Shane by texting him comparison photos of the two.

After the third 'Look Hollander, it's you' picture of a cat followed up with a picture of Shane that greatly resembled the cat, Shane had started threatening to block him.

"Yes. I searched 'HELP how to plan romantic Valentine's Day with secret arch rival hockey player boyfriend when we can't leave his house and also he is very boring.'"

"You did not."

"Okay," Ilya admits, kissing the curve of Shane's shoulder, "That was not my exact search."

"Okay," Shane says, and, "Inside date it is then," and then, with a frown at the pan in front of him, "Does this look right to you?"

"No, it looks like shit." It looks very… wet. Ilya does not think eggs are supposed to look like that after being cooked for this long.

"I followed the recipe!"

"Maybe the recipe is shit."

"Ugh," Shane says, turning off the burner and turning around to face Ilya. "Fuck this, I'll just make us smoothies or something. I have a new protein powder."

"A new protein powder?" Ilya questions, all fake surprise. "How exciting."

"Fuck off, it's exciting for me."

"Okay, okay, is exciting," Ilya allows, and, unable to resist, kisses the very tip of Shane's nose. It's a good nose. Ilya is very fond of it."What flavor?"

"Peanut butter cup."

"Peanut butter cup? Hollander, that is practically dessert. It really must be holiday."

…

"Scrabble," Shane says, when Ilya unearths the game from the duffel bag he'd brought to Shane's.

"Yes, Shane, Scrabble. Are you unfamiliar with the game?"

"No! I know what Scrabble is. It's just— You want to play a board game?"

"Yes."

"And that board game is Scrabble?" Shane sounds skeptical.

"Yes. I do not see what there is to not understand."

"Is this a part of our inside date?"

"Yes, probably."

"Oh," Shane says, and "Okay," and "Should I be wearing, like, date clothing then?"

Ilya takes a moment to look Shane over. He's in basketball shorts, a soft old t-shirt of Ilya's that says BOSTON BEARS across the front that Ilya would kill for literally anyone other than him to see Montreal's Best Boy Shane Hollander wearing, and plain white socks. The socks are the type that are cut low enough that Ilya can see the knobby bit of Shane's ankle. Ilya is irrationally enamored with Shane's knobby ankle and would, possibly, like to put it in his mouth and chew on it a little.

"No," Ilya says, "Your clothes are fine. They would be better on the floor, however."

"That part happens at the end of the date," Shane says, very primly for a man who once bought a piece of property solely for Ilya to fuck him in it.

"Oh, you know lots about dates, do you?"

"I've probably been on more than you at least," Shane insists.

"Liar," Ilya insists right back. "I was very promiscuous, Shane."

'Promiscuous,' Shane mouths to himself, like he thinks Ilya has just said something absurd, and then he says, "One night stands don't count as dates, Ilya."

Ilya opens his mouth to argue, then realizes he can't, not really, and snaps it shut. He rubs the back of his neck. "If we do not count them as dates then I do not think I've been on many."

"No?"

"Or any, really?" Ilya admits, "Outside of you." Because he would definitely consider some of the things he's done with Shane dates.

The last time they'd played against each other in Boston, Ilya had cooked Shane dinner after and then they'd watched some home renovation show while doing what could only be described as snuggling on Ilya's couch. Shane had had a lot of opinions, specifically on the kitchen renovations the shows hosts had gone with, and Ilya had not disagreed with him but had still made a vague disagreeing noise and claimed he thought they were probably fine just to get Shane going about everything he hated and how it was a waste of money and that when they built a house together Ilya did not get to have opinions on the kitchen if he thinks this is just fine. Ilya, overwhelmed by the thought of a house that was theirs, had had to kiss him and then Shane had grumbled and insisted Ilya was distracting him on purpose and rewound the show to where they'd left off.

It had felt date adjacent, at the very least. Ilya had not even fucked him that night, and in the morning they'd only exchanged hurried hand jobs before Shane had had to rush out of Ilya's apartment to catch his flight to Columbus on time.

"Oh," Shane says, like this is somehow a surprise to him despite his claims. "I haven't, uh, you know, gone on very many either. I mean, I've been on some, obviously, but, you know, not a lot."

"No, really? I had no idea. You are such ladies man," Ilya says and ignores Shane's offended noise to crowd into his space and kiss his cheek. "Is new for both of us then, no?" He adds, gentle and tender enough that he's sure if anyone heard him speak like this to Shane Hollander, they would know.

There would be no shadow of a doubt that he loves Shane. That his heart is this tender, aching thing that he's placed into Shane's hands.

"I am going to beat you," Ilya says, later, when they're finally sat at the table with the Scrabble board set up between them.

"You're not. I grew up speaking English. My vocabulary is definitely bigger."

"Not possible. All the words you know are hockey related or yes Ilya, right there Ilya, oh my god harder Ilya."

"Oh my god, fuck off."

"No," Ilya says, leaning across the Scrabble board for a kiss that Shane willingly gives even when he's pretending to be grumpy. "Never."

"That's fine too, I guess," Shane says, following after Ilya's mouth when he pulls back and then seeming to realize what he's just done and sitting up straighter.

"What letter do you have that's closest to letter A?"

Shane blinks. "What?"

"To figure out who starts. It's whoever has letter closest to letter A."

"Oh, right," Shane says and squints down at the little wooden rack of letters in front of him. He's not wearing his reading glasses. It is a terrible shame and Ilya is tempted to send him to retrieve them right this very minute. "Uh, I have the letter D?"

"Ah, tough luck. I have letter A."

Shane huffs. "Why even ask then?"

"Because now I know one of your letters," Ilya says, grinning and cocking his head just right, knowing Shane finds it very handsome and also that Shane hates how handsome he finds it, especially when he's trying to be annoyed with Ilya.

"You're such an asshole," Shane says, while Ilya places his first word down, and there's no disguising the fondness there. Shane says asshole the same way Ilya says sweetheart. "That is not a valid word."

"Is too," Ilya argues, already reaching for his phone to pull up his dictionary app. "Is in dictionary. That means it is valid word in Scrabble."

"It's a slang word!"

"What, you and Yuna and David do not allow slang when playing Scrabble?"

"Can you imagine my dad if we did?"

Ilya tries to imagine David Hollander's reaction if they did. He would probably bust out a dictionary. Probably a physical one— not on his phone— that he keeps in a massive bookshelf in the family room. Last time Ilya was at the Hollander home, David had pulled down three paperbacks from that very same bookshelf and pressed them into Ilya's hands, claiming they were some of his favorites and Ilya should read them.

"Okay, yes, slang would not work with David, but we are not playing with your dad and also 'swag' is a word. A word I would use when playing with David and Yuna! Not even just a slang word! We get given swag bags at parties, Hollander."

Shane sighs as though Ilya is really very troublesome. "Fine, fine. Let me think about my word."

Ilya hums while Shane spends an inordinate amount of time attempting to figure out what his first word in this game of Scrabble will be.

"Stop humming the song from Jeopardy," Shane tells him, plucking up one little wooden scrabble tile, frowning, and putting it back down on the rack. "It won't make me go any faster. I might even go slower just because you're being so fucking annoying about it."

"You are taking entire century to pick, Hollander. At this rate I will be retired by the time we finish this game."

"Not me though?"

"No, you are too busy picking fucking Scrabble word to retire. Also, I will definitely retire from hockey before you. It will take act of God or the NHL themselves to pull you off the ice."

"Probably," Shane allows, and finally places down four tiles on the board very neatly.

"Ah, he does know words!" Ilya cheers, "I was starting to worry the concussion had done more damage than we thought."

Shane groans. "You're a menace. Why do I love you again?"

"Mmh, unknown," Ilya says, examining his own letters now. "Perhaps it was due to the concussion that addled your brain."

"It was not," Shane insists, sounding a little bit offended now even though he's the one who started this. "I loved you before that and for plenty of reasons."

"You will love me slightly less when I beat you at Scrabble."

"Impossible, because you're not going to beat me."

Ilya wins the first game. Shane gets the same look on his face he used to get when Ilya would say things like 'There are so many beautiful women I could fuck in the world' or 'I could marry Svetlana' or 'Calm down Hollander, this is just fucking.' A look like he could light the board and also himself on fire with only his mind.

Then Shane says "Best of three?"

And Ilya says "Sure, but it will not make a difference. I will still win," and they're off again, resetting the board for another game.

…

Eventually, Shane's stomach growls loudly enough that they abandon Scrabble (Ilya is fine with this because he's starting to think he might have actually exhausted his English vocabulary and he can only watch Shane win so many times before the gloating starts to get a bit much and makes Ilya want to distract him in other, much more fun for Ilya ways.) and Ilya orders them lunch.

"I have food here," Shane says, jabbing at Ilya's thigh with his toes from his spot on the other end of the couch, leaned up against the arm of it, watching Ilya scroll through takeout menus on his phone.

Ilya swats at Shane's foot and then curls his free hand around Shane's ankle, rubbing at the knobby bit. "You have the groceries I ordered to make for dinner and your sad, sad meal prep."

"It's not sad. It's optimized."

"For making taste buds sad?"

"For performance, Ilya." Shane's leg twitches, like he wants to kick at Ilya, but Ilya keeps a tight hold of Shane's ankle.

"I am ordering Chinese," Ilya decides, "The place you like that delivers. And I am getting things that are fried and I will still win game day after tomorrow. You can get boiled chicken you like."

"It's not boiled, it's poached," Shane insists, and Ilya looks at him judgmentally from the corner of his eye. Shane's leg twitches again and Ilya leans down and kisses the top of Shane's foot. "Call and order the food, Ilya."

Ilya does, and when the woman on the other end of the line asks if he wants anything else he covers the mouthpiece and asks "You want dumplings, yes?"

"No," Shane lies, like a liar.

"I am getting you dumplings."

"…get me the cucumber salad, too."

They eat their Chinese food on the couch, Shane half in Ilya's lap and Ilya goading Shane into taking bites of his crispy beef directly from Ilya's chopsticks when Shane looks at it just slightly too longingly.

After, Ilya kisses the taste of take out from Shane's mouth and presses him back into the couch.

They make out like that, Shane sprawled on his back on the couch and Ilya on top of him, for what feels like hours. Ilya feels like a teenager when they do this, even though he doesn't think he ever even did this kind of thing when he was an actual teenager. He's pretty sure that back then he and whoever he was fucking around with were always rushing ahead to whatever they thought the good parts were. He would have never imagined back then that exchanging slow, easy kisses with Shane Hollander would become one of the highlights of his life.

"Hi," Shane says, when they pull apart for a moment.

"Hi," Ilya says back, brushing his lips over Shane's freckled cheeks and down, over his jaw.

Shane twists his fingers into Ilya's hair and holds him still, pressing his mouth to Ilya's forehead. "I really like you, you know?" Shane says it like it's easy. Like saying it is easy. Like liking Ilya is the easiest thing he's done in his life.

He wants this every day of his life. Shane, fond and happy and telling Ilya he likes him. Shane, irritated over losing a stupid game and insisting on playing again until he wins and grumbling about Ilya's 'shitty food' because he secretly wants it too. Shane, every way he can get him, whenever he can get him, for the rest of his life.

"That's good," Ilya says, his smile feeling a little like it's splitting his face with the force of it. "Because it would be shitty, to feel this way all by myself."

…

They spend the afternoon watching a somewhat terrible yet immensely watchable romantic comedy about a hockey player who somehow gets involved in pairs figure skating and falls in love with the prima donna he's skating with.

Shane keeps saying "This is so fucking stupid," but every time Ilya suggests they turn the movie off if Shane doesn't like it Shane snatches the remote out of his hand so that he can't.

Ilya keeps saying "I could do that. Does not look too hard," at the figure skating parts and Shane keeps insisting that he absolutely could not.

"I will show you," Ilya insists, even though he very much does not know how to figure skate. "We will go get the correct kind of skates and I will show you."

"You're delusional," Shane tells him, sounding very fond, and Ilya must kiss him so he does.

After, when the movie is over, they cook dinner together in Shane's kitchen and Ilya thinks it can't possibly be healthy the way his chest feels when he watches Shane very meticulously mincing garlic.

He thinks, not for the first time that day, or even possibly that hour, that he wants this every single day. That Ottawa and two hours from Shane Hollander can not come soon enough. He will trade his chances for the cup next year for as much time with Shane as he can possibly manage to grab onto with his greedy hands.

Ilya plasters himself along Shane's back, wrapping his arms around his waist while Shane does his level best to ignore him and focus on his task.

"I'm busy," Shane tells him, but Ilya can feel the way he relaxes, the way he leans back into Ilya easily. "How much garlic does the recipe say?"

"Four cloves," Ilya says and kisses the back of Shane's neck. "So use maybe eight."

"That's not how recipes work, Ilya," Shane says, like deviating from a recipe Ilya found on a list titled 35 Best Romantic Valentine's Day Date Night Recipes is the utmost of sins.

"That is how garlic works, Shane. Have you not seen the internet jokes about it?"

Shane turns his head just enough that Ilya can see the judgemental look on his face. "No."

Ilya laughs, and, now that it is in easy reach, kisses Shane's jaw. He tugs and nudges at Shane a little, until Shane abandons his chopping and turns fully to face Ilya, looping his arms around Ilya's neck.

"That makes sense. You only have instagram because your agent makes you."

"Farah says it's important for branding," Shane says solemnly and Ilya kisses the very tip of Shane's very cute nose simply because he can, and because it makes Shane scrunch his nose up adorably which makes Ilya do it again.

"Is reposting Montreal Voyageurs posts a brand?" Ilya questions.

Ilya's own social media probably isn't that much better, honestly. It used to be mostly thirst traps, and a tool for keeping up with or finding hook ups in different cities. He had, however, had to unfollow an almost alarming amount of people after becoming committed and monogamous and now posts photos of whatever random view or item strikes his fancy.

Like this morning, a photo of his coffee in a mug that said 'Stealing hearts like I steal pucks' that Hayden Pike's wife had apparently given Shane as a joking Christmas gift, set against the blandest and most nondescript wall he could find in Shane's apartment. Which was not hard to do actually. Ilya loves Shane and Shane's home and existing in Shane's home, but his boyfriend's Montreal apartment is kind of boring.

Jackie Pike herself had liked the post. Which was interesting, because Ilya had not realized she was even following him. He had immediately followed her back. Partly because if Hayden Pike ever discovers Ilya Rozanov is following his wife he'll absolutely fucking lose it, partially because she seems like the far superior of the adult Pikes and Ilya is well aware that Montreal's fifteenth best player will, in fact, become aware of the Ilya and Shane of it all at some point. Shane has already mentioned that the man is getting suspicious.

Ilya is not convinced that Hayden Pike has enough brain cells to rub together to become suspicious, but he will allow for the fact that perhaps Shane knows his best friend better. And that, perhaps, Shane's best friend knows Shane. At least well enough to know when something has shifted in Shane's life, even if he doesn't know what.

Anyway, Ilya thinks he's fine with it happening eventually. The Pikes knowing. Partially because it will annoy Hayden Pike to know that his best friend is in a long term committed relationship that involves getting fucked regularly by Ilya Rozanov, and partially because he'd scrolled through Jackie's instagram feed and is now aware of just how adorable Hayden and Jackie Pike's hockey team worth of children are. There are twins. They are adorable. Ilya wants to feed them ten pounds of sugar and then unleash them on Hayden Pike.

"Do you think it is concerning that Pike's wife liked my instagram post this morning?" Ilya asks, because he very suddenly needs to know what Shane's reaction to that is. At the very least, he needs to know his reaction to that much more than he needs to know Shane's reaction to Ilya making fun of his boring social media presence.

Shane frowns— a little like this news has caused him unspeakable anxiety, but also a little bit like he's working through what he thinks about it in his head.

"Jackie's smart," Shane says, slowly.

"Except about the men she marries," Ilya says, and Shane ignores him.

"It's just an instagram post. So. So it's probably fine, right? She likes hockey. It makes sense she follows hockey players."

"And I am very handsome and very popular, why wouldn't she follow me?"

"So humble too."

"That's me, yes," Ilya says, "Most humble player in the league."

"You're a menace, actually," Shane tells him, and he sounds so fond that Ilya has to kiss him about it. Just once, light and easy, though he only doesn't draw it out because Shane shoves at his chest and says, "C'mon, we're supposed to be cooking. Not making out in the kitchen."

"Pretty sure we are allowed to do both," Ilya insists.

"And then we'll never eat, or we'll burn the food, or light my kitchen on fire, or—"

"Okay, okay," Ilya says, lifting his hands in surrender. "We will be very boring and will not make out while cooking dinner."

"Thank you," Shane says, somehow sounding condescending with those two words in a way that makes Ilya want to really interrupt making dinner. Shane apparently has standards about not fucking on kitchen counter tops though. Sometimes Ilya can get him to lower those standards, but somehow he suspects that if Shane is not willing to make out with him while cooking dinner then he's not going to be willing to let Ilya fuck him on his clean counters.

"Do you want to know what food we are cooking is called?" Ilya asks, when they've returned to their task. Notably, Shane is listening to Ilya and mincing more than four cloves of garlic. Ilya is a terrible influence on his rule abiding, recipe following boyfriend.

"Yes, considering you were cagey as hell about it earlier for literally no reason."

"The recipe calls it Best Marry Me Shrimp Pasta." Ilya says it light and easy and a little bit smug, like it's a joke, even if Ilya has already, maybe, possibly, in his very most secret thoughts, started thinking those words sometimes.

Shane is it for him, is the thing. Boring, predictable, lovely Shane Hollander with his cute freckles and his pretty big brown eyes. Reliable Shane Hollander with his dedication and his stubbornness and the way he's sometimes a little bit thoughtless in ways that sting but who almost always means well. Shane Hollander with his cottage and his two parents who are still around, who have enough love for their son that they even have some to spare for Ilya. Shane Hollander who lives and breathes hockey, who loves it— passionately and desperately and in a way that seems to fuel his very being, but who is risking that all by being brave enough to love Ilya back.

He's all Ilya wants. He's all Ilya will ever want. So, yes, it is a joke, but it's also not. Not really.

Shane, thankfully, takes it as the joke it's meant to be nonetheless, rolling his eyes and throwing a clove of garlic at Ilya's chest. "Oh, fuck off."

"Never," Ilya promises, and watches the side of Shane's face as Shane does his very best to not look happy about that.

…

"Jesus Christ, Ilya, you think there's enough candles in here?" Shane asks when he emerges from his shower, skin damp and flushed and wrapped up in a towel to find that Ilya has been busy.

"Shhhh," Ilya says, "It is romantic, Hollander."

Shane squints at the candles that decorate most surfaces of Shane's bedroom. "It's a fire hazard," He says, but there's something soft there, something pleased in the corners of his eyes and the tilt of his mouth.

"You have insurance, no?" Ilya asks, finally crossing the room to get his hands on Shane's waist and steer him towards the bed.

"Sure, but I kinda like this apartment."

"You have enough money for new one." Ilya pushes at Shane's chest and he goes down willingly, sprawling on his back on the soft blanket Ilya had spread out over Shane's bed in nothing but a towel and looking up at Ilya.

"Moving is too much effort mid season," Shane argues, as if Ilya is not aware that Shane has already been looking at houses in Montreal because he likes the idea of the extra layer of privacy a house gives that an apartment doesn't.

"There's always the illicit sex condo."

"I'm not moving into the illicit sex condo if you burn my apartment down trying to be romantic— and it's not an illicit sex condo, it's an investment property," Shane insists. "And I'm selling it anyway. You know that. Because, as I already said, it was an investment property."

"Right," Ilya says, pretending he's not elated over the impending sale of the stupid fucking sex condo. "Investment property. You invested in getting fucked by very hot Russian hockey player without us getting caught."

"Oh my god, Ilya," Shane groans, "Let the sex condo go."

"But it is so fun to make fun of you for it." Also, Ilya hates the sex condo.

"Oh no, whatever will my poor boyfriend do if he's not allowed to make fun of the condo I bought as a very practical investment?"

"Wither up and die, I think," Ilya says, and Shane rolls his eyes and kicks a foot out, smacking it into Ilya's thigh.

"Drama queen," Shane chides, and then, "So why, exactly, am I surrounded by approximately a hundred fire hazards?"

"Because I am very romantic and it is Valentine's Day."

"So you're going to fuck me by candlelight?"

"Eventually," Ilya agrees, because yes, that is the plan eventually. "But first…"

"First?"

"This, first," Ilya says, snagging a bottle off the side table and settling beside Shane on the bed.

"That's not lube," Shane says, narrowing his eyes at Ilya's hand.

"It is not, no. You are very observant. I will have to alert the media that it is not just hockey in Mr. Hockey's brain, after all. Everyone will be very surprised."

"You're going to give me a massage?" Shane asks skeptically, ignoring Ilya's words and still eying the bottle of oil in Ilya's hand.

"Yes," Ilya says, waggling the bottle at Shane. "I am going to give you a massage. I am going to get my hands onto every inch of you, Hollander, and then, when you are so very relaxed, when you are begging for it, I am going to fuck you until you cry on my cock. You will be very pretty like that."

"Oh," Shane says, swallowing. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips. He is so easy.

"Okay?" Ilya checks, even though he's sure the answer is yes.

"Okay."

"Good, now roll over," Ilya says with a little 'hurry up' motion of his hand.

Shane obliges, rolling over onto his stomach, and Ilya straddles Shane's hips, warming some of the oil in his hands before he smooths them over Shane's shoulders.

"Mmh," Shane hums at the first firm drag of Ilya's hands.

"Good?" Ilya asks, because, sure, he's experienced plenty of massages as a professional athlete, but he hasn't exactly given very many of them.

"No, I hate it. It's—" Shane's sarcasm cuts off with a ragged noise when Ilya finds a knot and digs his thumb into it. "Fuck. Yeah. Fuck. Of course it's good. Keep going."

Ilya does. He works his way down, focusing on Shane's shoulders until they're as loose and relaxed as he thinks is possible for Shane Hollander, and then working his way down the long line of Shane's back, pausing to focus on any knots or tension or anywhere that causes Shane to make a delightfully breathy little noise.

It's slow, methodical work that's easy to lose himself in— in the sheer amount of skin beneath his hands, and in the far too pretty noises his far too pretty boyfriend makes.

"I'm taking this off, okay?" He says when he reaches Shane's hips and the towel still slung around them, tugging lightly at the fabric until Shane hums his assent and lifts his hips just enough that Ilya can pull the towel off of him and toss it to the side.

Ilya spreads his hands over the breadth of Shane's hips, rubs his thumbs into the little dimples above his ass, and drags light, reverent fingertips over the striping that decorates Shane's skin.

'They're just stretch marks. Don't be weird about them,' Shane had said, the first time Ilya had mentioned them, which probably meant that Shane felt weird about them, about the evidence that he exists in a body that changes and grows and is not the same exact body Ilya encountered for the first time at 19 in a hotel room in Toronto.

Ilya likes them. He likes most things about Shane Hollander, and he tells him as much, bending down to brush his lips over the pale lines stretched over Shane's hips. "I like these," He murmurs into Shane's skin, "I like you," He says and Shane squirms.

"I thought this was supposed to be a massage," Shane says, and it's clear he's attempting to sound cranky and demanding, but he already sounds just a tiny bit lost, a little bit fuzzy like he gets when they fuck sometimes. "Can we hurry things up a little?"

"What a terrible employer," Ilya complains, "Insisting the masseuse is not allowed breaks to enjoy the view."

He can't see Shane's face where Shane has tucked it into a pillow, but Ilya is sure that Shane is rolling his eyes. "Oh my god."

"'Oh my god' is right. These are terrible working conditions. Next you will tell me I can't have meal breaks," He says and digs his teeth into the curve of one ass cheek. "I will call my union right away."

"I just thought the goal here was to eventually fuck me, not to spend six hours staring at my ass." Any impression of being annoyed that he seems to be attempting to give is ruined when Ilya digs his fingers into the spot where Shane's ass meets the top of his thighs and Shane whines. "Fuck."

"Good fuck or bad fuck?"

"Good. Bad. Both," Shane says, and flaps a hand impatiently. "Keep going. Hurry up."

"So impatient," Ilya chides, sliding his hands in smooth firm strokes up over the backs of Shane's thighs. "So desperate for me to fuck you already when I'm nowhere close to done."

"What."

"Mmh, you did not think I was joking when I said I was going to touch every inch of you, did you?"

"You're so…" Shane trails off, clearly unable to decide what term he wants to use right now.

"I'm so what?" Ilya questions, keeping up his ministrations on Shane's thighs, dragging his thumbs along the sensitive skin of Shane's inner thighs on the up stroke this time and making him squirm. "Sexy? Smart? Full of genius ideas?"

"You're full of something, that's for fucking sure," Shane grumbles, shifting beneath Ilya's hands and spreading his legs about as much as he can with Ilya straddling them.

"You love me," Ilya says, moving further downward, dragging his fingertips lightly over the backs of Shane's knees where he's ticklish and making him jerk and kick.

"Yeah," Shane says, lifting his head from the pillow to look at Ilya. "Yeah, I really do."

By the time Ilya is done with Shane, he has completed his goal of touching nearly every inch of his boyfriend's body and Shane resembles something closer to a puddle, boneless and unspooled and sprawled out on his back in the middle of his bed, than he does the neurotic, perpetually tense hockey player he normally is.

Ilya is more than satisfied with his work, considering this was his goal entirely.

"Still want me to fuck you?" Ilya asks. He would not judge Shane if the answer has changed. Shane's eyelids are drooping heavily, his breathing slow and steady like it is when he's close to sleep. He is also, however, flushed a very pretty shade of red from the tips of his ears down to his chest and his dick looks like it's so hard it might actually be painful.

"Yeah," Shane breaths, shifting his legs apart and hitching his hips up like Ilya might just slide right in right then and there. "Yeah. Of course. Please."

"Impatient," Ilya chides, like he's not just as desperate for it, like he's not already reaching for the fucking lube so that he can hurry this along a little.

Preparing Shane is almost criminally easy with how relaxed he is right now, and it's practically no time at all before Shane is squirming and chanting "Enough, enough," and Ilya is reaching for the side table drawer and asking "Condom?" because it's about a fifty-fifty shot whether Shane wants him to use one or not these days.

Sometimes Shane simply does not want to deal with the mess and would prefer Ilya use a condom. He's so boring and weird and beloved and Ilya finds him so fascinating he wants to crawl into his brain sometimes.

It's not a new feeling for Ilya, wanting to crawl inside some part of Shane Hollander. He'd make a home of Shane's left lung if he could, would curl up in his rib cage and stay there like a second heart.

Shane shakes his head, glassy eyed and halfway out of his head already, wrapping his legs around Ilya and using them to tug him closer, to get Ilya where he wants him to be. "No. Wanna feel you."

And, well, Ilya certainly isn't going to deny Shane that.

"Fuck," Shane breathes, arching up into it when Ilya lines himself up and pushes in in one slow, long drag.

Fucking Shane is… Well, it's fucking Shane Fucking Hollander. Ilya is never not aware that he's fucking Shane Fucking Hollander, hockey's golden boy, the best player in the goddamn league. A man who eats, sleeps, and breathes for the sport and for the Montreal fucking Voyageurs.

He's been doing this for nearly a decade and that fact will never not go to his head just a little bit. That he's the one who Shane does this with. He's the only one who gets to see Shane like this, on his back for Ilya Rozanov and gagging for his cock. He's the only one who gets to know how much Shane likes this, how much he needs it.

He's the only one who gets to experience Shane Hollander digging his heels into the small of his back and demanding Ilya "Move," when Ilya spends just a little bit too long watching his face.

"Maybe I am enjoying myself," Ilya says, curving his hand over the side of Shane's neck, resting his thumb in the hollow of his throat. He doesn't even press down, just rests it there, rubbing almost absently. It's still enough that Shane goes tight around him and whines. "Maybe I like watching you like this. Making you beg for it."

"Please," Shane immediately begs, like it's fucking Pavlovian. Maybe it is. They've been doing this long enough it might be. "Ilya."

And Ilya is soft for Shane, is the thing, even when he's committed to fucking Shane's brains out— or rather, fucking Shane out of his brain— so Shane's 'please, Ilya' is all that's needed for Ilya to do exactly what Shane wants, bracing his other hand against the bed and fucking Shane exactly as hard as he likes it.

Shane makes a noise like he's fucking dying, hands scrabbling for Ilya's, curling over his wrist. Ilya thinks, for a moment, that Shane wants him to move his hand, but then Shane presses it down, pushing Ilya's hand against Shane's own throat. Fuck.

Ilya's pretty sure that choking your boyfriend out during sex is the kind of thing you're supposed to talk about before you do it, but he's also pretty sure that if he and Shane were the kind of people who were good at talking about things that it wouldn't have taken them nearly a decade to figure out that this entire thing wasn't ever really just fucking.

So, instead of talking about sex shit before they actually do it, Ilya will say some stupid bullshit like 'how many times do you think you can come, Hollander?' while his hand is on Shane's dick and Shane will say some nonsense back like 'I don't know, wanna find out?' and then they do, or Shane presses Ilya's hand to his throat and moans, his eyes lighting up like he's high as a fucking kite and Ilya can't help but stare, transfixed, at Shane's face and his hand pressing into the vulnerable skin of Shane's throat as he fucks him.

"Fuck. Fuck, Ilya." Shane's mouth is wet and red and open as he gasps and Ilya keeps his hand there for a long moment, watching, until he has to take it away from Shane's throat, watch him heave in a full breath before he's tugging Shane upwards by his chin and catching his mouth up in a kiss.

"Fuck, Hollander," Ilya says against Shane's mouth. He gets both his hands beneath him but he can't bring himself to pull further away from Shane's mouth, pressing their foreheads together. "Fuck that was so fucking hot and stupid. You love this so much you get stupid with it, don't you?"

Shane nods, mindlessly, and it does nothing to get Ilya to stop running off at the mouth. If anything, it makes his tongue bolder. More desperate. Fuck, maybe Ilya's as fucking lost in it as Shane is.

"So pretty and cockdumb— fuck— You're fucking made for it, you love this so much— love me so much you'd let me do anything, wouldn't you? Fuck you, choke you—"

Shane nods again, desperately, hands digging into Ilya's shoulders. "Yeah. Yes. Fuck. Anything. Please— Ilya—" And then Shane's making a low noise, his eyes scrunching and his mouth falling open, nails digging into Ilya's shoulders hard enough to hurt as he comes.

Ilya fucks him through it. He kisses him again and again, wet and messy and more than a little desperate, and keeps fucking him until he follows Shane right over the edge.

After, once Ilya has cleaned them up and blown out all the candles and coaxed Shane into moving just enough that Ilya can toss aside the blanket he'd laid out earlier and get Shane under the clean sheets. After, he joins Shane under the soft, clean, boring blue sheets and tucks Shane into his side. He presses a kiss into Shane's sweaty hair, to his forehead, across his freckled cheeks where they're still flushed pink from exertion.

"Hi," Shane says, a little bit dopey as he smacks a kiss to the curve of Ilya's jaw and then does something that can legitimately only be described as nuzzling his nose against that same spot. Ilya loves fucked stupid Shane. He loves all versions of Shane Hollander, but fucked stupid Shane Hollander is a fucking highlight.

"Hi," Ilya says back, squeezing his arms tight around Shane.

They're quiet, for a moment, and then Shane huffs out a laugh and says "Holy shit," and "Fuck, that was—" He cuts off, clearly at a loss for words for what exactly that was.

"Mmh, yes, holy shit," Ilya agrees and peppers another few kisses to Shane's cheekbones. "I would say I am surprised, but I have always known you are giant freak in bed."

"Fuck off, I am not," Shane argues, probably mostly just to argue, because there is no way that Shane is not aware of this fact about himself, shoving at Ilya's chest with very little force.

"No, no, you are. There is no reason to deny it. Is part of my Top 5 Favorite Things About Shane Hollander."

Shane's eyes narrow. Like he thinks Ilya is teasing him. Which, he is, but he's also a little bit serious about it too. "You have a list? Like, a genuine list?"

"Of course I have a list. What? You are only person in this relationship allowed to have lists?"

"Pretty sure I'm the only person in this relationship that anyone would expect to have one?" Shane says, voice lilting up at the end like it's a question somehow. "That doesn't matter though. What's on the list?"

"You want me to tell you the list?"

"Yes. Obviously," Shane says, shoving at Ilya now, until he ends up on his back and Shane can straddle him. Like if he sits on Ilya, Ilya will have to tell him. Like Ilya could not escape this position if he wanted to. Like Ilya would ever want to escape this position. "Tell me the list."

"I do not think you can handle it," Ilya says, grinning now.

"Fuck off. I just had your dick in my ass. I'm pretty sure I can handle you saying some stupid shit about how my hole is your number 3 favorite thing about me or whatever."

"Ah," Ilya gasps in fake shock. "How did you know? Did you look at list already?"

"No. That's why you have to tell me the list, Rozanov."

"Fine, fine, if you want list I will give you list," Ilya says with a long suffering sigh. He does not, technically, have a fully fleshed out list, but there are, in fact, many favorite things to be found about Shane Hollander. Ilya is sure he can come up with five pretty easily.

"Good. Thank you," Shane says, somehow very primly for a man who is sitting stark naked on top of Ilya with nothing but the sheets pooling around them. Ilya loves him so much he thinks he'll die with it sometimes.

"Number five— we are working backwards to most favorite thing, of course," Because of the drama, and also because it gives him more time to figure out his actual favorite thing about Shane.

"Of course," Shane says, nodding with a faux air of seriousness. Ilya reaches out and curls a hand over Shane's jaw, thumbs over his lower lip as Shane leans into the touch.

"Number five is, of course, how good you are at sucking my cock."

"Oh my god, fuck off," Shane complains, already turning red again.

"Number four," Ilya continues, shifting the hand on Shane's jaw upward, skating his fingertips over Shane's cheeks, over his freckles. "I like these very much. They are so fucking pretty. Especially when you blush."

"I take it back. I don't need the list," Shane says, slumping forward until he can hide his face against Ilya's chest.

Ilya laughs, curling his hand over the back of Shane's neck. "I still have three more to go."

"I don't think that's necessary," Shane says, a little muffled.

"Mmh, I think it is," Ilya says, because he's committed now. Both to the bit, and to singing Shane's praises straight to his face. Well. To the top of Shane's head, now that he's hiding. "Number three is, of course, that you are secret pervert in bed."

"Oh my god."

"No one but me gets to know that Captain Canada, Mister Wholesome Hockey himself, with his lists and his stats and his baby dear eyes is little bit of a freak."

"Baby dear eyes," Shane mouths the words quietly against Ilya's chest, incredulous.

"Mmh, yes, those would be on the list if top two were not more important."

Shane makes a noise like he's dying and Ilya pets at the back of his head.

"Number two. You are the best hockey player in the league."

Shane lifts his head just enough that he can eye Ilya suspiciously at that. "Not second best?"

"No," Ilya says with a shake of his head. "It is why it is head rush sometimes, to be with you. I am fucking Shane fucking Hollander. I am in love with Shane fucking Hollander. Shane fucking Hollander is in love with me. Enough in love with me to risk thing he cares about most, just to keep doing this with me. It is enough to inflate any man's ego a little bit, I think."

"Oh," Shane says, softly, and then, "I don't— Well— I mean, I think, if I had to say what I care about most. Between, you know, you and. And hockey. You would probably win." He pauses. "Well, except during the playoffs. During the playoffs I will crush you and feel zero guilt."

Ilya laughs and presses a kiss to Shane's forehead. "Good. Because I will not feel guilty either when the Bears knock the Voyageurs out of the playoffs one last time."

"Wow, I can't believe you think you're gonna beat the best player in the league."

"Second best, when it is playoffs," Ilya says, and Shane laughs, a little helplessly.

"You're such an asshole," He says, so fond that it makes Ilya's teeth ache to hear it.

"Mmh, I know."

"What's number one on the list?" Shane asks.

"Ah, number one is that you are so boring."

"Oh my god, you are such an asshole," Shane says, again.

"And that is your favorite thing about me. Boring is not bad. I like that you are boring, Shane," Ilya says, "Maybe that is the wrong word? Maybe reliable is better? I don't know. It is more like, you are always you. You always have extra roll of tape, and even when you would say we were not going to hook up, you would always have condoms and lube just in case I had not come prepared. Which is ridiculous. I am always prepared for such things. You have investment properties, not just to turn them into sex condos—"

"It's not a—"

"And you like them. You like managing your little real estate portfolio, and building your cottage. You were so proud of your little well. It was very cute. Very boring and reliable thing to be proud of."

"It's a good thing to have," Shane grumbles.

"You will always tell me I need to consume at least single vegetable with every meal, or that I should stop smoking and drive a little bit slower, because you want me to live for a very long time. When I say, 'I love you so fucking much but I do not know what we are supposed to do about it because it feels fucking impossible,' you wake me up at 4 am with ten year plan and plans for charity. Boring is good when it is you, Shane."

"Oh," Shane says, like he hadn't thought of how all the boring things about him might be good. That's okay. Ilya has so much time now. An endless stretch, the rest of his life, spent with Shane. He can keep telling Shane all about them.

"You are also a little bit of an asshole too," Ilya says, after a moment, to lighten things up just a little bit. "That is, like, favorite thing number one and a half."

"Fuck off. You can't just add a sixth thing. That's not how top fives work!"

"It is. I say it is. I will also have new list probably next week."

"You can't just make a new list every week."

"I can. I will. I can not help it. There are too many things about Shane Hollander that are my favorite things."

…

"Today was nice," Shane says, much later, when they've managed to acquire pajamas and brush their teeth and Shane has convinced Ilya to let him rub fancy creams onto Ilya's face (Which did not take much convincing at all, or, really, any.) before they returned to bed. "Dunno how you're gonna top it next year."

"Good thing I am very good at topping."

Shane snorts and swats at Ilya's chest. "You're ridiculous."

"Ridiculously good at topping, I know," Ilya says and palms at Shane's ass. When Shane doesn't make a move to swat it away, he leaves his hand there. "I am not concerned with next year," He adds, honestly. "We may not get to see each other, today, next year. We may be playing that day, or on the road. I am just happy that we had today, you know?"

"Yeah," Shane says, a little thoughtful, trailing fingertips over Ilya's sternum absentmindedly. Up and down, up and down. "You know you didn't have to do all this though, right?"

"I did not do much," Ilya says, because realistically, today was not that different than any other full day they get to spend together. They cooked together, they played games, they fucked. These are all very standard to the Ilya And Shane Spending A Day Off Together experience.

"You did," Shane insists. "More than you had to, definitely. I would've been happy just spending the day with you without doing anything special. I always am."

"Hmmm," Ilya hums, instead of arguing.

"Hmmm," Shane hums right back, somehow making it sound like an argument.

"I do not know if you have noticed this, but I am very in love with you," Ilya says.

"No way," Shane says flatly, "I had no idea."

"So in love with you, actually that it is scary sometimes," Ilya continues. "And I want to spend every day with you. Every single fucking day. But I can't."

"Ilya…"

"I have today and a little bit of tomorrow. I will have you for a night, three weeks from now, and again, weeks after that. And maybe, maybe, we will find a few hours in between all of that. So, yes, I do like having these days that are supposed to be special with you and trying to make it, I do not know, feel special, I guess. I like having you on Christmas, and Valentines, and any other day. I would fuck you like it was special for fucking Canada Day."

"That's in the summer," Shane points out, looking a little bit pleased. "We'll probably be together for that one."

"And I will treat you like it's very special day then too. What is not clear here, Hollander?"

"I think," Shane says, slowly, "It's the part where I remember that this— us— it's as important to you as it is to me."

"I am so— so clingy," Ilya practically whines, "When you are around, and you doubt that this is important?"

"No. No, I don't—"

"I am moving to Ottawa. Do you know what is in Ottawa, Shane? Nothing interesting except your parents, and you in the summer. The rest of it is boring city and boring team who cannot manage to win games."

"There's stuff in Ottawa," Shane insists, missing the point just a little bit to argue with Ilya about fucking Ottawa. "There's, like, museums. And festivals. And, I don't know, monuments and stuff? There's ByWard Market, that's pretty cool. I think you'll like that. Oh, and the arboretum!"

"Oh, wow, an arboretum," Ilya says. "Hollander, what the fuck is an arboretum?"

"It's, I dunno, a place with a lot of plants, I guess? I don't know, it's a thing. My mom likes the gardens. It's kinda neat."

"'Kinda neat,'" Ilya repeats, disbelieving, and wraps Shane up in his arms, squeezing him tight. "You are so boring, I love you so much."

"I hate you," Shane says, squirming halfheartedly.

"You don't. You love me so much that you want me to move to boring Ottawa so that we can see each other all the time and spend boring holidays together."

"Yeah. Yeah, I kinda do," Shane says, and he's got this look, a little dopey, a little bit like he's in love with Ilya , and Ilya just has to kiss it off of him.

…

They don't spend the next Valentine's Day together. Shane has a game in Nashville, and Ilya is in Detroit that day.

They don't spend the one after that together, either, with Shane in Pittsburgh and Ilya in Ottawa getting ready to play a losing game against Toronto the next day.

The year after that, they don't see each other either, and Ilya is forced to endure the disgusting antics of an in love Troy Barrett who has just come out to his team and is dating their beloved social media manager. (He is half filled with sick, bitter jealousy for what he can't have, and half filled with guilt for being jealous in the first place because there is a ring on a chain around his neck and he is getting everything he wants and yet he is still so fucking sad that he does not know what to do with it. He is, outside of any of that, also so fucking happy for his teammate that he doesn't know what to do with that either.)

The year after that, however—

"We should go on an actual date," Ilya's husband says, half leaning against Ilya while he brushes his teeth. They're both exhausted. They'd flown in late enough last night that it was technically the morning, and tomorrow they play a home game.

"Or we could do nothing all day except maybe take Anya for a walk and then I can fuck you tonight before we go to bed early," Ilya suggests, not moving while Shane leans forward to spit toothpaste into the sink.

"Wow, those are some big plans," Shane teases, "And they say that I'm the boring one."

"I cannot help it that my boring Canadian husband has rubbed off on me."

"Mmh, well I need my rubbing off on you to be a little less successful, because I booked this reservation in October."

"You booked reservation? For Valentines?"

"Mmhmm."

"Where?"

"It's a surprise."

"Excuse me," Ilya demands, after Shane has rinsed his mouth and started to move towards the bathroom door. "That is not how this works. I surprise you, not other way around! I am pretty sure this was in our vows, no?"

"It was not," Shane says, exasperated already. "There is no way stipulations on who surprises who were in the Justice of the Peace scripted vows."

"I think there were," Ilya argues, trailing after Shane as he heads to the kitchen to feed Anya. "I'm pretty sure that I said I Ilya, take you Shane, to have and to hold, to cherish and to love, and to be most adventurous person in this partnership, until death do we part."

"You're ridiculous," Shane tells him.

"I know! That is why I am the one who plans surprises! Hollander, where are we going?"

"I'm not telling. Also, I'm pretty sure it's Hollander-Rozanov now."

"Hollander-Rozanov, please."