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Ilya sits next to Wyatt on the bus to the airport. He closes his eyes, letting the fluorescent lights of Montreal pass by outside the window.
He’s torn between the thrumming of energy amongst his teammates after their win and a desperate longing that clawed at his chest. This feeling is nothing new, though. He’s had it for years now, but it never seems to get easier.
He hates that Shane lost. But Ilya loves that he won.
Wyatt lightly punches him in the shoulder, and Ilya opens one eye to see Wyatt holding out his phone towards Ilya’s face.
Ilya’s eyes grow wide, a sick feeling settling in his stomach.
The match barely ended two hours ago, and already, there’s an article questioning if Shane had tripped on purpose. If Shane had tripped to let Ilya win.
Ilya’s initial reaction is that of extreme insult. As if he needed Shane Hollander to let him win.
But then…fuck. Shane.
There is no way he’s taking this well. There’s no way he’s going to cope with anyone calling his integrity around hockey into question.
“That’s fucked up, man,” Wyatt says, and Ilya struggles to take in steadying breaths. “I can’t believe anyone would think that.”
Ilya stands up suddenly and crawls over Wyatt (and steps on his feet none too gently in the process). He strides as fast as he can to the front of the bus towards Coach Wiebe.
He leans down and murmurs to his coach, and gets a look of complete understanding.
“As soon as we get to the airport, go,” Wiebe says. “We’ll see you in the morning.”
oOo
Ilya uses his key to unlock Shane’s front door. He drops his bag in the entryway and steps deeper into the living room, where he’s greeted with the relieved faces of Yuna and David.
He looks around for Shane before he speaks. “Does he know? What they are saying?”
Yuna nods, and there’s a sadness in her face that reminds Ilya so much of Shane when he’s struggling with something. “It’s everywhere,” she says with a shake of her head. “Even his teammates don’t believe him.”
And that’s when Ilya’s heart breaks in two. Because it’s one thing to have the public question your actions. They’re used to that; it comes with the territory, no matter how shitty it can be. But to have your teammates do the same? The brothers you experience the lows of loss and highs of victory with? The ones you bleed and cry with, who are supposed to pick you up when you get slammed into the boards?
Hockey doesn’t mean half as much to Ilya as it does to Shane. It’s always been his escape. From his family, from Russia, from dealing with trauma. And he loves it, truly, but to Shane, hockey is life. And as much as Ilya has sacrificed for Shane, since moving to Ottawa, he’s never doubted his teammates would have his back in anything and everything.
“Fuck,” Ilya whispers, suddenly filled with the want to tear the whole city down. “Where is he?”
“Punching various things in the gym,” David says with a small, sad smile. “We figured that might be what he needs most right now. He was so angry.”
Yuna glances at the clock and sighs. “I think we’ll head to bed now that you’re here.” She stands and crosses the space between the couch and Ilya, wrapping him in a hug. “I’m glad you came,” she says. “Take care of him for us.”
“I always do.”
“We’re proud of you,” she says, squeezing him a little tighter. To hear of her pride even while she mourns for her own son, makes a stinging sensation at the back of his eyes. He knows she probably can’t fathom what those four words mean to him, and he promises to himself that one day, he’ll try to explain.
Ilya hugs her back and lets the sweet feeling of her praise calm him for a moment. “I know. I am your favorite son, after all.”
Yuna’s responding laugh sounds light, and when she pulls back, she holds both of his shoulders in her hands and looks at him with a fondness only a mother could possess. “Love you, kiddo,” she says, lightly patting his cheek before she moves towards the stairs.
David rises from the couch, too, his hand patting Ilya on the arm with a kind smile. “Goodnight, Ilya.”
Ilya waits for them to disappear up the stairs before he walks down the hallway, the sound of fists punching a weighted bag growing stronger with each step he takes.
Shane’s back is to him when he enters the in-home gym. He leans against the doorway and lets himself watch for a moment while Shane pummels a punching bag, bare-fisted. It’s a reckless thing to do, and Ilya is pretty sure Shane would be the first to warn him about the dangers of not wearing gloves. It only serves as a warning for what kind of mental state he’s in.
He’s normally so controlled about everything in his life. It’s one of the things that drew Ilya to him in the first place. That sense of stability that he’d craved all his life. But this feels…not like that, and it makes Ilya a little sick to his stomach to think of the inner storm that must be churning inside of Shane.
He wears no shirt, and sweats are slung low on his hips. There’s a grace to his movements that draws Ilya in, and he can’t help but notice the way Shane’s muscles flex, his arms, his shoulders, his chest, with each punch of his hands.
Under normal circumstances (if anything about their relationship could ever be considered normal), Ilya would find the image really fucking hot, but it's obvious from the set of Shane’s mouth, and the complete silence in the room apart from his hits that Shane is deep in his anger.
But to be honest, it's still really fucking hot.
He straightens and walks forward, trying to make enough noise that Shane doesn’t scare from his presence. He’d told him when they’d met on the ice after the game that he was going back to Ottawa that night with his team, so it wasn’t like Shane expected him.
To his credit, Shane doesn’t flinch. Just gives Ilya a look and keeps on punching.
“If I did not know better, I would say it was this bag’s fault you tripped,” he says, leaning against the wall nearest to Shane.
“Don’t start, Ilya,” Shane replies, never breaking from his movements.
Ilya doesn’t speak again, just watches until Shane finally says, “Why are you here?”
Ilya cocks his head to the side and gives Shane a meaningful look. “You do not wish me to be?”
“You know it’s not that,” Shane bites back, and Ilya briefly wonders if he should have gone back to Ottawa with his team. That maybe it would have been better if Shane had slept this off.
But he brushes it aside. They need each other. That has been long established, and even if it means Ilya sleeps on the fucking couch while Shane stews in the bedroom, he’s going to be there in whatever way he’ll allow it.
“You saw what they’re saying?”
“Yes.”
Shane glares for a second and then starts to hit harder. But this time, he starts talking. “It’s fucking bullshit. Like I would ever cheat at the one thing I’ve dedicated my entire. Fucking. Life. To.” He gets louder with each word, punctuating it with his fists.
“It is strange, yes.”
“I have given everything to that team for a decade.” Hit. Hit. “Won three fucking cups for them, and this is what I get? I make one fucking mistake, and that’s just it?” Hit. Hit. Hit.
“And all because those assholes think I’m a completely different person,” hit, “after they find out I’m in love with you. Like I’m fundamentally changed because I’m fucking Ilya Rozanov!”
He hits so hard one of his knuckles splits.
Shane sucks in a pained breath and curses in Russian. Ilya jumps forward, concerned even while he's struck by the slightly overwhelming knowledge that his soon-to-be husband now has the instinct to say ‘fuck’ in Ilya’s mother tongue.
He grabs Shane’s hand, but Shane pulls it back.
“I’m fine,” he says, though his chin trembles as he says it, tears clearly barely being held at bay.
“Sit,” Ilya points to the bench. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”
“Ilya, it’s fine–”
“Sit,” Ilya demands, and Shane obeys, even while he acts slightly annoyed about it. His tears blinked back for now.
Ilya walks to the shelves on the far side of the room and removes the clear plastic box from the very top. He opens it and rummages through it while he makes his way back to where Shane is seated.
He throws a leg over the bench and sits in front of Shane, gauze, wrap, and an alcohol wipe in one hand while he reaches out to Shane with the other.
Shane places his injured hand into Ilya’s, and Ilya starts to work. “Might sting,” he says needlessly before wiping the blood away with the alcohol disinfectant. Shane breathes in deep through his nose, but otherwise stays quiet.
Ilya places the gauze on his knuckle, holding it and the wrap in place with his thumb before he begins tight circles around Shane’s hand, sealing his injury in beneath sterile white layers.
“You are different, you know,” Ilya says, the words floating in his head finally making their way out once he knows Shane has been taken care of. “You have been hiding for so long, you are different to them, now.”
Shane bites his lower lip, and Ilya sees the tears are back. “Doesn’t make it okay,” he says, and Ilya sighs.
“No,” he agrees. “But I get it. The change they see. My fucking is pretty life-changing.”
“For fuck’s sake, Ilya,” Shane laughs briefly, but it’s short-lived, because the laugh turns into a sob that sucks all the air out of the room.
Shane collapses against him, and Ilya wastes no time gathering him up in his arms as best he can on the workout bench they both inhabit.
“I don’t deserve this,” Shane cries, the words coming out in a jumbled mess of tears and gulps of air.
Ilya massages at Shane’s scalp to loosen the tie at the back of his head so he can run fingers through the long strands of inky, black hair. “You don’t.”
“My whole life I’ve worked for this, I would never—“
A kiss to the top of Shane’s head. “I know.”
“What do I have to do?” he sobs, and Ilya’s heart breaks for a second time that night. “What do I have to do to be enough?”
Ilya sighs and pulls him in tighter. His hand moves from Shane’s hair down to his neck, rubbing the tension out as best he can.
A fresh round of cries leaves Shane’s throat, “I don’t have anything else I can give.”
Ilya knows this runs so much deeper than his tripping. That the fear of rejection and lack of acceptance has been at the heart of so many of their decisions over the past decade.
And now, here they finally are. Out and openly declaring their love for each other, and while Ilya has been greeted with support at every turn, from his coach to his teammates and friends, Shane has continually been burned by a fire he spent the better part of ten years trying to keep from starting.
He knows Shane doesn’t regret it. Regret them. But he’s still hurting, and Ilya wishes he could shoulder the entire burden for him, even when he knows in the long run it wouldn’t do either of them any good.
So, instead he says, “Maybe is time you stop giving yourself to people who do not deserve you.”
Shane pulls back from him just enough to search Ilya’s face. “You mean leave?”
Ilya shrugs one shoulder. “We have talked about it before. Would it be so crazy?”
“You really think Ottawa would take me?”
“I mean, we cannot afford you, but who knows? All we can do is try.” Ilya tries really fucking hard not to get his hopes up, but a future with Shane in Ottawa stretches out in his mind, and it’s endless and peaceful and full.
“I don’t want to do this anymore. I can’t keep being so far away from you all the time. I need you.”
Ilya has felt this way for years. Has never really gotten over the pain of seeing Shane drive away each time he leaves, or the near crippling loneliness he feels on the highways between Montreal and Ottawa.
He reaches up and tugs gently on the chain where Shane’s engagement ring sits on his chest, pulling Shane towards him and into a kiss.
“Whatever happens, it’s you and me,” he says against Shane’s mouth. “Always. Fuck everyone else.”
Shane captures Ilya’s lips this time, and Ilya sinks into the sweetness of it.
“Do you think I’ve changed since all this has happened?” Shane asks when they've pulled back.
“Nope,” Ilya responds without hesitation. “Still the same old, boring Shane Hollander.”
Shane huffs and rolls his eyes. “Gee, thanks.”
“You did not let me finish.”
“Oh, well, please by all means.”
Ilya manages to get his hands underneath Shane’s ass and hauls him into his lap until their chests are flush together. “My same old, boring Shane Hollander.”
He gets a small, genuine smile for that. But it falls quickly from Shane’s face, and he leans his head down on Ilya’s shoulder. “I don’t know what to do,” he admits, the fight having drained out of him for the time being. “I want to leave. I know that, but it’s kind of terrifying to think about.”
“You do not have to have it all figured out right now,” Ilya says, pushing back on his shoulders so he can cup Shane’s face in his hands, enjoying how the other man leans into his touch.
“I don’t understand why their first instinct is not to trust me. After everything, they would rather believe I purposefully lost than to accept I can love you and still play a fucking game of hockey without cheating.”
“Is easier to be angry than to try to understand, I think,” Ilya says, rubbing his thumbs against the freckles on his fiancé’s cheek, and Shane sighs.
“It has to get better from here, right? Like, this is the low, surely,” he says, and Ilya smiles in a way he hopes is reassuring.
He isn’t sure how to answer. The past few weeks have been hell since they were outed, but he does know one thing completely. “I will be here, no matter what happens.”
Shane turns his head slightly and kisses Ilya’s palm. “I love you so fucking much.”
A wicked grin spreads on Ilya’s face. “You know what would make you feel better?”
Shane tries to look annoyed, but totally fails past an affectionate roll of his eyes as his arms come around Ilya’s shoulders. “Sex isn’t the cure-all you think it is.”
“But I am so good at it,” Ilya says, dipping his head slightly to kiss at the junction of Shane’s neck and shoulder. He licks a trail up to Shane’s ear. “Satisfaction guaranteed.”
Shane snorts and shakes his head, but moves closer because Ilya knows he can’t help himself. “Do you have some reviews I can read that back up your claims?”
“Would you like to speak with women I’ve slept with? I am sure they would be happy to take my calls.”
Shane rolls his hips against Ilya, and Ilya knows whatever fight Shane puts up is just going to be for show. “Your ego should be studied.”
Ilya palms him through his thin sweats, enjoying the feel of Shane’s cock coming to life under his touch. “If you want to study me, Hollander, just say so.”
Shane’s breathy moan sounds far louder than it should against the tall ceilings of the gym. It seems to briefly startle him back to reality because he says, “My parents are upstairs.” But it doesn’t have much meaning when he starts to push his hands up into Ilya’s shirt, raking short nails over Ilya’s abs. “I don’t want them to hear.”
Ilya runs his thumb over Shane’s bottom lip, enjoying the look of plump skin bouncing back. “Then we better give your mouth something to do,” Ilya says just before his thumb slips into Shane’s mouth.
He dips it in and out, quickly adding another, loving the way Shane’s eyes darken while his tongue swirls around and sucks. The feeling of Shane’s mouth around his fingers is so obscene, Ilya’s eyes flutter closed, and he lets himself get lost in the sensation.
He wishes he could properly take Shane apart. Open him up, make him come from his fingers, and then rail him against the bench until he's a blubbering mess. But it’s late, and they’re both close to spent from emotions and a hockey game already, and he has no desire to separate to find lube and condoms.
He pulls his finger away from Shane and rakes them down his chin to his chest, leaving a trail of saliva that glistens in the harsh light of the room. Shane lifts his hips and Ilya pulls his sweats and boxers down in one swift and practiced movement.
He can’t help but lick his lips as Shane’s cock springs free. They’ve been no contact since the playoffs started, and if the precome that’s already leaking is any indication, Shane has missed Ilya just as much as Ilya missed Shane.
“Fuck, Hollander,” he whispers, unable to keep the awe out of his voice. His thumb dips into the wet, and Shane’s head falls back at the contact. “You are so gone for me already.”
“All your fault,” Shane breathes, practically writhing as Ilya starts to pump his hand while his thumb swirls around the tip. “It’s been too–” He breaks off into a loud moan that bounces around them, and Ilya grins.
Ilya grabs Shane’s injured hand and presses it over his fiancé’s mouth, bringing a finger to his own lips to sound a quiet, ‘shhh.’ He continues to stroke Shane until he manages to fumble through pushing his own pants down and freeing his cock. By now, it's hard and red and aching to be touched, and he’s impatient after being without this for so long.
Shane loudly breathes through his nose, his hand still pressed over his mouth; a muffled sound of disappointment leaves him when Ilya stops touching him.
“You are such a slut,” Ilya says, his words dripping with love and fondness, as he grabs Shane’s free hand and spits into it. Shane’s eyes appear full of questions until Ilya grabs both of their cocks in his hand, holding them in place while he clumsily maneuvers Shane’s into a fist and lets go.
Shane catches on, always a quick study, and he grips them both, his hand able to move freely with the help of Ilya’s spit and his own cock still leaking precome.
It’s Ilya’s turn to stifle a moan as he watches with rapt attention while Shane works them together in his large hand. Ilya absolutely loves fucking Shane, but this feeling of having their cocks pressed against each other is so ridiculously underrated.
He loves that sex with Shane can look so many different ways, and he knows this is just as fulfilling as being inside him. Because here, together, they’re perfect.
This is the way they learned to communicate, and it’s still Ilya’s favorite way. Even on the worst days, they can say so much without needing to say anything at all.
I love you. I’m here for you. We can get through this, you and me.
As Ilya continues to stare, fighting the urge to let his eyes close against the onslaught of pleasure, because he needs to see this, needs to remember every little detail about this moment, he’s reminded of the time at the penthouse in Boston where he’d first called Shane by his name.
He remembers how scared Shane had been, how freaked out he was as he scrambled to do everything he could to get away, and his own devastation at knowing he’d fucked up, possibly beyond repair.
They’d done it just like this that day, with Shane jerking them both off as he hovered above Ilya on the couch. But today, there’s no undercurrent of fear. There’s nothing holding them back anymore, and instead, Ilya gets to watch as the love of his life holds one hand over his mouth to keep himself quiet while the other pumps them toward the promise of release.
He can tell from the blown pupils in Shane’s eyes that he’s close. All the pent up things he’s been keeping inside slowly building to this moment.
“You’re so perfect. Mine, you’re–shit,” Ilya stutters as Shane’s hips start to move in time with his hand, seeking more. He marvels for a moment at the physical strength of the man in his lap. Neither of his hands are free. He’s still dutifully covering his mouth, and for good reason, because he’s still loud even with that. But Ilya is still impressed that Shane still manages to deftly thrust like it's barely any effort at all.
He’s so fucking lucky to have this man in his life and his bed. Or bench, as it happened to be right then.
The friction is so good, Ilya feels his orgasm building at the base of his spine, and for once, he doesn’t even care how quickly it’s coming. “Come with me, Hollander,” he begs quietly. “Let me feel you.”
Shane’s hand starts to lose its rhythm, his eyes rolling back while a guttural sound rips from his lungs, and Ilya knows that sign just as well as if he were feeling it himself. He knows that it feels too good for Shane to hold out any longer, and before Ilya can blink again, Shane’s eyes roll back, and Ilya lets himself fall over the edge with him, spurts of white coating Shane’s hand and stomach.
Shane collapses back on the bench and takes Ilya with him, their heavy breathing the only sound in the room. They’re a sticky mess, but for once it seems like that’s the farthest thing from Shane’s mind.
“You promised me sex, and then you made me do all the work,” Shane pants after things go still, and Ilya laughs.
Ilya lifts Shane’s hand to his mouth and sucks his fingers. His tongue slides and laps, and he revels in the taste of both of them while he looks up from his spot lying on Shane’s chest. The look of pure adoration on Shane’s face is one he tries to commit to memory.
When he’s done, he places a kiss on Shane’s palm. “We are both cheaters, it would seem.”
“Too soon,” Shane pokes him in the side, and Ilya only just manages to keep from jumping at the contact. “Has anyone ever told you, you’re an asshole?”
“You know, I do not recall that ever being mentioned.”
A comfortable quiet settles around them, and Ilya thinks he could fall asleep here with the feeling of Shane’s fingers dancing across his back in the most soothing patterns.
“Thank you,” Shane says, “for staying. I’m really glad you did.”
“Me too.”
“I’ll call Farah tomorrow. Let her know what I want to do about moving teams.”
“Okay.”
Shane bites the inside of his lip, and Ilya can tell he’s trying to think of how he wants to say whatever is coming next. “Do you think anyone on your team thinks I tripped on purpose?”
Ilya sits himself up and pulls Shane with him. He grabs Shane’s chin in his hand and holds him there so there can be no confusion about what he’s about to say and how deeply he means it. “Sweetheart,” he says, voice serious and steady, “no one who really cares about either of us would ever think that.”
A tear slips out of Shane’s eye, and Ilya wonders if he’s going to fall off the emotional edge again, but he smiles, and nods, and Ilya thinks he might just believe him.
“Come on,” he says, standing and lifting Shane up, enjoying how, for once, Shane doesn’t protest, and instead just wraps his legs around Ilya’s waist and holds on. “Let’s get you cleaned up and into bed.”
“Will you wash my hair for me?” Shane asks, and his voice sounds sleepy.
“Sure,” Ilya agrees and begins to walk them out of the gym and up towards the bedroom. “And I’ll rub the knots out of your shoulders.”
Shane's contented sigh settles deep into Ilya’s bones. “Mmm, I should lose to you more often.”
Ilya hopes that soon, if everything works out, they never have to lose to each other again.
oOo
The first time they play Montreal after Shane moves to Ottawa, Ilya pulls him to the side of the locker room before the game.
He crowds into Shane’s space, still a little giddy he’s allowed to do this in view of other people. Pressing their foreheads together, he kisses Shane quick and fierce. “You are an incredible hockey player.”
“I know,” Shane says, and Ilya can sense some of the nervousness drain from him.
“Not as good as me, but we all have flaws.”
“Ilya,” Shane groans and laughs, and Ilya can feel him relax even more.
“Fuck those guys,” Ilya says with a flash of anger he doesn’t allow himself very often, because while Shane has chosen to try and move on, Ilya has made no such promise.
“Mmm,” Shane mumbles and leans forward, brushing their lips together lightly in what Ilya knows is a ‘thank you’.
“And hey,” Ilya continues, “this time you can let me win, and no one will care.”
Shane lets out a bark of a laugh and punches Ilya in the arm as hard as he can, given their closeness. “Fuck you, Rozanov.” He slides out of Ilya’s arms and flips him off as he walks away to put on the last of his pads.
Ilya smiles, stalking after him, “It’s Hollander-Rozanov, now, remember?” He turns his body to address the entire locker room. “You see how quickly he forgets we are married?”
Their teammates laugh, and the air doesn’t feel so heavy anymore, and Ilya is so grateful for this life he never could have imagined for himself.
And when he trips on the ice late in the game during a power play, there’s really no telling if he catches an edge or if he just can’t get over how amazing his husband’s ass looks in hockey pants.