Chapter Text
Ilya chose the photos slowly.
Carefully.
Tenderly.
Like assembling a shrine.
He told himself it was strategic, soft launch, phase three, but in truth, each picture was a piece of Shane he wanted the world to know he loved. He wanted them to see the truth without actually being told.
Photo 1: Their first photoshoot.
Both of them in too-big gear, faces still round with youth, bent down face-to-face, giggling.
Reporters had called it a rivalry even then.
Ilya remembered the moment the photographer snapped that shot, how Shane kept glancing at him each time they would reset, nervous but determined, and how something inside Ilya had clicked into place.
This one. His heart had said. This one will matter.
Posting it now felt like reclaiming something stolen from them by years of hiding.
Photo 2: A blurry picture of Shane laughing in a hoodie.
Ilya’s favorite.
He’d taken it three years ago in Shane’s kitchen. Shane had been complaining about Ilya’s terrible pancake form, waving his spatula around, hair sticking everywhere.
He’d been radiant. That photo meant warmth. Safety. Home.
Shane had never posted it. Shane didn’t post anything personal.
But Ilya did.
Because the world deserved to know that the legendary Shane Hollander, stoic, perfect, polished, laughed like that when he was loved.
Photo 3: Their hands brushing during an All-Star practice.
Ilya stared at this one the longest. He remembered seeing this photo for the first time. How his heart skipped a beat at the simple gesture being caught on camera.
It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, but to Ilya, it was special.
It looked accidental. It wasn’t.
He remembered skating beside him, fingertips brushing Shane’s glove because he couldn’t help himself. Because the moment felt bright and simple and too good to ruin.
That picture looked like a beginning, even though their beginning had been years before.
Photo 4: Two mugs labeled “S” and “I.”
His idea.
He bought them secretly in a tiny Ottawa boutique. Shane had rolled his eyes when he saw them.
“We don’t need matching mugs,” he’d said.
But he used them. Every morning. Ilya always noticed.
Photo 5: A sunset over Shane’s cottage lake.
To the world, it was just a pretty landscape.
To Ilya, it was the first place Shane ever said “I love you” without running from it.
They’d stood barefoot in the grass, the water gold and still, the trees whispering behind them.
Shane had said it so many times that day. Ilya cherished them all.
Posting that picture felt like putting his heart on a windowsill, visible but not explained.
When the carousel was ready, he typed the caption:
“#f 🙂”
He didn’t clarify. He didn’t explain. Let the world wonder. Let them argue. Let the chaos begin.
He touched “post.”
And instantly—
His phone vibrated with notifications exploding like fireworks.
@hockeygirl92:
Omg best friend soft launch?? Or friend soft launch? Who just posts an f??
@thatonetumblrbltch:
F = fiance! You idiots. WAKE UP
→ @hockeystrong5
That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.
@nhlinsider:
Uhhh did Rozanov just post a years-long friendship reveal??
@rivalryromantics:
No no no I don’t care what the caption says they are in LOVE.
@stats4life:
Historical photo documentation of an enemies-to-lovers arc.
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The press room in the Ottawa arena had a particular ambiance. Bright overhead lights humming softly, reporters shifting in their seats, laptops glowing, and camera shutters clicking in rhythm.
There was always the faint smell of coffee that had been brewed three hours ago. It was always restless in there.
Tonight, it felt charged.
As soon as Ilya stepped onto the podium, he felt the shift, like the air had thickened with curiosity.
The first reporter raised her hand.
“Rozanov,” she began with a too-pleasant smile, “fans were excited about your Instagram post. Can you clarify the meaning behind ‘#f’?”
Ilya clasped his hands on the table.
“Is accurate caption.”
Soft laughter rippled through the room.
“Accurate in what way?” she pressed.
“Accurate to situation,” Ilya said, tone bland.
“And what situation is that?”
Ilya leaned back, giving nothing.
“Does anyone have hockey questions?”
A low murmur swept across the room like wind.
A rumble of amusement followed.
Someone whispered, “He’s enjoying this,” and they were right.
Because beneath all the tension and careful non-answers, Ilya felt Pride.
Pride that he could say Shane’s name out loud in a room full of cameras and not feel fear choke him.
Pride that their story, quiet, hidden, precious, was finally stepping into the light, even if only in fragments.
Pride that he and Shan were finally choosing each other openly, even if no one understood the depth of it yet.
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Ilya returned home late that night, tired from the game, buzzing from the chaos.
He found Shane curled on the couch, waiting for him, scrolling through comments with a look caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement.
When Shane looked up, Ilya saw joy in his eyes.
Actual joy.
“You posted our mugs,” Shane said, laughing under his breath.
“They are symbolic,” Ilya said.
Shane shook his head, fond and helpless.
“And you used the caption ‘#f?’ That’s not confusing at all?” Ilya nodded, crawling on top of Shane, wrapping his arm around him, and snuggling into his side.
Ilya shrugged. “Is true.”
“Which version of true?” Shane teased. “Friend or fiancé?”
Ilya smirked. “Friend. Fiancé. Soulmate. All fit.”
Shane’s face softened, warmth blooming across his cheeks.
“You’re ridiculous,” he murmured.
Ilya kissed his neck.
“And you love me.”
Shane brushed his fingers through Ilya’s hair.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “I really do.”
Ilya nuzzled into him, letting the weight of the day settle into something warm and full.
Shane stroked his hair again and said, with the softest laugh:
“You posted our whole relationship without telling them anything.”
“Good strategy,” Ilya said.
“Terrible strategy,” Shane corrected. “But very you.”
Ilya looked up at him, smiling crookedly.
“Is only beginning.”
Shane looked at him the way he always did when love threatened to spill over, bright, aching, forever.
“I know,” he said.
And Ilya smiled as he rested in his fiancé’s arms.