Work Text:
Ilya had known there was a difference in how people in America, and Canada, wore their wedding rings, compared to Russia.
It had taken him a few months to notice, but he had noticed - guys in the locker room slipping their rings on their left hand, rather than their right, Ilya noticing coaches and journalists who wore their rings on the left.
It had looked quite odd to him, after a lifetime of looking to someone’s right hand to see if they were married, but it had never felt more important than yet another cultural oddity he had to come to terms with now he lived in America.
When Shane had proposed, the ring hadn’t fit - so it’s not as if Shane had tried to shove it onto Ilya’s left hand at the time. When he’d gone to get it resized, it had felt natural to ask for it to be sized perfectly for his right ring finger - the place where his mother, his father, had worn their rings.
Shane had, admittedly, been briefly confused, but in that beautiful way Shane always did, he had happily accepted the difference, always eager for Ilya to hold tightly to the scare few pieces of Russia had got to keep. The pieces he had left were fewer, and fewer, Ilya’s connection to his homeland reduced down to the cross he wore around his neck, the food he cooked, and the few people in his life he could speak Russian with.
Shane was learning, and he was good, he was, but he wasn’t fluent - the Russian phrases were still clunky, and unfamiliar, as they rolled off his tongue, and Ilya was happy to be patient and speak slowly, for Shane’s sake, but it made speaking his mother tongue feel oddly unnatural, sometimes.
David and Yuna were learning too - David, more than Yuna, admittedly, Shane’s father diligent in his lessons - but Sveta was one of the few people in his day-to-day life he could speak Russian fluently with.
The Hollanders loved when Ilya would cook for them - pelmeni, and shchi, Ilya delighted as Yuna and David tucked into the flavours that most reminded Ilya of Russia, Shane watching on fondly as his parents dove into the dishes he himself already knew well, having learned to make them in an attempt to soothe the ache of homesickness that Ilya wasn’t sure would ever leave.
Ilya missed Russia. Of course he did. It was an imperfect place, and one where he would never again be welcome - but for much of his life, it had been home. The streets, the sounds, the food, the language - Ilya would never be bathed in the familiarity of it again.
Life would always be different, disconnected from his homeland; and there was a Russian cafe, in Ottawa, where he could indulge in all the homemade food his stomach could take, and speak Russian with Yelena, the owner, and her family, but then he would walk back out into the street, and be surrounded by Canadian accents, and English, and French, sometimes, and it would be a reminder of a home he could never return to.
Ilya loved Canada. He loved the nature, and the people, and he loved those strange maple sugar candies that David always had fistfuls of in his car, and he loved the life he was building there. He loved Canada for giving him Shane, and the Hollanders, and for giving him a home with the Centaurs, and if their immigration lawyer was to be believed, Ilya would have a new navy blue passport declaring him to be a Canadian citizen within the year.
No longer a man without a country.
It would be a relief, Ilya knew, but a loss, all the same, another sever of ties to the country he had been raised in.
A country he could never go back to.
Shane had simply grinned, when Ilya had explained why he’d prefer to wear his ring on his right hand, and he’d closed his fingers over Ilya’s, and remarked that it would mean they could always feel each other’s rings, then, when they were holding hands, and Ilya had been helpless to do anything except kiss the smile from Shane’s face.
There had been a few moments of explanation, but everyone had accepted it readily, David going as far as to go on an internet deep dive about why people wore their wedding rings on their right hand in Russia, because Shane had gotten his neurosis from each of his parents in equal measure.
It was something to do with strength, and honour, and integrity - all words that Ilya liked, when they were said in relation to Shane. Ilya wanted to be an honourable husband, the kind deserving of someone like Shane Hollander, who was sweet, and sincere, and loved Ilya in a way that still took his breath away.
Which made moments like this all the more annoying.
The headline was screaming out from Ilya’s phone, some gossip magazine tweeting out their concerns about Ilya and Shane’s marriage.
Hollanov on the rocks? Captain of the Ottawa Centaurs Ilya Rozanov steps out at an event without husband Shane Hollander - and without a wedding ring. Could this be the end for the NHL’s biggest couple?
“I was wearing my wedding ring,” Ilya huffed to himself, as though the journalist responsible could hear him.
The picture of him that had been posted was from the red carpet that night, Ilya wearing a frankly fucking gorgeous suit, tailored to highlight every good thing about his body (he knew this because Shane had told him as much, when he’d gotten home, his husband very complimentary as he peeled the material from Ilya’s body), his right hand in his pocket, wedding ring not on show.
Shane pressed a kiss to the scrunch of his forehead, putting a coffee down in front of Ilya. “You shouldn’t read gossip magazines,” he pointed out, and he was right, Ilya knew - Shane never looked. It was tempting, and he’d always admit that himself, but Shane made a point of never looking at what they said about him.
Ilya tried not to look either, but this - this was too much.
He was not going to have people out there believing that his marriage with Shane was ‘on the rocks’ - a frankly ridiculous English phrase, if you asked him, why would there be rocks involved in his marriage? - just because no one employed in Canadian journalism could think to Google that there might be a cultural difference in which hand you wear your wedding ring on.
“It is ridiculous,” Ilya huffed, leaning back on Shane, his husband wrapping a protective arm around Ilya’s chest. It was nice, sometimes, to lean back like this, and know that Shane could easily take his weight. “They are questioning our marriage, Shane!”
Shane pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “They need headlines, Ilya,” he said, painfully logical, because that was just who Shane Hollander was. Ilya loved him for it, he really did - but it didn’t make him any less riled up. “Just ignore it. Some celebrity will do something ridiculous today, and you’ll be old news.”
Ilya did not pout in response. He was thirty-one years old.
“Ilya, darling,” Shane said, in that gorgeously smooth way he always did when he wanted to get something out of Ilya. It always worked. Ilya was easy, when it came to his husband. “We know our marriage isn’t on the rocks - even if Hello! Canada might think so. It doesn’t matter. They don’t know, not really.”
Ilya knew that. Logically, he knew that.
Their marriage was the surest thing that Ilya had ever known. It wasn’t without its issues, sure - Shane had a horrific habit of waking up at 5am and acting as though that was a reasonable time to thump around their house, making breakfast and doing laundry, and Ilya knew that his tendency to be messy drove Shane insane - but their bickering was never serious; just the bickering of a happy, long-term, forever after kind of relationship.
“Ilya,” Shane pressed a kiss to his cheek, mumbling the words into his skin. “It’ll die down. Don’t worry.”
It did not, in fact, die down.
The downside of being part of one of the most talked about couples in ice hockey - for better, or worse, and it was definitely for worse, a lot of the time - was that the media tended to take hold of the most innocuous things, and run with it.
He and Shane were a good headline - the first ever married couple in men’s ice hockey (and really - women’s hockey had been doing the whole, married and playing on the same team thing for years, with little fanfare, the men’s game had a lot to learn) were never going to be able to fade quietly into the background, and definitely not when the Centaurs were on the winning streak that they were.
Perks of having two of the best players in men’s ice hockey on your team, Ilya knew.
And a generational talent, in Shane - Ilya was biased, he knew, but he also wasn’t wrong. Shane had a strategic hockey brain that should be studied in a lab, so that they can try and replicate it, and create hundreds of little Shane Hollanders who would keep fundamentally changing the game of ice hockey over, and over, and over again.
Shane was a once-in-a-generation player, homegrown Canadian talent - the papers were never going to let rumours of his divorce die.
It had been going on for weeks, now, and it was starting to drive Ilya insane.
He didn’t like the thought that people were gossiping about the supposed end of their marriage, speculating about who had done wrong - Ilya, of course, magazines happy to drag up old photos of Ilya stumbling out of Boston nightclubs, beautiful women on his arm, the implication clear - if the marriage between Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov was over, it was because Ilya had ruined it.
As if Ilya would ever do anything to ruin the greatest joy of his life.
Shane kept telling him to ignore it, that it would die down - but it didn’t. It wasn’t.
Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov spilt - who stays with the Centaurs if hockey's hottest couple divorces?
Ilya appreciated them acknowledging they were hockey’s hottest couple, at least.
Where did it all go wrong? Insiders say that Hollander and Rozanov have been separated for months.
Separated? Ilya regularly tries to follow his husband to the bathroom. He gets lonely, without Shane - he would not survive a separation.
Just when the Centaurs are in their best form, a Stanley Cup on the horizon - ‘Hollanov’ splits. Is this proof as to why romance doesn’t belong in the NHL?
That one wasn’t worth a response.
The Centaurs were winning - and they would do it with Ilya, and Shane, at the helm of the team, regardless of what Hello! Canada said.
“I will sue,” Ilya huffed, shoving his phone toward Shane, sinking into the plush cushions of their couch. “Can we sue, for defamation? I never want to be separated from you, moya lyubov. I would stay with you every minute of every day if I could.”
Shane’s laughter was the greatest sound he had ever heard - soft, and free, the kind of uninhibited laughter Ilya had once wondered if they might ever share. Shane was sunshine, the planet around which Ilya rotated.
“Ilya,” he faux scolded, pressing a brief kiss to Ilya’s waiting mouth. “If you sue them, it will look like we have something to hide,” he reminded, ever the perfect PR student. “Just, leave it - they’ll get bored, eventually.”
“I am bored - why can’t they write these articles about someone else?” Ilya huffed. The alternative, he supposed, was Scott Hunter, and his boring, happy life with Kip, so it wasn’t much of a viable alternative.
“Farah agreed with me - if we ignore it, and keep living our life, it will die down,” Shane locked Ilya’s phone, wrapping his arms around Ilya, easily sliding into Ilya’s lap. His weight was a familiar comfort, Shane’s knees either side of Ilya’s legs, keeping him pinned to their couch. “Hey - come on. Why is this affecting you so much, hm? You normally don’t pay any attention to what gossip rags say about us.”
Ilya huffed out a sigh, pressing his face to Shane’s chest for a minute before he spoke. “I do not like the implication that somehow, I do not love you enough, or that I have done something to end our marriage,” he admitted, glancing down at his hands. “Maybe I should start wearing my ring on my left hand.”
“No,” Shane’s response was firm, as he tugged at Ilya’s chin. “I don’t want you to do that. In Russia, you wear it on your right hand - you’re Russian. You’re allowed to keep that part of your culture.”
Ilya sighed. It would feel wrong, he knew, to switch his ring to his left hand - it was silly, really, but he would feel like a fraud. His ring sat comfortably on his right hand, where it belonged.
“Ilya,” Shane forced him to look at him, sincerity dripping from every inch of his expression. “I love you. You love me. There is nothing else in this world that matters other than that. Let the magazines say what they want to say - they don’t know us. They don’t know how much we love each other,” he said, pressing a hand to Ilya’s chest, where his heart was. “That’s just for you, and me.”
Ilya loved this man so much, he sometimes felt like he could burst with it. “Ya tebya lyublyu,” he settled on, though he was more and more convinced there were no words in any language - Russian, English, or otherwise - to describe how deep the love he felt for Shane went.
Shane’s smile was soft, as he replied. “Ya tebya lyublyu,” he replied, the words coming easily - learning Russian was a slow process, but Shane had the important phrases learned well by now; I love you.
(And harder, please. That one was important too).
“Nothing matters except this, us,” Shane emphasised, punctuating his words with a kiss. “Me and you. The rest of the world - it’s none of our business.”
Ilya believed it, he did - he knew it was true.
But he still wanted to do something about it.
It had been a long time since Ilya had gotten a tattoo. He’d gotten a few, in his twenties, but the desire for a new one hadn’t hit in a long time. The idea had come to him in the shower - where most of his best thoughts came, arguably - and it had taken a few weeks for him to find the right moment to do it, Shane busy with a photo shoot for his Rolex endorsement, Ilya left to his own devices for a few hours.
“I want to get my husbands initials tattooed,” Ilya said, decisive in his words, the tattoo artist barely concealing her grin. Everyone in Ottawa knew who he was - he didn’t mind. “On my ring finger,” he waggled the finger in question at her. “SH. As big as you can. I want everyone to be able to see.”
Elisa nodded, fingers tapping against the counter. “I can do that,” she agreed easily. “As big as I can?”
Ilya nodded. “As big as you can.”
“You are an artist,” Ilya declared happily, looking at his left ring finger. There, in perfectly neat black ink, for the whole world to see, were the initials ‘SH’. There wasn’t a huge amount of space on a finger, he knew, but Elisa had done her level best, the letters large enough for any nosey journalist to catch sight of.
It was perfect.
Elisa grinned. “I’m glad you like it, Mr Rozanov.”
In the two days it takes for Shane’s brand trip to end, Ilya looks at his finger no less than 1,000 times. He likes seeing the letters there, a further declaration to the world that he belongs to Shane Hollander; always has, and always would.
Ilya is sitting on the couch, when Shane comes home, eagerly waiting for his husband to come and find him.
“Ilya?” Shane calls out, the same way he always does when he comes back from a - rare - solo trip.
“In here!” Ilya responds, the game a practised one now. He sits, and waits, and Shane comes to find him, and they have very hot reunion sex on the couch, as if they have been apart for weeks, not days. “Hi, solnyshko,” he hummed. “How was your trip?”
“Boring,” Shane sighed, curling onto Ilya’s lap like a cute kitten. “I wished you were there the whole time. What did you do while I was gone?”
Ilya grinned, his reply a part of their little game. “I waited for you to come home, moya lyubov - the same as always.”
Shane rolled his eyes affectionately. “You’re silly,” he said, and Ilya was - silly with how much he loved the gorgeous man in his lap.
“I got you a present,” Ilya hummed, Shane’s reaction one of utter delight. “Close your eyes.”
Shane obediently closed his eyes, and for a minute, Ilya let himself indulge in the pretty picture his husband painted. He was wearing a jumper that belonged to Ilya, the soft green material a perfect compliment to Shane’s dark features. The smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose that Ilya had come to know, and love, were as perfect as ever, Shane’s skin glowing from the early spring sunshine.
He was perfection.
Made just for Ilya.
Putting his left hand in Shane’s waiting hands, Ilya waited. “Open your eyes, Shane,” he encouraged, Shane complying, looking confused for a second before he noticed, eyes wide with shock.
“Ilya,” Shane said, sounding strangled, as he spoke. “What - why did you do this?”
“Because,” Ilya shrugged. “I will not have anyone doubting my love, or commitment to you. I wear my ring on my right hand, because I am Russian - but I will tattoo your initials on my left, so there can be no doubt about who I belong to. I am yours, and I will not allow anyone to doubt that.”
“Jesus, Ilya,” Shane looked as though he didn’t know what to say, gentle as he traced the pads of his fingers over the letters.
“Do you like it?” Ilya asked, suddenly feeling insecure.
“Like it? Ilya - this might be one of the hottest things you have ever done for me,” Shane breathed, the desire in his eyes familiar. “You tattooed my fucking initials on your finger. That is - that is…” he trailed off, looking lost for words.
“Sexy?”
“Insane,” Shane countered, but he didn’t disagree. “Ilya. You did this for me?”
“For me, also,” Ilya shrugged. “I wanted it to be clear - I am Shane Hollander’s husband. No one can doubt our marriage, now. I wear your ring, and I wear your name.”
Shane’s eyes were watering, as he looked up from the tattoo, his expression stunned. “I love you,” he managed to squeeze the words out. “I love you. You tattooed my fucking initials on your finger. Holy shit, Ilya.”
“You like your present, then?” Ilya grinned.
“I love it,” Shane shifted, slightly, so his hips were perfectly aligned with Ilya’s, the slow, dirty grind of Shane’s cock against his own the perfect reward. “I love you.”
“Mm, you have not said thank you, yet,” Ilya hummed, nipping at the curve of Shane’s jaw.
“Why don’t you take me to bed, and I’ll show you just how thankful I am,” Shane smirked, and Ilya knew whatever words came next, would probably be sinfully hot. That was just what Shane did. “Mr Shane Hollander,” he teased, and Ilya was sure they weren’t making it off the couch.
He was fine with that.
(Just like he was happy to be Mr Shane Hollander - husband to the greatest hockey player Canada has ever produced).
“Do you want to see how hot it looks when I stretch out that pretty little asshole of yours with your own initials?” Ilya asked, because he would not allow Shane to say such sexy things without getting some revenge of his own.
The groan that escaped Shane’s throat was nothing short of feral. “Yeah - yes, Jesus, Ilya. I want that.”
It didn’t take long, for the press to notice the tattoo - the first photo came from an event with the Irina Foundation, Ilya’s tattoo front page news on Hello! Canada.
According to Harris, his new tattoo had ‘broken the internet’, with hockey fans delirious with excitement as they noticed the neatly inked ‘SH’ on Ilya’s ring finger.
It was inevitable there would be a question about it, after a game - the kind of question that Ilya usually ignored, or caused Harris to stop a press conference, the Centaurs strict about allowing their players some semblance of privacy.
“Ilya - do you have any comment you’d like to make about your new tattoo?”
Ilya glanced quickly at Harris, who shrugged. “Is a tattoo for my husband,” he shrugged, water dripping down the back of his neck. He hadn’t had time to dry his hair, properly.
“In Russia, we wear our wedding rings on our right hand,” he said, holding up his right hand as proof. “But in Canada, you seem to not understand this. So, I tattoo my husbands initials on my left hand, so that you are sure of the state of my marriage. It’s clever, no?”
He grinned, noticing Shane standing to the side of the press room, cheeks flushed with delight as he listened to Ilya explain his new tattoo.
“Now you will not forget,” Ilya grinned, pushing his chair back. “Okay, we are done, yes?”
He vaguely registered Harris thanking the journalists for their time, but his focus was on Shane, his wonderful, perfect Shane, who was looking at Ilya like he wanted to eat him alive.
Ilya would let him.
“I love you,” Shane practically giggled, accepting the hand Ilya offered him, tangling their fingers together, wedding rings pressed perfectly together.
Ilya beamed in response. “And I love you.”