Chapter Text
The cottage still smelled like lake water and cedar. Windows cracked open. Early summer air drifting in slow and warm. It was their first night back after the season ended, the quiet settling around them in a way that felt earned.
Shane was propped up against the headboard with a book balanced on his chest, one ankle hooked over the other. Ilya was half-sprawled beside him, scrolling on his phone, occasionally bumping Shane’s knee just to be annoying.
The silence was comfortable. Heavy in that post-season way. No schedule. No flights. No reporters.
Ilya squints at his screen.
“What is Traitors?” he asks suddenly.
Shane doesn’t look up. “What.”
“Traitors,” Ilya repeats. “My agent says I was asked to be on Traitors.”
Now Shane lowers his book slowly. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“It is murder mystery game show,” Ilya says, scrolling. “You live in castle. You lie to people. You vote each other out.”
Shane blinks at him. “Why would a hockey player be on that?”
Ilya shrugs, trying for casual but failing. “I do not know. Maybe they need someone extremely intelligent. Strategic mastermind.”
“You?” Shane deadpans.
Ilya ignores him. “It says here they ask the hottest and most successful celebrities to be on the show.”
Shane’s eyes narrow. “No, it doesn’t.”
“It does.”
“It absolutely does not.”
Ilya turns the screen away at the last second when Shane lunges for it. They wrestle for approximately three seconds before Shane successfully snatches the phone.
He scans the screen.
“This is Reddit,” Shane says flatly. “This is not the official casting description.”
Ilya grins. “Reddit is people’s voice.”
Shane tosses the phone onto the nightstand. “You are not doing a reality show.”
“Might be fun,” Ilya says, rolling onto his side to face him.
“What about that sounds fun?”
“I get to lie professionally. I am already very good at this. I have been lying about us for years.”
Shane’s expression shifts. Just slightly.
“That’s not funny.”
Ilya’s smile softens. He reaches over, dragging his fingers lightly over Shane’s wrist. “I know.”
The air changes for a second.
Shane snorts despite himself. “You would absolutely get voted out first.”
“No chance. I am charming.”
“You are an asshole.”
“I am mysterious.”
“You would smirk at the wrong time and everyone would think you murdered someone.”
Ilya’s grin goes crooked. “Maybe I did.”
Shane rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling now. He sets his book aside fully, turning onto his side so they’re facing each other properly.
“You are not disappearing to film some castle murder show all summer,” Shane says. “We just got time off.”
Ilya studies him for a moment. “You would miss me.”
“I would not.”
“You would.”
Shane hesitates just long enough to lose.
Ilya beams. “You would.”
Shane shoves him lightly. “Shut up.”
Ilya catches his wrist before he can pull away, holding it there between them. His thumb traces along Shane’s pulse point, absentminded but deliberate.
“We do not have to decide,” Ilya says quietly. “Agent just asked.”
Shane looks at him. Really looks at him.
“You want to do it?”
Ilya considers. Then shrugs. “Maybe. Could be funny. Different. I get to play game where no one is trying to break my ribs.”
Shane huffs a laugh. “Low bar.”
“But,” Ilya adds, softer now, “first day at cottage. I think maybe I do not want to be anywhere else.”
Shane’s chest loosens at that. He tries not to show it. Fails.
“You in this cloak would be ridiculous,” he mutters showing him his phone screen.
“You would watch every episode.”
“I would not.”
“Or maybe you would come with.”
“Absolutely not.”
Ilya lifts his head just enough to look at him properly. “Why not? You would be excellent television. Two rival hockey players, the people would love it.
Shane huffs. “I am not flying to a castle to let a bunch of influencers accuse me of fake murder.”
“You are right,” Ilya continues, settling back against the pillow like he’s made a final ruling. “You would be very bad. And I would win.”
Shane rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. He reaches for him instead of arguing further, sliding an arm around Ilya’s waist and tugging him closer until there’s barely space between them.
“Win what?” Shane murmurs. “It’s fake.”
“Money is not fake.”
“You do not need the money.”
“Maybe I want the glory.”
“You already think you have glory.”
“I do,” Ilya says easily.
Shane pulls him closer instead of answering. Presses his forehead lightly against Ilya’s, their noses brushing.
“You would miss me,” Ilya says again, softer this time.
Shane exhales through his nose. “You’d call me every night and complain about how no one understands you.”
“They would not,” Ilya agrees.
“You’d get bored.”
“Maybe.”
Shane’s hand slides up to the back of his neck, fingers curling into his hair.
“Or maybe,” Ilya says quietly, “I just stay here. With you. No castle.”
Shane’s eyes flicker. That tiny, unguarded second.
“Good,” he says.
Ilya studies him, something gentler settling in. “You like when it is just us.”
Shane doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.
He kisses him instead, slow and warm, the kind that feels like summer and no deadlines and no one watching.
“Still think I would win,” Ilya murmurs against his mouth.
Shane smiles into the kiss. “You’d get voted out first.”