Chapter Text
"You are not superstitious like other hockey players,” Svetlana observes. She’s leaning over the dining table in what is officially Ilya’s (and now very much Shane’s, unofficially) Boston penthouse, wearing the ‘bullshit me and see what happens to you’ expression that’s gotten her far in life. That’s her standard vibe when they talk hockey.
Rose makes an affirmative noise through a mouthful of garlic-parmesan fries. If she and Shane can actually hang out, it means she’s between film shoots, so he spends entire conversations deeply envious as she relishes her not-dietitian-approved meals. Spending a week in Boston with Ilya is always a rare and precious thing, and one of his best friends there for the weekend makes him happier than he is mentally prepared to handle. They were having friends over to what was now their shared apartment? Shane thought so, probably;). Like a real couple. It sent his head spinning that they could just do this, despite everything.
“He still does the same shit every game, actually, ” Rose responds once she swallows. Svetlana cocks her head, turning her laser focus on the other woman. Rose clears her throat. "It's just that he's not like, superstitious, he just likes everything scheduled."
“I have heard none of these things in the press,” Svetlana muses. “Unusually loyal team, I think, who will not share anything of their captain. Makes sense. This is why he is the best. He likes discipline.” She says this straight-faced, but with the cheerful glint in her eye that tells Shane this is a genuine compliment. Shane gets those looks from her now, her playful side, now that she trusts him with Ilya. Ilya is quietly but obviously thrilled that his two remaining loved ones found their way to being friends. What he does not love is Sveta calling Shane the better player. It’s true, but Ilya would rather die than admit it.
Svetlana turns her thoughtful gaze on Rose. “Probably actors are similar, no? Not as predictable, but always someone to tell you what to do and where to be.”
Rose seems a little taken aback by the aside. “Yeah, it’s probably something like that for me. Diets and workouts and everything.”
Svetlana rolls her eyes and waves a manicured hand dismissively. “As if Rose Landry needs a fitness regimen. Absurd.” Like that’s the final word on that. Rose ducks her head back towards her plate, letting unstyled blonde hair fall over her face.
“What are the great Shane Hollander’s routines, then?” Svetlana asks.
Ilya giggles. With totally unwarranted glee, Ilya recites each and every game day ritual that his too-diligent boyfriend insists on. It’s a routine, Shane corrects him every time, he hates the irrationality of “ritual” even if it is the most hockey thing ever. He tucks Shane under one big arm, holding tight to him as Shane tries and fails not to blush. Ilya is complaining about Shane’s 3 p.m. green juice as if it is an affront to him personally. Rose squeezes Shane’s hand sympathetically, but she’s laughing along (and curiously pink-cheeked) as she listens with her mouth full of junk food. Svetlana and Ilya are a merciless team, mocking Shane in excruciating detail. Shane marvels that some of his greatest fears–sitting around being laughed at, while openly cuddling his rival no less–now counts in his mind as a perfect evening.
Shane had taken a while to adjust to Svetlana. She’s even more brutally direct than Ilya, but mostly without his facade of Slavic stoicism. Instead she’s so outgoing that she holds nothing back, and she’s so full of energy that it’s easy to see how she’s built her perfect life. Who could resist her, when she’s so loudly right all the time? But [eople like that are not easy for Shane, since Shane is, according to Ilya, “shy,” despite being a superstar hockey captain. (Annoying, if true. It can’t be true. He leads twenty men on an everyday basis. Ilya makes him so grumpy with observations like that. What the fuck? So maybe he spends a lot of time on his knees blushing all the way down to his chest. He’s still led a team to a Stanley Cup twice, facing international press the whole time.)
But now Svetlana texts Shane when she is in the city he’s playing in. Shesits in his comp seats, and then dissects the game with him after—usually adding vodka to their ginger ales, which Shane pretends not to notice. They mostly talk shit about the other team until Svetlana chaperones him back to his hotel, although she won’t beat around the bush if Shane screws up, and she’s always right about it. When it’s just Shane and Svetlana, now that he’s gotten control of his insecurity of her, it makes him a little less lonely for Ilya. She tells stories about Ilya as a child, and she’s like him in so many ways. A few times it’s been Rose and Sveta, and Ilya if he’s not at an away game. It’s the highlight of Shane’s month or season when that happens. None of them have much free time at all, so they take what they can get, and when they do it’s such an easy, cozy thing, their little group. Svetlana, too, had sides to her that didn’t get seen: not by all those lovers, all those clients, her hockey-obsessed father or her wealth-obsessed friends. Ilya was who she could be her whole self with, and now Shane too, he hoped. Rose, maybe more than any of them, was vigilant in keeping her personality easily-digestible to the public. She loved her career, and she was good at the celebrity thing, but Shane knew it got tiring. He and Ilya weren’t the same, but it was a kind of relief for all of them, not just the closeted athletes.
It was rare to have a whole weekend that the four of them were in one place.: Shane had already had four days with Ilya all to himself, by sheer luck of the early-season schedule. Rose and Svetlana only had the weekend: Rose for a magazine feature, Svetlana for a client (but mostly, to see Ilya). So they spent Saturday inthe apartment together, doing not much of anything aside from a yoga flow and a lot of snacks(It is, unfortunately, not very possible for Shane Hollander to be seen out in Ilya Rozanov’s city. They order the food in, and Svetlana is the only one who can answer the door for it.) Ilya was at practice while they were eating lunch; Svetlana texted Ilya a picture of Shane leaning in to Rose as she gushed about a new script. Ilya texted back immediately with seven eye roll emojis in each of three different texts and demanded she move their chairs further apart. Rose and Svetlana cackled. Shane chuckled but was clearly squirming at Ilya’s exaggerated jealous act, which made the women laugh harder at him, falling into each other as he grouched at them. Jealousy was maybe the stupidest thing for either of them to feel at this point. After everything, there was nothing and no one else. It was so secure and right that it felt impossible, to be that sure of someone, and have them be so sure of you in return.
Shane could admit to himself that he actually liked being laughed at, by his people. Most people took him too seriously: the media, almost his whole team, and too often his parents. When the outer circles of the hockey world teased him, it was about being a sports robot or a diversity role model, and he really, really didn’t care for it. He also didn’t have the time or inclination for many friends, except Hayden and Rose. So it was mostly Ilya who chirped him constantly—Ilya who was supernaturally observant, who knew Shane inside and out after all these years. The teasing felt like ‘I know you, I see you’, like ‘let go of the pressure, be here, laugh with me’. It felt like love. And Shane teased him back, because he didn’t have to be the golden boy with Ilya, and Ilya needed pulling out of his own head too.
Ilya still went too far sometimes, by accident. It usually took Shane the better part of the day to figure out why he felt off-kilter, finally figuring out that a joke about Shane’s disgusting protein shakes (same every day, same times) just hit too hard that day. Ilya noticed it first. He gently prodded Shane into admitting it, so that he had the chance to apologize. Then he cuddled him, reassured Shane with the pressure of his arms around him. Ilya made love to him in the soft-rough way that always set them back to rights, told Shane’s body what his mind resisted: that Ilya loved his every quirk, every corner and crevice of him, no matter how ludicrous. The way their bodies fit together, moved against each other, was the reminder Shane needed that whatever his weird was, Ilya’s weird matched it perfectly; fucked up, horned-up puzzle pieces clicking back into place.
And it was important to Ilya, Shane realized, that Shane didn’t let him get away with anything. Shane suspected that it made Ilya feel secure that his history didn’t rule who he was anymore. He wasn’t his father; he wasn’t the fuckboy shit-stirrer of the league; he wasn’t Shane’s cold, closed-off rival, who had hurt him so many times—they had both hurt each other so, so many times. He was just Ilya, the Ilya who was only for Shane to see. Ilya who belonged to Shane, was accountable to Shane. Ilya who was starting to see that that meant being accountable to himself. Meant he had to believe he deserved to be careful with himself, that he deserved for Shane Hollander to belong to him right back.
Ilya was still a total asshole most of the time. (Especially around Hayden. And on the ice. And to anyone at all, if he thought the awkward moment would be funny, which it would be, because he excelled at engineering those.) And Ilya being the asshole he was, he liked to casually say totally ridiculous things for no good reason.
Things like “They should be fucking. We should get them to fuck, Shane. Would be so hot. We will have them both over here and make them sleep over.”
Just out of the blue, while Shane was slicing cucumbers for his salad. He was so startled he cut his finger on the new Japanese knife Yuna had given ‘Ilya’ for Christmas. Shane took his minor injury and locked himself in the bathroom, with the dual purpose of processing such bizarre information and depriving Ilya of the chance to bandaging him and kissing it better (and then kiss everywhere else, which Ilya did not deserve.) He came out several long minutes later, arms crossed, , aiming his best glare at his boyfriend. Ilya was clearly torn between an apologetical expression and laughing at Shane’s (over-)reaction, a dilemma he was very used to by now.
“That’s- it’s just completely inappropriate, Ilya! What the hell?”
Yet Shane knew exactly who Ilya had been talking about without hearing their names, which Ilya marked as a point in his favor. He just thinks Svetlana and Rose “have” to date, he explains, while Shane continues to resemble a slightly flustered concrete wall. Well, Ilya initially said fuck, not date, but he can tell Shane finds that crude and it’snot helping Ilya’s case.
Less than an hour ago it had been a nice, normal afternoon. Rose had been on speaker as Shane prepared his favorite off-day salad, confirming she’d be in Boston that weekend and could Shane possibly tear himself away his “hunky Russian lover” to have her over for dinner? Shane had just finalized their plans and said goodbye when Ilya returned from buying the tomatoes Shane wanted, tossing them carelessly on the counter (ugh, he always bruised them). He wrapped his arms around Shane from behind, big hands splayed possessively over Shane’s chest and stomach, one of his standard and devastating greetings. All Shane said was “Rose called.” That was all! And this somehow inspired Ilya to make grand pronouncements about their friends’ sex lives. Which was private, and personal, and which Shane was especially embarrassed to think about given… that whole thing.
According to Ilya, it is “Perfect fit! Rose liked being your girlfriend, but you are gay, and very bad at fucking women. Also very bad at not being in love with me.” Ilya smirked, which was fair. Shane smiled against his will because damn it, yeah, he was pretty fucking in love with him.
“But Svetlana,” Ilya continued, in a perfectly calm tone as if his words were not completely irrational, “is very good at not being in love with me, and probably would be good at fucking women. And Rose likes Mr. Hockey IQ, she can talk hockey with Sveta, who is even smarter about it.”
This is such classic Ilya logic. Shane chooses not to be jealous of Ilya praising his oldest friend, because he’s not wrong.
“But Rose says she doesn’t like girls,” Shane replied, “and you don’t know if Svetlana does.”
Ilya snorted. “Yes, like you said you “like’” girls? Remember how you were wrong about that? You are welcome, by the way.”
“Stop making fun of me,” Shane grumbled. “And you can’t take credit for turning me gay.”
“I will, though,” Ilya grinned, beatific and smug. “And you cannot stop me, because you love my cock. You have always loved it and you cannot get enough. I have ruined you.”
He ducked his face to kiss Shane’s neck, and Shane batted him away. It was weirdly delightful to do that now, because he still wanted Ilya every second of the day, but he didn’t have to hoard touches anymore. Shane had finally kicked the habit of memorizing every kiss like it might be the last: so many years with so many months apart, going so long without so much as an hug–just those crystal-clear, carbon-dated memories to keep him sane. Now he let the kisses blur together, hundreds of good morning and goodbye and fuck-me-right-this-second kisses. They had so many moments and there would always be more; what was once a scattershot of bittersweetness had coalesced into the shape of a life, a life they would share. Shane could have this forever, have as much as he wanted of Ilya. Which was awesome, because it meant he could deny Ilya's kisses out of pure spite if he felt like it.
“You can’t call her gay just because you think she should be.”
“Bisexual,” Ilya corrected. “Like me. All the hottest people are this way.”
Shane smacked him in the chest, which only led to Ilya yanking him in by his arm, pulling Shane down beside him on the massive leather couch. (Big enough to fuck on, obviously, thank god. Purchased for this reason.)
“Admit I am right about this now,” Ilya reasoned, “then discussion is solved, and I can make you come all over this apartment before our friends get here and you don’t let me touch you.”
As if it was unreasonable of Shane not to let Ilya rub his cock while they were eating dinner with other people. Seriously? It might be hot as fuck in theory but there were actually limits to what he’d let Ilya do to him... weren’t there? There were, he was sure of it, maybe.
Shane swallowed. He shifted and straddled Ilya, because being stuck half-turned towards him like this wasn’t conducive to conversation. Definitely for that reason. Definitely not because he did have a list in his notes app of surfaces in this apartment that they hadn’t yet fucked on. And definitely not because the word our out of Ilya’s mouth always made him simultaneously melt inside and get instantly half-hard. He bent his head and Ilya tilted his up, lips parted. Shane didn’t kiss him, because he thought Ilya deserved to pout, and it was also stupidly sexy.
“You’re not right,” he continued instead. “You also don’t know if Svetlana is bisexual.” His brow furrowed. “Wait, do you?”
Ilya shrugged. “I know Svetlana is very good at sex. And fun, in bed. Likes to fuck, try new things. Why would she not like it with a woman too? Rose is almost as sexy as I am.”
Shane looked away and started to crawl off Ilya, but demanding arms yanked him back. He still didn’t meet Ilya’s eyes, so Ilya took Shane’s face between his hands.
“Hey,” Ilya said, in that soft just-for-Shane voice. “Hey. I am sorry. You don’t like it when I talk like this about the women before.”
Shane inhaled a little shakily. “I don’t care that you’re bisexual, Ilya, okay? You know I don’t. But she’s not ‘a woman,’ she’s your friend you hooked up with for years that you thought about marrying. And it doesn’t bother me that you, um,” he inhaled deeply, because talking about sex was not his favorite thing, “that there was so many, really.”
Ilya’s hand, firm on his jaw, forced Shane to look right at him. “It does a little. You are a very bad liar.” Shane graced him with a little nod of acknowledgment, sheepish, beautiful.
“Is very stupid of you,” Ilya said with just a hint of amusement, “because I had so much practice, I was basically a sex god when we met.” Shane groaned. Tragically, it was true. “But, you know, you have such good mouth. Natural talent, yes? Hockey prodigy, gay sex prodigy,” Ilya grinned up at him.
“And,” he went on, eyes going soft, “is stupid because I have only ever loved you, and I am obsessed with fucking you.” Ilya dragged a thumb across Shane’s plush bottom lip. Then leaned in and bit down, just hard enough to hurt, like he was making a point. He held Shane’s lip in his teeth for a moment, and Shane forgot to breathe. Weren’t they talking about something like one second ago? But Ilya tugged gently at Shane’s, licked over the sting, and sucked it into his mouth. When he finally kissed Shane, those soft pink lips were open and waiting for it, breath coming fast and shallow against Ilya’s mouth. He could feel Shane getting hard against him just from a kiss. Thank God, Ilya thought: if I had to fall in love, thank God it was this man. He was everything, always so good for Ilya, so thirsty for it. It made Ilya feel like a king, an emperor, a god, and a servant to Shane’s every single need.
“It is so much better with you, moya lyubov. Everything is better with you.” Shane buried his head in Ilya’s neck, bashful even though his hips were rocking against the bulge in Ilya’s gray sweatpants.
Ilya felt Shane’s lips move against his neck as he whispered what Ilya hadn’t even known he needed to hear. He had a knack for that, “So much better. It’s the best, Ilya, fuck, you’re so good to me, it’s too good,” Shane was rambling like he only did when he was too turned on to filter his thoughts, the blood in his head gone straight downwards, flooding his body with red-hot need. It was true, they were obsessed. How could Ilya not be? It took so little, just an easy honesty and Shane was widening his stance on Ilya’s lap, eager and wanting and so far past having forgiven him for being an asshole earlier. Ilya’s boyfriend did yoga for fun, and his hips could spread so wide Hemoved like a goalie or a stripper, he could grind down so perfectly on Ilya’s cock, so smooth, the perfect rhythm every time, and it got Ilya too closetoo fast. He would never come first if he could help it–he had to get Shane off, need it more than his own release. Had to see Shane turned inside out with pleasure, know that ILya had done that for him, that only Ilya’s cock and mouth and fingers could brign Shane off like that., It was what Shane deserved. t was Ilya’s favorite sight in the world.
Ilya’s hands had a bruising grip on Shane’s hips, guiding them, taking control even from underneath him, because Shane loved it that way. They really did have a knack for this specific thing–getting emotional and getting horny at the same time. Consequences of seven years of only speaking in the afterglow of a quick, hard fuck, probably. After far too long, and not nearly long enough of rocking against each other, Shane tore himself away from the delicious friction. He dragged Ilya to a dresser he knew they’d never fucked against, braced his hands on it, got railed so hard that the corner of the furniture banged a nine-inch;) hole in the wall. The earlier discussion was entirely forgotten–they barely had time to wipe the come from each other’s stomachs and throw on clothes when they heard the knock on the door.
Shane was, of course, extremely competitive by nature, and really hated to be wrong. Especiallyif Ilya was right. Unfortunately, they were currently having Sveta and Rose for dinner, and it was impossible not to think about Ilya’s ridiculous decree. Even someone as relatively oblivious as Shane could see that two women did not really need to make prolonged eye contact while hand-feeding each other Shane’s untouched side of fries.
Both Rose and Svetlana flew out on Monday morning, so they all spent Sunday night on the couch. The familiar idiots on ESPN droned comfortingly on in the background while Rose and Svetlana swapped probably excellent gossip and Shane ran his hands through Ilya’s hair. They weren’t listening so much as baskingin the last night for a while where this odd little family was all together.
It had been quiet for awhile, and he could feel Ilya realize it too, coming a little out of his petting-induced haze. Maybe they were tired, it was late, they were talked out. Shane wasn’t bothered at all by silence, but neither woman was usually quiet, so the pause in conversation was notable. Ilya, too, was not exactly reserved, but he was just sending Shane pointed looks and doing nothing to ease the increasingly loaded quiet. Shane refused to meet his eyes, but he could feel Ilya hiding a smirk. When he looked up from checking the time (too late, past his bedtime, his body clock was ticking) on his phone, he just blurted it out.
“Are you two having- shit, shit, sorry, never mind.” That was not something you could just ask someone, Shane, you idiot! Ilya got in his head and now he was being weird and awkward and they’d probably never speak to him again because that was so invasive and then Ilya would leave him for making Svetlana angry and then and then–
And then Rose nodded and smiled that box-office-gold smile of hers. And then Svetlana winked, looking like the cat who got the cream and quiteIlya-ish as she locked eyes with Rose. Shane, having no idea how to respond, found himself just... smiling. Smiling so big it actually hurt when he saw them link hands and pretty much forget he and Ilya were right there.
Which worked just fine: if their friends were on their way to their now-shared guest room, their very gay sex would be loud enough to drown Shane and Ilya’s very gay sex out out. So Shane kept his lips locked with Ilya’s the whole way to their room, and he would keep Ilya’s mouth occupied in every possibly way until Ilya’s throat couldn’t take it anymore or they just passed out. Because if Shane kept Ilya’s mouth on him all night, he wouldn’t have to hear his boyfriend crow about being right all along.
Shane missed Ilya constantly during the season. But for once, and he would never say so to Ilya, he sincerely hoped that Boston and Montreal didn’t play each other for a very. long. time. Ilya’s gloating was already unbearable over text, and a whole game of being chirped about it—constant dirty jokes designed to distract Shane from his game—was going to be infuriating. He was too happy for his friends to really be annoyed at Ilya but damn, he hated when he was right.