Chapter Text
Introduction:
May, 2023
Shane Hollander gazes at the man standing across from him and sees the rest of his life.
Finally. After so many years of hiding, he is marrying the man he loves. Never— not even in his wildest dreams and imaginings— had he thought that a future like this could ever be possible for him.
Emotion surges in his throat, and unshed tears well in his eyes. Completely overcome and powerless to stop himself, Shane chokes back a sob of gratitude, devotion, and incandescent happiness.
Alex meets his eyes with a shy smile. His brown eyes are luminous and, like Shane’s, brimming with tears. He softly reaches to clasp Shane’s hands in his own. Never taking his eyes from his face, he gently squeezes Shane's hands twice— a wordless gesture that will soon become an artifact from the days before sunshine— a silent I love you for no one else but them.
Shane is brought back to the present when David Hollander clears his throat ceremoniously.
“Do you have the rings?”
Shane nods silently, his hands trembling as he slides a thin gold band onto the ring finger of Alex’s left hand. “With this ring, I thee wed.”
Shane can scarcely breathe as Alex repeats the motion, murmuring the same words, “With this ring, I thee wed.”
This must be a dream.
Alex presses a gentle kiss to the space now occupied by a glinting band of light on Shane’s left hand.
“Do you, Shane Hollander, take Alexander Gallagher to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
Shane’s answer comes as easily as breathing: “I do.”
“And do you, Alexander Gallagher, take Shane Hollander to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
The look Alex gives Shane is one of complete and total adoration. He swallows hard, tears clinging to his lashes, “I do.”
Shane’s father beams, “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you, married.”
Chapter 1:
March, 2017 [After Ilya returns from his father’s funeral in Russia, before the game where Shane is injured and invites Ilya to the cottage.]
Shane rubbed his hands over his thighs, battling the compulsion to check his phone for what felt the millionth time. It lay face up on the coffee table in front of him, screen dark -- taunting him. It was stupid, really; Ilya's plane had only just landed, and Shane knew that it would be at least another forty minutes before the tall, handsome Russian arrived at his door. Even so, he couldn’t stop himself from checking his phone repeatedly, each time hoping that a notification from “Lily” had appeared on his lockscreen.
Shane chewed his bottom lip nervously. He could no longer pretend that his feelings for Ilya were merely the natural byproduct of their intense sexual chemistry. The truth of his devotion could no longer be hidden in the euphoria of secret evenings spent sweaty, naked, and spent, bodies tangled together in random hotel rooms or in brief, glancing touches that made every cell in his body feel like liquid flame. No, whatever lies he’d told himself over the course of the past eight years had fallen to pieces on that afternoon in Boston, when he'd heard his name on Ilya’s lips, spoken like a prayer at the height of his release. Shane.
Shane remembered the immensity of feeling that had followed— a swell of emotion so intense that he’d barely been able to choke out his own confessional without letting the tears of relief, adoration, terror brimming in his eyes spill onto his cheeks and into the space between their desperate mouths. Ilya.
He had been afraid then, so terribly afraid— afraid of the admission hidden in his words, of the uncertainty he knew it entailed, and of the possibility of a future he wasn’t certain he’d have the strength to deny himself.
And so, he’d done the only thing he could think to do. He’d run away.
Then came that period of terrible silence, the awkward, fumbling attempts at sex with Rose Landry, that night at Ultraviolet, the moment when he knew he could no longer deny the truth of his identity, and the all-consuming feeling of wrongness he hadn’t been able to shake until that night in Tampa during the All-Star game when he and Ilya had finally fallen back into each other.
That night, lying in the safety of Ilya’s arms, Shane knew that whatever they’d had before was no longer enough for him and that it never would be again. He loved Ilya— loved him with an intensity that was beyond any and all reason, fear, or shame— and that he could not bear to let him go.
He had yet to find the courage to confess all of this to Ilya, at least not in quite so many words. He knew that he had Ilya’s affections, certainly, but the gorgeous Russian was hardly known for his propensity towards monogamy or commitment of any sort. What he and Ilya had was complicated to say the very least, but it was already more than Shane could’ve ever dreamed was possible, and he was loath to take any steps whose outcomes were not entirely assured.
He checked his phone again. A text flashed across the screen: “In uber, arrival is 5:09.”
Shane tried to ignore the knot of anxiety swirling in his stomach. He wasn’t sure precisely what it was that had changed between them in the weeks following the death of Ilya’s father and his subsequent trip to Russia, but he was certain that something had shifted, something deeper than family troubles. And more complicated.
There had been a lightness to their relationship following the All-Star Weekend, and without realizing it, Shane and Ilya had quickly fallen into an easy rhythm that felt… almost domestic. They spoke constantly, and although they still sexted frequently— quite frequently, truth be told— the majority of their communications centered around the benign details of their lives— whether they had slept well the night before, what they’d eaten for lunch, stupid jokes they’d heard in the locker room, the status of minor aches and pains sustained during games, and even the occasional selfie (to be deleted upon receipt, of course). But Ilya had been uncharacteristically curt these past few days— a fact that Shane made a concerted effort to ignore, despite the faint traces of anxiety at the edges of his consciousness.
He knew that this was hardly an easy time for Ilya— between burying his only remaining parent, returning to a country where he knew nothing but pain and secrecy, and having to contend with the unending demands of his family, surely it was unreasonable of him to expect that Ilya would have the time or emotional bandwidth to maintain the delicate intimacy they’d barely begun to explore, even before this.
None of these fears mattered, he told himself. What mattered now was that Ilya was here, in Montreal, and that Shane would finally be able to take him into his arms, shielding him from the weight of the world and sharing in the weight of his burdens, if only for one night.
Faced with another agonizing twenty-five minutes of waiting, Shane turned his attention to the space around him.
Not one for the luxurious highrises of Montreal or the perpetual clamor of downtown, he had opted to purchase a cozy brownstone tucked away in one of the city’s quieter neighborhoods. It was a beautiful place to call home, with gorgeous hardwood floors, abundant natural light, ornate crown molding, and colorful stained glass windows that lent the space a certain coziness that Shane found calming without being overwhelming.
The living room was neat but comfortably furnished; floor-length linen curtains flanked the tall bay windows, and several beautiful but unobtrusive paintings hung on the walls. In the center of the room, a large leather couch and two matching armchairs surrounded a low wooden coffee table, upon which Shane had placed two books: one, a photographic account of Montreal’s architectural history, and the other, a field guide to Ontario’s native birds.
He adjusted them just-so and brushed an invisible speck of dust from the tabletop with his sleeve. This would be Ilya’s first time visiting his home, and Shane was determined to ensure that everything went perfectly. He refolded one of the blankets that had been draped across the back of the couch, fighting the urge to pace until Ilya arrived.
He puttered around for some time, checking that Ilya’s favorite snacks had not suddenly dematerialized (chemical garbage, obviously, but who was Shane to deny Ilya anything?), wiping down whatever surfaces he could find, plumping throw pillows, sweeping the floors, and lighting candles.
Just as he was about to start organizing the coat closet, he heard a knock.
Shane swallowed nervously before taking a final look at himself in the mirror by the entryway and opening the door.